The light above me never turned off.

  I only knew a day had passed because my body told me.

  My stomach was hollow. My throat dry. My mind dull in that strange way that comes from too much silence and too little certainty.

  The concrete walls hadn't changed. The air still smelled faintly metallic. The cart of electronics sat untouched except for the ptop I'd tried yesterday—now closed, useless, mocking.

  I'd done nothing.

  Watched whatever preloaded videos they allowed on the locked system. Random YouTube content that didn't require logging in. Music clips. Travel vlogs. Mindless distractions.

  Then I slept.

  Then I woke up.

  Then I slept again.

  Time blurred into one long, gray stretch.

  "Get me out of here..." I muttered weakly, my voice rough from disuse.

  The words barely echoed anymore. Even the room seemed tired of hearing me.

  The st time the door opened was yesterday evening.

  Dinner had been slid in without conversation. A tray. Banced meal. Water. No cruelty. No shouting.

  Just control.

  I hadn't seen the woman in red again.

  And now I hadn't received breakfast.

  My stomach cramped faintly at the realization.

  Was that intentional?

  Were they testing how long it would take before I started begging instead of whispering?

  I pulled my knees closer to my chest, resting my forehead against them. The pink diamonds at my neck felt heavier today.

  Over a day.

  And already I felt pieces of myself fraying at the edges.

  Not because of pain.

  But because of waiting.

  Waiting was worse.

  No answers. No timeline. No idea what they pnned to do with the cameras.

  No idea if Car was alive.

  No idea if she was close.

  I squeezed my eyes shut.

  "She's coming," I whispered to myself, even though doubt tried to creep in.

  She had to be.

  Because if she wasn't—

  I didn't know how long I could stay strong in this box.

  The heavy metal door creaked open with a slow, deliberate scrape that echoed off the bare concrete walls.

  A woman stepped inside—tall, armored vest tight across her chest, pistol holstered low on her thigh, bck tactical gloves flexing as she gripped a pin gray duffel bag in one hand.

  Her boots thudded once, twice, then stopped just inside the threshold. No greeting. No expression I could read behind the partial bacva.

  I straightened instinctively, stomach clenching with stupid, hopeful hunger. Breakfast. Finally. Something—anything—to blunt the gnawing emptiness that had settled in my gut hours ago.

  I was wrong. So fucking wrong.

  "Change into this," she said, voice ft and clipped, the tone of someone who expected instant obedience and rarely heard anything else.

  The bag hit the floor in front of me with a dull thump, canvas spping concrete. She didn't wait for a reply. The door was already closing behind her—cng, metallic snick of the lock—leaving only the faint smell of metals and the lingering heat of her presence.

  I knelt, fingers trembling slightly as I unzipped the bag.

  Inside y two small scraps of shiny bck fabric, neatly folded, almost mocking in their tidiness. I lifted them out one at a time.

  The top was barely there: two tiny triangles connected by thin strings, the kind of micro bikini that belonged on a magazine cover or a beach I'd never visit again.

  The bottoms were even worse—just a narrow strip of cloth in front, a thong back that would disappear between the cheeks.

  The material gleamed under the harsh overhead bulb, cheap and slick, catching the light like spilled oil.

  "What the fuck..." I breathed, holding the pieces up higher as if brighter light might reveal some hidden modesty they didn't possess.

  My reflection stared back at me in the small, scratched mirror bolted to the far wall—disheveled hair, bruised-looking shadows under my eyes, and now these ridiculous, humiliating fragments dangling from my fingers.

  "Oh god," I whispered, the words tasting like bile.

  I understood then, with cold, sinking crity: this wasn't about comfort, or practicality, or even basic decency.

  This was deliberate. This was the next step in whatever game they were pying.

  And I was going to have to wear it.

  Reluctantly, I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my sweatpants, the faded gray fabric whispering against my skin as I pushed them down.

  They pooled at my ankles with a soft thud on the cold concrete floor, leaving me exposed in just my worn boxers.

  The air in the room felt heavier now, prickling my bare legs like invisible eyes tracing every inch. I gnced around the stark, windowless space—four unyielding walls, a single flickering bulb overhead—but the paranoia gnawed at me: watched. Always watched, even here.

  I hesitated, then tugged off my underwear too, letting them drop beside the pants. Naked now, vulnerable under that harsh light, my skin pebbled with goosebumps from the chill that seeped through the concrete like a living thing.

  The thong came next. I stepped into it awkwardly, the thin estic bands snapping against my thighs as I pulled it up.

  The front pouch was ughably small, a shiny bck scrap that strained to contain me—my bulge pressing uncomfortably against the slick material, barely fitting, threatening to spill out with any wrong move.

