SEVEN DAYS IN THE DARK
ISABELLA’S POV
The rats came first.
Their tiny claws skittered across the concrete floor, drawn by the scent of stale bread crumbs Isabella had let fall from her chapped lips. She no longer startled at their touch. Hunger had a way of making even the grotesque familiar.
*One glass of water a day. One slice of dry bread.*
She’d stopped counting the days when her vision began to blur at the edges. Time had dissolved into a slurry of thirst, darkness, and the distant hum of traffic through the vents.
The door creaked open.
Isabella didn’t lift her head. She knew the routine—the guard would slide the tray across the floor, mutter something crude, and leave. But tonight, the footsteps were heavier. Slower.
A shadow filled the doorway.
“Still alive,”
