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But then why does it hurt so badly?

My fingers rise to the ribbon at my neck. It’s still there, tied stubbornly tight. I pinch it and pull, trying to loosen it, but it doesn’t give. I try again, harder, nails digging into the fabric. Nothing will break it.

If I die with this stupid thing on…

The knife.

The weight of it presses against my skin where I tucked it earlier. At the time, I was being cautious. Now it’s the only door I see.

I lift my eyes to the guards.

“Can I have a glass of water, please?” I make my voice soft and polite.

The bald man turns his head to me slowly, as if surprised I can still ask for anything. He looks at the other man with weary annoyance. The other barely glances up from his phone before giving a small shrug, as if to say it’s not his problem.

The bald man sighs and pushes off the wall. “Jesus.”

He walks out of the room to the kitchen.

My heart pounds in a way that feels different from fear. The faucet runs. The man with glasses keeps his attention on his phone. I slide my fingers into the top of my dress, down between my breasts, and close around the knife’s handle.

This is my one chance. One movement that has to be right. Stand up for myself. Save myself.

I draw the knife out carefully, keeping it hidden in my hand. My thumb finds the mechanism. The blade opens with a click that sounds too loud in this quiet room.

I angle it under my thigh, grip it tight, knuckles whitening.

Breathe. Each breath rushes through my nose, too fast and shallow to calm me. Adrenaline is rising.

The man returns with a glass of water, walking towards me completely off guard. To him, I’m a harmless little girl sitting on a bed, obediently waiting to be raped and killed.

He extends the glass like he’s doing me a favor.

My mind gives me every warning at once. Don’t. You’ll fail. You’re not strong. You’re not built for this. You’ll freeze. You’ll ruin everything.

But I don’t want to die. And I’m done waiting for someone else to decide whether I deserve to live.

I grab one split second of courage and stand. It happens so fast, it doesn’t feel real. One motion, all instinct, all survival. Not thinking of blood, not thinking of consequences, only thinking: stop him. I drive the blade into the side of his neck.

Bullseye.

Warmth sprays my hand when I yank the knife out. Red splatters my white dress, my cloak. A gurgling cry comes from his throat. His face changes from confusion to terror as his hands fly up, trying to stop the gush. The glass drops to the carpet. He staggers backwards and crumples at the end of the bed.

The other guard moves, lunging for me, and my body just reacts. I swing, clumsy and desperate, and feel resistance, a wet catch. He grabs my wrist. His grip clamps down like a vise.

For a second, I almost lose it. I almost become the girl I used to be. The one who goes limp and lets it happen because fighting costs more than surrender.

But my restraint snaps.

I bite down hard on his hand. His skin gives beneath my teeth, and I taste the salt and copper of his blood.

He jerks back with a curse, catching my cloak and yanking it from my shoulders. It drops beside the bed. I slash again before he can recover. There’s nothing graceful about it, only relentless fury.

My arm burns. My breath tears in and out of my chest.

I slash and stab in a frantic mess of movement, years of fear and frustration coming out with every swing, until I see blood pouring down his chest.

He drops to his knees. Then faceplants next to his partner.