The damp air stabbed into Vania’s lungs. The old warehouse felt even more suffocating now that night had fully fallen. A weak neon lamp flickered in the corner, casting eerie shadows across the rusted walls. The coarse rope around her wrists had already left raw, burning marks, but her mind refused to give in.

She remembered one of the kidnappers—the smaller one—who had given her a fleeting look, as if to say: “I’m not entirely your enemy.” That look had sparked the tiniest flame of hope inside her.

Vania’s eyes swept the room. In the corner, a broken wooden board stuck out, jagged with rusty nails. She shifted her body...