The air smelled like metal.
Not the clean kind—old iron, rusted edges—layered with a faint undertone of blood that clung to the back of Samuel's throat. The kind of smell that told you someone had suffered here. Recently.
He moved carefully through the shadows, every step measured, every breath shallow. He wasn't supposed to be here. He knew that. The quiet corridors, the locked doors left ajar, the absence of guards where there should have been some— it all screamed wrong.
Samuel had been creeping.
Listening.
Waiting.
And then he saw her.
Naomi was slumped against the wall, wrists chained high above her head, metal biting into skin already raw. Bruises bloomed dark across her cheekbone and jaw, ugly and swollen. Her lips were cracked. Dry. When she lifted her head, it was slow—like the weight of it alone hurt.
She hadn't had water in a long time.
Something inside Samuel fractured.
