I wake slowly, not from sleep, but from silence.

There’s a weight in the back of my skull—a dull, pulsing throb that tells me someone was careless with a blunt object. A crowbar, perhaps. Not elegant, but efficient. A smear of dried blood clings to my temple. I taste iron.

Good. I’m still bleeding. That means I’m still alive.

The air is cold, wet. Concrete breathes through the walls. Industrial. Underground. The scent of oxidized metal, mildew, and something sour—fear, maybe. But not mine.

I don’t move yet. I listen.

Drip… drip… A slow leak. Cheap plumbing. A second sound—shifting fabric. Shallow breath. Youthful. Controlled.

Clara.

I open my eyes.

There she is, across from me. Her lip is split. Beautiful bruise along her throat. She’s waking like I did—slow, deliberate. She doesn’t panic. Good girl.

They hit you harder than they hit me,

she says.

There’s no fear in her voice. Only observation. I taught her well.

I’m older,

I reply softly, smiling despite the ache in my jaw.

More threatening, perhaps.