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Yulia couldn't remember how long it had been since she was taken

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Yulia couldn't remember how long it had been since she was taken. Time had become a shapeless blur, slipping away from her like sand through her fingers. Days, months, maybe even years—she had lost track of time entirely, the passage of it reduced to the dull rhythm of her own heartbeat. There were no windows here, no way to know whether it was day or night outside. Just darkness and the cold, unyielding walls of the basement that had become her prison.

And the red room. 

The air was stale, thick with the scent of mold and dampness, the concrete beneath her body rough and cold. She had memorized every crack in the floor, every imperfection in the walls, because that was all there was to see. The ceiling loomed low above her, oppressive, a constant reminder that freedom was out of reach. There was no light, save for the faint, artificial glow that flickered on whenever they opened the door—her only hint that there was a world outside these walls.

She didn't know how many times the door had opened and closed since she arrived. Each time, it was the same. A faceless figure would step into the room, leaving a tray of food on the ground. They never spoke to her, never made eye contact. They were like shadows, slipping in and out, as if she wasn't even human, just some object to be tended to.

But she knew what came before the food. The beating. The one constant in this hellish routine. A heavy stick, the wood cold and unyielding, would strike her—across her back, her legs, anywhere they could reach. The blows came hard, with a practiced cruelty that left her gasping for breath, her body curling in on itself instinctively. She never screamed anymore. She had learned that it made no difference. They didn't care about her pain, didn't react to her cries. They never asked questions, never explained why they did this. It was just... routine.

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