A Note to the Reader:To understand the light, we must first walk through the darkest shadows. Please be advised that this chapter contains depictions of violence that may be difficult for some readers.
~Cassie~
The lights snapped on with a violent, electric buzz. It was a harsh sound, as if the bunker itself had screamed awake after a long, fitful slumber. The sudden brightness stabbed straight into my skull like a physical needle. I flinched and squeezed my eyes shut, but the effort was useless.
My eyelids were raw, cracked, and burning from days of crying and dust. Light was no longer a comfort. Light was a weapon, and everything in this room was designed to hurt.
When I finally forced my eyes open through the stinging haze, I saw her standing there.
Miranda.
The moment she stepped inside, I understood with a clarity that felt almost merciful. There would be no more waiting, no more guessing, and no more hoping.
There would be no more guessing about her intentions or hoping for a shred of her old humanity to resurface. Today, the air in the room felt different. Today, my death was imminent.
She did not walk into the bunker like a person. She glided, smooth and unhurried, as though this place belonged to her. As though I was nothing more than part of the décor. Her heels struck the concrete in sharp, deliberate taps, each sound slicing through the silence.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Every step felt like a countdown, each echo bouncing off the metal walls until the bunker itself seemed to mock me. I lifted my head with what little strength remained in my body. The movement sent pain screaming through my neck, but I needed to see her properly. I needed to face this.
Miranda looked immaculate. Calm. Elegant. Her posture was perfect, her clothes unwrinkled, her hair untouched. There was no guilt in her eyes. No doubt. No trace of hesitation.
She looked like a woman arriving at a gala, not someone standing over the broken body she had spent days dismantling piece by piece.
Hope had not simply faded in me. It had been crushed into dust. The belief that someone might find me, save me, or even remember me had died long before this moment. My heart had stopped fighting days ago.
And yet, even now, as my body trembled on the edge of collapse, something bitter curled in my chest. A weak, broken smile tugged at my swollen lips as my gaze drifted downward.
Her shoes.
Bright red heels, impossibly clean. Shining under the bunker lights like they had never touched dirt, blood, or suffering. The absurdity of them almost made me laugh. Almost.
Miranda noticed.
Her eyes followed my gaze, irritation flickering across her perfect expression. For a brief second, something dark crossed her face. Then it vanished, replaced by a slow, deliberate smile.
She already knew how this would end.
Movement behind her caught my attention. My stomach twisted painfully as two figures stepped into the light. The gloved men. My executioners. They were always the same. Heavy nylon jackets that whispered with every movement. Faces hidden behind dark coverings. No names. No humanity. They were tools, nothing more.
I had tried to escape before. Many times. The bunker offered no mercy. No windows. No vents large enough to matter. One thick metal door that never opened for me. Every attempt ended the same way. My body failing me. Hunger dragging me down. Exhaustion winning.
They never starved me completely. Miranda had smiled once when I questioned the sweet taste of the water they gave me.
"Glucose," she had said lightly. "I need you strong enough to survive the next round."
Strong enough to suffer but never strong enough to live.
Today, the men carried something new. A large gallon container. Thick liquid sloshed inside as they walked. The sound alone made my pulse spike weakly. I did not know what it was, but dread crawled up my spine, whispering that I did not want to.
Miranda approached me slowly. Deliberately. I could not breathe properly as she closed the distance.
Without warning, her hand shot out and fisted in my hair. She yanked my head backward, forcing my face up toward hers. Pain exploded across my scalp and neck. A broken sound tore from my throat.
Then came the slap. The crack of her palm against my skin echoed through the bunker like a gunshot. My head snapped to the side, and stars burst across my vision.
Before I could recover, she struck me again. Her nails dug into my skin, tearing open wounds that had barely begun to scab. Warm blood slid down my jaw, joining layers of dried, crusted blood already there.
My face felt ruined, swollen, and torn apart. I could barely feel the physical sensation of her skin hitting mine anymore, but Miranda kept going anyway. Her nails dragged deeper this time, seeking the nerve endings that still functioned. I tasted iron as blood filled my mouth, and I swallowed reflexively, fighting with everything I had to stay conscious.