Girl's POV
A person's life is full of twists and turns. Every day brings something new, something unexpected. Some days are quiet, some are loud; some days you laugh, some you cry. Most of the time, you never know what fate has in store for you until it's already happened.
Like me, for example. One day I just… appeared in a forest I didn't recognize, unable to remember who I was or how I'd gotten there. Then I met three thugs who tried to capture me, I ran away and ended up falling off a cliff, only for them to still catch me. Fate has a sense of humor, apparently.
When I woke again after they'd caught me, I was in a small, windowed room with just enough light to suggest morning existed somewhere outside. Three small panes near the ceiling let in weak sunlight. A narrow bed pressed against one wall, and beside it—a tiny nightstand and nothing else.
The air was heavy with the faint scent of earth and damp wood.
I tried to move, but my body protested. My legs felt like lead, my head like it had been split and clumsily glued back together. The last thing I remembered was the feel of cold metal snapping around my neck. That collar…
I touched it gently. Smooth, cold, and faintly humming against my skin, like it was alive.
A while later, the man in leather armor appeared. He didn't speak much. He just looked at me, then started to work on something in the corner—a crude shelf, low to the ground, a bucket tucked beneath.
At first, I didn't understand what it was. Then realization dawned, slow and awful.
He walked over to me and casually picked me up and set me down on the makeshift seat and handed me a folded piece of cloth.
My mind blanked. 'No. He's not serious.'
He was.
I froze, staring up at him, my mouth half open in disbelief. The silence stretched painfully long. And then, of course, because the universe enjoys irony, I suddenly needed to use it.
He knew, too. The faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth told me he knew.
I glared up at him with what I hoped was my fiercest "you'll burn for this" expression, but all I got in return was a mildly amused look. Then he left the room, closing the door behind him, leaving me sitting there on a makeshift toilet, paralyzed between humiliation and necessity.
By the time he returned, I hadn't moved an inch. I just sat there, glaring at the opposite wall, seething at existence itself.
When he entered and found me still perched on the shelf, he chuckled under his breath, muttered something I didn't understand, and carried me back to the bed like I was an inconvenient child. I turned my face away as he set me down, my cheeks burning.
He left again. I lay there, mortified beyond words, staring at the ceiling. This is my life now, I thought. I've hit rock bottom. Literally. I fell off a cliff. It can't get worse than this. I turned my gaze out the window, wishing I could at least will my pain away.
Sleep came sometime after, soft and uninvited.
When I woke again, the light had changed. It was moonlight now—thin, pale, spilling through the high windows like water through cracks.
At first, I didn't move. My body felt… different. The dull ache that had followed me since the fall was gone. My limbs still felt a little heavy, but now felt unburdened.
Carefully, I sat up. My legs still looked terrible—swollen and bruised—but when I flexed my toes, there was no pain.
That should've been impossible.
I stared down at them, frowning. My legs were still obviously broken, yet they didn't feel like they were.
'Did they… heal me? Or did something else happen?'
I swung my legs over the bed and pressed my feet against the floor. The chill of the wood grounded me. Standing felt awkward—like trying to remember how to walk in someone else's body. My balance was off, my muscles sluggish. I took a breath and pushed myself upright.
No pain. But no strength either.
The moment I tried to shift my weight, I collapsed, landing heavily on the floor in an ungraceful heap.
I lay there, staring at the wall. My breath puffed little clouds of dust mixed with my frustration. Then, after a long minute, a strange thought entered my mind.
'If I can't walk on two legs… what about four?'
It was absurd, but I was alone. And honestly, at that point, absurdity had become a survival strategy.
I rolled onto my back, then pushed up onto my hands and feet. My arms trembled, my back arched awkwardly, but I managed to lift myself off the floor.
Okay. One small victory.
The room was silent except for the faint scrape of my collar as it shifted against my throat. I stared at the door, concentrating.
"One… one-thousandth…" I whispered under my breath. "Two… one-thousandth…"
By the time I reached five, I heard footsteps. Heavy ones.
Someone was coming.
I grinned despite myself. Perfect timing.
'Six… one-thousandth…'
The latch clicked.
'Seven… one-thousandth…'
The door creaked open, flooding the room with light. My eyes burned from the sudden brightness.
"Hiiisssssss—" The sound tore from me like something low and feral.
The man in the doorway froze. It was the one in the robe.
He stood there, staring at me—at my contorted, backward-crawling pose, the unnatural way my body arched, head low, limbs inverted. His face drained of color.
'Eight… one-thousandth… nine… one-thousandth…'
And then I moved.
Right hand, left foot. Left hand, right foot. Slow, deliberate, unnatural.
I started toward him.
'Ten… one-thousandth.'
His mouth dropped open. His eyes went wide. He slammed the door and bolted, footsteps retreating down the hall like thunder fading into distance.
I dropped immediately, collapsing in a tangle of limbs, gasping from laughter and effort both.
"My theory," I wheezed between breaths, "is confirmed. They scare easy."
I rolled onto my back, wiping tears from my eyes. My muscles trembled with exhaustion, but it didn't matter. I'd found my weapon.
Fear.
It was almost funny how easy it had been.
Thank goodness for the spider walk. I didn't know where the memory came from, only that I'd seen it once—maybe in a story, maybe in a life I didn't remember. Done right, it terrified people. Done wrong, it just looked ridiculous.
Apparently, I'd done it right.
After catching my breath, I dragged myself back to the bed and pulled the blanket up over my shoulders. My limbs felt heavy, pleasantly sore.
Footsteps again. Two this time.
