The air in the basement shifted—perfume, soap, and the faint sting of antiseptic replaced the usual rot of metal and concrete. The world around Sofia De Luca blurred through her blindfold, sounds sharpening in the darkness: a faucet running, brushes clinking, fabric rustling.
"Keep her steady," one woman muttered. Her tone was clipped, efficient—the way someone speaks when they're paid not to feel.
Sofia winced as cold water touched her face. Hands worked briskly—washing, scrubbing, smoothing—until her skin prickled raw. She tried to flinch, but rough fingers gripped her chin.
"Hold still, young pretty lady" another voice ordered, softer but firmer, like she was dealing with a doll, not a girl. The irony was a cruel weight; they were preparing her for the very thing she was trying to escape, polishing the cage before the final lock snapped shut.
Every touch felt like a violation, a quiet erasure of her own will.
