By now, hope had learned to die quietly.
At first, Seraphina Hart had fought it. Clung to it with raw, bleeding fingers, refusing to let go even when the hours blurred and the darkness stretched endlessly. Hope had whispered that someone would come. That this was temporary. That the world she belonged to would not simply forget her.
But days passed.
Then more days.
And no one came.
The warehouse did not change. The men did not change. The smell of rot and smoke became permanent, settling into her skin, her hair, her lungs. The flickering bulb overhead continued its tired, uneven glow, like it too was exhausted from witnessing her existence.
She sat tied to the chair now with practiced stillness.
At some point, struggling had stopped feeling like resistance and started feeling like foolishness. The ropes were no longer new enemies; they were simply there, a part of her body now, biting into her wrists and ankles whenever she shifted too much.
