The town's evening breeze whispered against Alex's skin as she trudged behind the guards. Her arms ached—still sore from how tightly they'd gripped her earlier. The shopping bags were long gone, snatched away like the momentary freedom she had dared to feel.
And that boy…
That mysterious boy in the market.
He hadn't said a word. Just looked at her—those eyes unreadable, like he saw through her pain but chose silence. He'd offered a small, knowing smile… and then she was dragged away like a prisoner.
She hadn't even caught his name.
Now, the van jolted as it pulled into her father's compound. The metal gates slammed shut behind them like jaws, swallowing her whole. Dread twisted in her chest.
He found the letter. She knew it.
She had hidden it under her bed weeks ago—scrawled with trembling hands, drenched in silent tears. It was never meant for his eyes. A letter to her mother. A cry for help.
The front door creaked open.
She didn't even have to see him—she smelled the rage in the air. Cold cologne. Whiskey. Control.
Her father stood in the living room, arms folded tightly, veins bulging at his temple.
In his fist—the letter. Crumpled. Torn. But unmistakably hers.
His voice was like acid.
> "Alex… what is this?"
She froze.
> "Answer me!"
He slammed the letter against the glass table. The sharp crack made her flinch.
> "You've been hiding this? Writing this filth about me? About your life? You think you can just escape me?!"
Her lips parted, but no sound came. Her breath hitched. Her legs felt like jelly.
He stepped closer.
One step.
Two.
Then—crack. His hand struck her cheek with brutal force.
She hit the floor, a cry escaping her lips.
> "You think you're smart now? That you have a voice?!"
His voice roared like thunder.
> "You're nothing, Alexandra. Nothing! You exist because I let you. You breathe because I allow it!"
Another blow—her ribs.
Another—her shoulder.
Pain exploded in waves, a symphony of agony that stole the air from her lungs.
Each insult sliced deeper than the hits.
> "Ungrateful brat." Smack.
"Stupid girl." Kick.
"You think you're a victim? Writing like the world owes you anything?"
She screamed—but it was hoarse, broken, and lost beneath the sound of his fury.
She curled into herself, arms over her head, trembling—but it didn't stop him.
Not until she stopped moving.
Not until her breath came in shallow gasps.
Not until silence wrapped around her like a noose.
Finally, he stopped.
He stood there, chest heaving, fists reddened.
Alex lay motionless on the floor, her face pressed against the cold tile. A thin line of blood ran from the corner of her mouth. Her vision blurred. Her body pulsed with pain.
> "If you ever write again—if you ever try to run—I will end what's left of you," he hissed.
Then he turned and walked away.
The door slammed behind him.
Darkness returned.
She didn't move.
The letter—her letter—lay crumpled and bloodstained near her hand. She stared at it, barely breathing.
Tears welled up and slipped silently down her face, mixing with the blood on her lips.
> No one to pick me up.
No mum.
No hope.
Just me and the dark.
Alex didn't know how long she lay there. Minutes? Hours?
The room was silent now. Too silent. Even the walls felt like they were holding their breath.
She tried to move, but the pain chained her down. Her limbs felt like lead. Her spirit—shattered glass.
Her eyes drifted to the torn letter, still clenched in her shaking hand. Blood stained the paper, smearing her words—her truth.
And then, as her vision blurred again, she heard it.
A whisper.
Not from outside. Not from the house.
From within.
"Get up."
It wasn't her voice, but it came from her.
Weak, broken, forgotten—yet something deeper stirred.
"This is not how your story ends."
The darkness had swallowed her. But maybe... just maybe... it had also awakened something.