  It dug in at the sides, the back string vanishing between my cheeks in a way that made my face burn.

  "Ugh..." I groaned, the sound escaping low and guttural, echoing faintly off the walls like a confession.

  Next, the shirt. I peeled it off over my head, the cotton clinging briefly to my damp skin before joining the pile on the floor.

  The room's icy draft hit me full force then, wrapping around my bare chest and back like cold fingers, sending a violent shiver down my spine.

  My nipples tightened against the assault, and I crossed my arms instinctively, rubbing my shoulders for a scrap of warmth.

  Finally, the micro bikini top. I fumbled with the strings, slipping my arms through and tying it at the back with clumsy fingers.

  The tiny triangles barely covered anything, the edges biting into my skin as I adjusted them over my chest. It felt wrong—ridiculously wrong, humiliatingly inadequate—like a costume from some twisted nightmare.

  Heat flooded my cheeks, a deep, insane embarrassment twisting in my gut as I caught another glimpse in that scratched mirror: disheveled, exposed, utterly ridiculous.

  'What the hell was this for?' The question burned in my mind, but I had no answers.

  Just the weight of it all settling heavier with every breath.

  I sat on the cold concrete floor, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around myself in a futile attempt to preserve some shred of dignity.

  The micro bikini offered no warmth, no coverage worth mentioning—just shiny bck scraps that shifted uncomfortably with every shallow breath.

  Time stretched thin and meaningless in the windowless cell; I had no idea how long I waited, only that the silence pressed in heavier with each passing minute.

  Then the door groaned open again.

  The same woman strode in—boots heavy and deliberate, each step a dull thud that vibrated up through the floor into my bones.

  She didn't hesitate. Her gloved hand shot out, fingers cmping around my upper arm like a vice.

  She yanked me to my feet with casual strength, as if I weighed nothing.

  Shame flooded me instantly, hot and suffocating. The tiny thong strained against my groin, the front pouch barely containing the soft bulge that now felt obscenely prominent.

  I spped my free hand over it, palm pressing hard, trying to shield myself from her indifferent gaze—or from anyone else who might be watching through hidden cameras.

  My face burned; I could feel the flush creeping down my neck.

  She started dragging me toward the door. My bare feet stumbled on the rough concrete, toes curling against the chill.

  "Where are you taking me...?" The words slipped out, small and shaky, barely above a whisper.

  She didn't answer. Didn't even gnce back. Just kept pulling, grip unyielding, her pace steady and mechanical.

  We stepped into a long, dimly lit hallway—more concrete, endless gray stretching in both directions under flickering fluorescent tubes.

  The air was cooler here, carrying a faint metallic tang and the distant hum of ventition.

  My skin prickled; every step made the bikini strings dig deeper, the thong riding up uncomfortably between my cheeks. I kept my hand cmped over my crotch, shoulders hunched, trying to make myself smaller as we moved.

  The corridor twisted and branched like the arteries of some vast, buried beast. Doors lined the walls—pin steel, unmarked, some with small reinforced windows too high to see through.

  I couldn't tell if we were underground, in the bowels of some abandoned warehouse, or inside the sprawling guts of a private estate disguised as a fortress.

  Everything looked the same: cold, functional, merciless.

  Finally, she stopped in front of a single door that looked different.

  No reinforced steel here—just smooth dark wood, and on it, a simple stenciled silhouette: heavy velvet curtains parted slightly, as if inviting an audience inside. A theater curtain. My stomach twisted.

  She pushed the door open without knocking.

  Warmth hit me first—actual heat, after the relentless cold of the cell and hallway.

  Then the scent: polished wood, faint traces of old incense or perfume, something rich and expensive. The floor beneath my bare feet changed from concrete to smooth, dark hardwood that gleamed under low, amber lighting.

  We stepped inside.

  The room was dim, almost theatrical. Thick red velvet curtains dominated the wall—floor-to-ceiling, heavy folds that looked like they could swallow sound and light alike.

  They hung motionless, waiting, the same deep crimson you'd find framing a cinema screen or a stage about to reveal its secret.

  A single spotlight—soft, focused—shone down from somewhere high above, pooling light in the center of the space like an unspoken invitation.

  The woman released my arm at st. I stood there, heart hammering, one hand still shielding myself, the other clenched at my side.

  The bikini felt even more ridiculous now, exposed and inadequate under that deliberate glow.

  She stepped back toward the door, boots echoing once more.

  Then she was gone.

  The door clicked shut behind me. Silence settled again—this time thicker, expectant.

  I was alone in the red-curtained room, dressed in almost nothing, waiting for whatever came next.

  ——