Y/n's back presses against the wall behind the bed, her knees drawn up to her chest. The mattress shields her from the glass observation window. From the camera's eye.

Her hands tremble. She presses them flat against her thighs, but they won't stop shaking.

Her webs are gone. No—not gone. They won't come out. Something in the walls, maybe, or the cuffs they put on her before they locked her in here. Thin, light cuffs, but they hum with power.

Footsteps echo from somewhere down the hall.

She holds her breath. Her nails dig into her palm.

The footsteps stop in front of her door. A long pause. Then a metallic clunk as a slot slides open.