-Sloane Delgado:
The car rolled quietly through the streets, the engine's low hum a constant undertone to the suffocating tension pressing against my chest.
I sat rigid in the backseat, hands clenched tightly over my lap, knuckles pale, eyes fixed on the dark blur of the passing city outside the window.
Each streetlamp, each shadowed corner, seemed to press closer, reminding me that resistance was futile, that the world outside offered no solace.
My heart hammered with a rhythm of panic, sharp and relentless, echoing against the walls of my chest. I wanted to move, to yell, to argue, but even those small impulses felt meaningless, powerless.
The fight within me had already been exhausted in the ceremony; this exhaustion was deeper, more absolute, a fatigue that stretched beyond the physical and dug into the marrow of my bones.
