Elara never meant to see what she saw. One wrong turn down an alley of smoke and whispers, and the world she knew stopped belonging to her. Now she wakes in the quiet of Violet's domain-a place that smells of ink, iron, and something sweetly rotten. There are no windows. Only Violet's voice, calm and cold, teaching her what silence means. Days bleed into nights that have no name. Fear becomes a rhythm; obedience, a kind of language. Elara tells herself she's waiting to be saved. But every time Violet's eyes find hers, the thought of rescue feels less like hope and more like betrayal. Because the longer she stays, the more she begins to understand: Violet is not merely her captor. She's the gravity that keeps her from breaking apart.
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