The door clicks shut behind him.
His last words hang in the air like smoke.
*You lost the right to choose, Luna…*
I sit there on the edge of the bed a long time after he’s gone, hands slack in my lap, bandages itching on my palms.
At some point, I realize I’m still wearing the T‑shirt someone changed me into.
It smells faintly like my old detergent from the villa laundry, not the harsh stuff in Buenos Aires.
Full circle.
Back where I started.
With fewer illusions.
I stand on unsteady legs and cross to the mirror over the dresser.
The girl staring back looks like someone I’ve seen in tabloids.
Hair scraped back, face pale, eyes too big, ringed in shadows.
Bruise blooming on my upper arm where the masked man grabbed me. Purple, angry, in the shape of fingers.
I reach up, press i
