LENA
Pain was the first thing I felt.
It was hot, stabbing, and radiated up my arms, my ribs, the side of my skull. Then there was the cold seeping into my skin, clinging like damp fog.
And metal. Unforgiving. Tight. The pressure of shackles carved into my wrists anchored me above my head. My arms ached with the weight of being held like this for… I didn't even know how long it had been. My ankles were bound too, the skin there already rubbed raw. My shoulder screamed when I tried to shift, the pain blooming like a firework behind my eyes, sending bile climbing into my throat.
I opened my eyes slowly. The world spun like a carousel that someone had forgotten to stop. The floor beneath me was made of rough, cracked, and filthy stone. I could smell mildew, old blood, and something sour — the rot of mold or the breath of something waiting in the dark.
I bit down hard, refusing to make a sound.
Think. Breathe. Don't panic.
