The cell door creaked open for the first time in days. Lucky's heart jumped — not with hope, but with a tired curiosity. The jailer stood there, holding a lantern that threw trembling shadows across the walls.
"I've spoken to the warden," he said quietly. "They'll release you soon. You'll have a place to stay… a family. You deserve that."
His words carried warmth, the kind that starved souls cling to. Lucky wanted to believe him. After all the emptiness, even false kindness felt like sunlight through a crack in stone.
He handed her a piece of bread, softer than the dry rations she was used to. "Eat," he said. "You'll need your strength."
But as he stepped closer, something changed — his eyes no longer matched his voice. The air grew heavier, the walls too close. Instinct whispered danger. When he reached toward her, the truth became clear.
The promise had been a trap.
Lucky shoved him back, her voice breaking with fear and rage. "Don't touch me!"
He stumbled, the lantern crashing to the floor, light scattering in violent flickers. His face twisted — not with guilt, but anger. "You could have had freedom," he spat.
She grabbed the fallen knife from the food tray — not to kill, but to protect. He hesitated then, the brief glint of defiance in her eyes reminding him that this prisoner was not broken yet.
Moments later, the cell door slammed shut again, his footsteps fading down the corridor.
Lucky fell to her knees, trembling. The bread lay untouched. The light had gone out.
And in that silence, she realized that trust could be more dangerous than chains.
When morning came, the guards found her still awake, staring at the cold knife beside her. Something inside her had died that night — not her body, but her belief in mercy.