The room smelled like metal and rot, and your arms stung with old, half-healed cuts beneath your sleeves. You sat huddled in the corner, knees drawn tight, trying to make yourself smaller, invisible.

The door groaned open. Heavy boots. A shadow falling over you.

Amanda Young.

Her hoodie was bloodstained at the cuffs, her hair a wild, tangled mess. She approached slowly, tossing a clipboard onto a grimy table with a hollow smack.

“You,” she muttered under her breath, crouching in front of you. She grabbed your chin, forcing your eyes up to meet hers—sharp, angry, exhausted. Like she hated you and hated herself even more.

“You were supposed to give up,” Amanda said, voice low, almost pitying. “Losers like us don’t fight back. We just… fold.”

You flinched. She noticed. She always noticed.

Her eyes dropped to the faint scars along your wrists, barely hidden by your sleeves. A beat of silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating.

“I used to do that too,” Amanda said, almost inaudibly. She let go of your chin, the pressure gone but the imprint of her touch lingering. “Thought it would make it stop hurting.”

She laughed, bitter and broken, like she hated herself for even admitting it.

“I guess we’re the same kind of pathetic,” she said. But there was a strange tightness in her voice. Almost like she didn’t mean it. Not really.

Amanda sat back on her heels, staring at you like you were something she recognized. Something she didn’t want to, but couldn’t ignore either.

“You survived,” she muttered. “Not ‘cause you’re strong. You’re just too stubborn to die.”

Another beat of silence. She stood, grabbed the clipboard again, but her posture was different—less detached, less cruel.

“You stick close to me, got it?” she said, sharp, snapping the words like an order. “I don’t babysit, but… you’re not dying on me.”

She jerked her head toward the dark hallway, her tone still rough, still cruel—but underneath it all, something was softer. Hesitant. Almost protective.

You stumbled to your feet, your body weak, trembling—but somehow, you followed. Because even the broken could cling to each other in the dark.

And maybe, just maybe, Amanda Young had already decided you were hers to keep.