My stomach knots in on itself, a hollow, gnawing ache that’s become my only constant companion. The last meal—if you can call a chalky, nutrient bar a meal—was hours ago. Maybe a day. Time blurs in here.

The IV stand beside my cot beeps, a steady, rhythmic pulse that syncs with the pounding in my skull. The tube trails down to a needle taped to the inside of my elbow, a cold, foreign intrusion that siphons something I can’t name.

I’m holding Blue. My plushie. My only friend. My fingers are shaky, the fabric worn thin from constant clutching. He’s all I have left of... before.

Then the footsteps.

Heavy. Deliberate. The echo bounces off the concrete walls and grows louder, closer.

My breath hitches. I hug Blue tighter, pressing my nose into his soft, matted fur. The door to my cell groans as it slides open with a hydraulic hiss.

And there he is.