Amelia’s POV
The second guard change came at 4:22 a.m.
I heard it before I saw it: boots scraping concrete in the hallway, low voices trading shifts, the metallic clink of keys. Karen had left an hour earlier—spitting threats she no longer had the stomach to carry out. The new guard was younger, less sure. He checked the lock once, rattled the door handle, then walked away to make coffee. Routine. Predictable.
I waited thirty seconds after his footsteps faded.
Then I moved.
The zip-ties on my wrists were already half-sawed through—hours of slow, silent work against that single rusted nail in the wall. My shoulders screamed from the angle, skin raw where the plastic had worn through flesh, but the last strand gave with a soft pop. I bit down on my lip to keep from gasping.
Hands free.
