The scent of antiseptic hung thick in the air, cold and suffocating, clinging to the sterile white walls like a ghost that refused to leave. The room, though bathed in daylight streaming through a narrow, barred window, held no warmth. The only sounds were the distant echo of shoes on tile and the low, mechanical hum of machines monitoring the fragile boundary between sanity and madness.
In the center of it all lay Lila.
Or as the staff here knew her: Ivy Blackwood.
Her brown hair was disheveled, matted to her forehead with sweat. Her pale skin, once radiant with carefully curated poise, now looked wan and haunted. Her eyes, wild and rimmed with exhaustion, flicked around the room like a cornered animal searching for an escape. But there was none. The straightjacket bound her arms tight
