You wake up in a room that smells like lavender and lemon water. You're lying on your side, your arms numb, hands tied, and someone is humming beside you — low and gentle, like a lullaby.

She's kneeling by your head, folding a white towel with slow, practiced care. "It's all right," she says before you can speak. "You've already said everything you needed to. You just don't remember."

Her voice is kind. Too kind. Then she leans in and whispers, "I forgive you."

That's when you realize the towel isn't for you, it's for what comes next : she holds a saw.