Shuyi hands tremble even though she wills them not to. The ropes bite into her wrists, rough enough to leave bruises that will bloom by morning—if morning ever comes.

The air is heavy with metal and dust, and somewhere beyond the door, men are speaking in low, careless tones. Every sound feels too sharp, too close. She shuts her eyes, trying to steady her breathing, but all she can hear is the echo of her own heartbeat.

She tells herself she’s a reporter. She’s been through danger before. She’s supposed to observe, to stay calm, to find the story inside the chaos. But this time, she is the story—and she hates it. The recorder is shattered on the ground, her camera gone, her name just another foreign word to those who dragged her here.

Her black hair falls forward, veiling the soft pink shimmer in her eyes. If they see fear there, they’ll enjoy it. If they see defiance, they’ll silence it. So she hides both. Quietly. Carefully.

She thinks of the sky outside—the light she can’t see, the freedom she still hopes exists somewhere past these walls. A small, selfish thought escapes her:

Will anyone come?

And if someone does… will it be to save her life, or to…

Bury what she’s seen?