episode 2

She can’t breathe. The scratchy sheet is the only barrier between her bare skin and their hungry eyes — thin as a whisper, but it’s all she has.

She keeps her fists clenched around the edge, knuckles white, praying they’ll get bored. Praying they’ll leave.

But they don’t.

"Come on, let’s get a good look at that pretty thing," one of the men jeers, stepping closer. She shakes her head — once, twice — but her words die in her dry throat.

"Please… don’t," she tries to say, but it’s just air. Her husband — her captor — leans back against the wall, watching with lazy amusement. His eyes flick from her to his friends. He doesn’t stop them. Of course he doesn’t.

She feels the tug before her brain catches up — rough fingers grabbing the sheet, pulling it away like it’s nothing.

The air hits her raw skin. She gasps — not from the cold, but from the horror.

They laugh — three low, ugly laughs that slide across her skin like knives. She curls in on herself, arms crossed over her chest, legs squeezed tight together — but it doesn’t matter. She can feel their eyes licking every bruise, every mark he left.

"Damn, look at her," the bigger one says. He whistles low, the sound oily. “No wonder you keep her locked up. She’s a sweet little thing.”

"Turn around, baby, let ‘em see how pretty you are," her husband mocks. He reaches out, flicks a bruise on her hip with two fingers. The jolt makes her flinch — a small, broken animal trying to hide.

"Stop it. Please. Please," she chokes out. Tears slip from the corners of her eyes, hot and shameful.

One of the men crouches beside the bed, so close she can smell stale beer and cheap cologne. He tilts his head, eyes glinting like a dog about to bite. “You’re shy, huh? I like that. I bet she screams real pretty for you, doesn’t she?”

Her husband grins, pride swelling in his chest. “She’s mine. Don’t get any ideas. She’s too soft for the likes of you.”

"Aw, come on, man — let us try," the other says with a nasty grin. They laugh again, but it’s not funny — not to her. It’s the sound of her dignity slipping through their fingers.

She presses her palms flat to the mattress, fighting the urge to scramble away — there’s nowhere to go. Her skin crawls where their eyes touch it. Her heart beats so loud she wonders if they can hear it.

For a second, she wants to die. To sink into the floorboards and never feel his touch again.

But under that drowning terror, something flickers — a spark. She sees them, drunk on their power. She sees him, so smug, so sure she’ll always be this helpless thing in his bed.

And something inside her whispers: Not forever. One day, you’ll wish you’d killed me when you had the chance.

The door slams shut behind his friends. Their footsteps fade down the hall, their drunken laughter echoing like nails down her spine. Silence fills the room — thick, heavy. Almost worse than their eyes.

She clutches the sheet to her chest again, hands shaking so badly her knuckles burn. She curls up on her side, ribs screaming where they press against each other. She tries to breathe, but the air feels thick as mud.

He’s pacing now — back and forth at the foot of the bed, his boots thudding on the cheap floorboards. She doesn’t dare look at him. She knows that sound — the coiled rage that comes after the mocking sweetness. The real monster under his skin.

"Look at me," he snarls. She squeezes her eyes shut tighter.

"LOOK AT ME!"

His hand closes around her ankle, yanking her down the bed so fast the sheet slips from her grip. She scrambles for it — but he’s faster, ripping it away, tossing it on the floor. Naked again, exposed. Her heartbeat trips over itself.

"You think you’re clever, huh? Spreading your legs for my friends? Smiling at them like a cheap little slut?"

"I didn’t— I swear I didn’t—" She tries to sit up, but he shoves her back down, hand heavy on her chest. She feels her ribs strain. Tears leak out, hot, useless.

"You were showing off," he spits. “All that shy act? You loved it. You liked them looking at you. Don’t lie to me!”

She shakes her head, throat raw. “No — no — I didn’t — please—”

He lets go so suddenly she almost sobs with relief — but it dies in her throat when she sees him cross to the dresser. He jerks open the drawer, rummaging, cursing under his breath. Then she sees it — the dull silver glint in his hand. Scissors.

Her scalp prickles with terror before her mind even makes sense of it. He turns back to her, eyes bright with madness.

"You want them to see you? Let’s see what they think when you’re nothing but a bald, ugly whore."

"No— please — please don’t—" She scrambles back up the bed, pressing her naked back to the wall. Her hands fly to her hair — tangled, sweat-damp, the last piece of herself she feels she still owns.

He climbs onto the bed, knees sinking into the mattress, pinning her between the wall and his fury. He grabs a fistful of her hair, wrenching her head forward. Pain blooms at her scalp — tiny, stinging explosions.

"Hold still, bitch."

The cold metal grazes her neck. She lets out a sob — small, broken, shameful. He laughs — a horrible, giddy sound.

The blades close around a thick lock behind her ear. Snip. The tearing sound is louder than her heartbeat. The chunk slides down her shoulder, hits her thigh. She tries to slap his hand away — but he snarls, backhands her across the mouth. The copper taste blooms on her tongue.

"Stay still!"

She freezes. He takes another lock, right by her temple. Snip. More strands slide down her chest, sticking to her damp skin. He yanks harder, slicing uneven chunks — some short, some long — the blades scraping her scalp. Little hairs cling to her cheeks, her shoulders, the sheets.

Her sobs turn into hiccuping gasps — no words left, just raw animal sounds. She hates the sound. She hates the weakness. But she can’t stop.

"This is what happens when you whore around," he growls, breath hot at her ear. “No man wants a bald slut. You’re nothing now. Nothing.”

Snip.

Snip.

Chunks of her hair scatter like feathers, covering the bed, the floor. He pulls so hard her neck burns. Tears run down her face, streaking through the tiny, itchy hairs clinging to her skin.

She wants to scream — to bite him, claw him, anything. But she’s so tired. So hollow. So done fighting a war she can’t win — not tonight.

When he’s done, he grabs her chin, forcing her to look at the broken hand mirror on the nightstand. The jagged glass shows her own face — her once long hair now ragged tufts, scalp raw in places, skin blotched with red where he cut too close.

She doesn’t even recognize the woman staring back. A stranger — humiliated, butchered, small.

"See? Look how pretty you are now," he sneers. He throws the scissors onto the floor with a clatter. “Try running now. Try making anyone else want you now.”

He pushes her down, stands up, wipes his hands like she’s dirt he can scrub away.

She curls up on the mattress, the torn pieces of her hair scattered around her like dead petals. Her shoulders quake with silent sobs that never quite break free.

But somewhere, deep inside — deeper than the bruises, the cuts, the raw skin — something flickers: I am not nothing. I am not yours forever. I will find a way out.

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