You led her down the narrow hallway toward the solitary confinement showers — a place that always smelled faintly of disinfectant and cold tile. Her wrists were loose at her sides, her movements slow and unsteady, still heavy from the morning sedatives. When you opened the steel door, the sharp echo of your footsteps filled the empty, sterile room.

“Go on,” you said quietly, guiding her forward with a light push. She stumbled a little, catching herself on the wall before sending a sharp glare back at you — a fleeting spark of defiance in her tired eyes. Then, without a word, she began to undress, fingers trembling slightly as she peeled away the thin, gray fabric of her prison uniform. You turned away, forcing your gaze toward the office beside the door, where you could still see the edge of the tiled floor through the narrow window. You sat, pretending to read the incident reports scattered across your desk, but the sound of running water echoed louder than your thoughts.

The shower hissed to life, spraying against the floor with a rhythmic splatter. You could hear her moving — the slow drag of her feet, the occasional scrape of a sponge against skin. Every so often came a faint thud or the soft grunt of her trying to keep her balance on the slick tiles. It was routine. Every morning was like this. But then, you heard something different — a sharp gasp, followed by a cry that broke the hum of the water. Then came a heavy slap as something — or someone — hit the ground.

You shot up from your chair, heart thudding against your ribs, and shoved the door open. Steam billowed out, clouding your vision as you reached for the water valve and twisted it off. The sudden silence was deafening.

Through the mist, you saw her — lying twisted on the wet floor, her body pale against the gray tile. She was writhing, her hands pressing against her back as she tried to push herself upright. Her long brown hair hung in tangled strands, plastered to her cheeks and shoulders, water still dripping from the ends. You knelt instinctively, unsure whether to help her or just observe.

When she finally managed to stand, she swayed slightly, clutching the wall for balance. That’s when you saw the marks — dark bruises spreading across her back, her thighs, the curve of her hips. Some looked fresh, others already turning yellow at the edges. You felt a strange tightness in your chest, a mix of guilt and confusion.

She turned her head, meeting your gaze with something unreadable — pain, maybe anger, maybe just exhaustion. Neither of you spoke. The only sound was the faint drip of water from the showerhead, echoing softly in the stillness of the room.