The door burst open, light cutting across the floor. Their shadows stretched long and sharp against the wall beside me.
I stayed perfectly still, breathing slow and steady, feigning sleep.
They whispered in hurried voices, the tone sharp and anxious. The shadow on the right trembled slightly. The one on the left gestured angrily, like scolding a frightened child.
I almost lost my composure right there.
'They're arguing about me,' I thought, biting back a grin. 'They think I'm asleep, and they're still scared.'
I waited until their voices lowered. Then, just as they were about to leave, I let out a soft, deliberate chuckle.
"Heh… heh… heh…"
Both shadows froze.
The silence that followed was exquisite.
Then—slam. The door shut again, footsteps retreating even faster this time.
I smiled into my pillow. 'Perfect.'
Life is full of choices, I mused later, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. Some people believe the choices make the person. Others believe fate does all the choosing for you.
Personally, I think it's a partnership. Fate gives you lemons, you throw them back and demand wine.
My current path split two ways: the meek prisoner's path—quiet, obedient, and miserable—or the survivor's path. The latter had two possible endings: freedom or death.
I'd take either over helplessness.
If their fear was the only weapon I had, then I'd sharpen it until it gleamed.
But I'd have to balance it carefully. Too little fear, and they'd see through me. Too much, and they'd see me as something worth killing. I'd need to learn their rhythms—their limits—and dance between them.
So, I practiced.
During the day, I was calm, compliant, almost docile. I let them believe I'd broken easily. But when the sun fell, and shadows stretched long across the floor, I became something else entirely.
For two weeks, I tested their nerves. Practiced my walk, perfected my laugh, occasionally make some strange noises or scratching at the door. I couldn't do anything grand since I was locked in my room and they almost never came to check on me, I did just enough to make them wonder if I was still human.
By the end of the first week, they were exhausted. By the end of the second, they looked like they hadn't slept in days. The man in armor barked at shadows, the leather-clad one muttered prayers under his breath, and the robed one jumped at the sound of his own footsteps.
I couldn't have asked for better results.
Then came that night.
I didn't see what happened out there—I only heard it.
The muffled shouts. The frantic scrambling. The sound of heavy things being dragged across the floor, they even blockaded my door.
And then, faintly, a scream.
High-pitched. Terrified.
For a moment, I froze. Then, as recognition hit me, I burst into silent laughter.
That was the robed man.
The man in the robe screamed like a child, and it was all I could do not to laugh aloud. But I had to stay in character. So I bit down on the blanket, muffling my giggles, and when I couldn't contain it anymore, I let out my best imitation of a demonic laugh—low, guttural, just loud enough to carry.
And then, to my astonishment, someone answered.
Not one voice. Three.
Laughter—low, playful, yet still eerie distinctly not human—rose from beyond the shack's walls. It echoed faintly, weaving with mine like a strange chorus.
I blinked, halfway between fear and delight.
'Did I just… make friends?'
'Maybe that's why they'd been so terrified lately. Maybe I wasn't the only one haunting them.'
For several minutes, we laughed together—the unseen voices and I—until the sound faded back into the fog. I didn't know who or what they were, but in that moment, I felt less alone.
When the night fell silent again, I smiled into the darkness. ''Thank you, I thought. That was fun.''
Morning came gray and cold.
I woke to the sound of footsteps—slow, deliberate.
When the door opened, the man in leather stood there. His eyes were sunken, his movements sluggish. He looked like someone who'd lost a week's worth of sleep and maybe part of his sanity too.
He didn't say a word. Just walked up to me and, with careful precision, stuffed a handkerchief into my mouth, gagging me.
I muffled a sound of protest, but he ignored it. Then came the rope—tight, binding my arms behind my back, looping around my chest and down to my ankles until I was little more than a bundled parcel.
When he placed the burlap sack over my head, I almost laughed.
'Ah, the full package treatment.'
I couldn't see where they took me, but they definitely put me in some sort of box with a lid.
It wasn't long before I felt the motion of travel—the sound of wagon wheels, the sway of a carriage. The ride was slow and bumpy, but at least I wasn't stuck in that room anymore.
Hours passed in muffled silence before the movement stopped.
Hands lifted me from the box. The sack came off, light blinding my eyes for a moment before they adjusted.
We were inside a large, old building—dusty but organized, like decay that had learned manners. The man in armor held me close, speaking quietly with someone across a counter.
I didn't understand the words, but I understood the tone. Transactional. Final.
The door beside the counter opened, and three people stepped out: a well-dressed man, a worker, and… another captive. A woman with a collar like mine. Her eyes were dull, her steps mechanical.
So that's what happens next.
The exchange was brief. A bag of coins passed hands. Smiles. Relief.
My three captors looked like men who had just shed the weight of a curse.
I watched them go, letting my face soften into something pitiful—sad, resigned, almost grateful. The performance mattered. People underestimate a girl who looks broken.
The door closed behind me as the worker led me down a narrow corridor lined with cages.
Men. Women. Children. Some human. Some not.
Every pair of eyes followed me as I passed.
Finally, he stopped at an empty cage, opened it, and dropped me inside.
The lock clicked shut behind me.
When he left, I turned slowly, taking in my new surroundings.
The air was stale, heavy with quiet despair and a scent better left unsaid.
And yet, I smiled.
'Interesting,' I thought. 'A new stage. New audience.'
I sat down more comfortably, taking my legs out from beneath me, stretching them out. I looked through the bars at my new neighbors—faces turned away, eyes dulled by hopelessness.
"Things," I whispered, grin spreading wide, "are about to get fun around here."
Time for round two.