The first couple days were a blur of darkness, pain, and stale air. Bianca wasn’t even sure how long she’d been trapped there was no window, no sun or moon, just damp concrete and the occasional drip of water echoing somewhere beyond the walls. Time didn’t pass. It just stretched.

Her shoulder still hurt like hell, and her wrists were raw from the ropes. But none of that mattered anymore. She was alive. And that meant she had options.

She listened. That was the first thing she taught herself. Not just for footsteps or voices though those came, occasionally but for patterns. For air movement. For creaks in the boards. For anything that hinted at how this place worked.

At some point, moonlight cut through a crack between the slats of the crate. Thin as a paper cut, but it changed everything. She shuffled around so she could line up her eye with it, just to catch anything outside.

That’s when she saw him.

A shadow first then a hand, rough and calloused, adjusting something on the outside of the crate. He leaned in just enough that the light hit part of his face.

Broad jaw. Sharp cheekbones. Eyes that didn’t blink.

She didn’t breathe.

He didn’t notice her. Didn’t speak. Just made his adjustment like she was furniture and walked away, his steps quiet and calculated. Like he’d done this before.

That flash of his face burned into her mind. The calm way he moved, like he had all the time in the world.

That was the moment it stopped being about fear.

Now it was about getting even.

Bianca started mapping her space mentally. Every board. Every gap. She found one slat that was a little loose and worked on it day after day scratching and pushing until her fingers were wrecked. She didn’t stop. Not once.

Eventually, the slat gave.

She could see more now. A stretch of floor. A blank wall. Dust spinning in the moonlight. Still no door in sight, but it gave her something: intel.

Then one night, he came back but this time, he didn’t check on her. He was busy with something across the room.

Water sloshing. A mop maybe. Then the smell of bleach rolled in strong enough to sting her nose.

She heard metal tools clink. Saw shadows shift. She didn’t know what he was cleaning, and maybe she didn’t want to, but whatever it was… he did it like a surgeon prepping a room.

That’s when it clicked: this guy was methodical. Not some impulsive psycho. He was deliberate. Careful.

Which meant he probably thought he was being smart.

Which meant he had blind spots.

And she was going to find every one of them.

The next time he left, she heard a lock slide into place. Heavy. Industrial. Another layer of control.

Fine. He wanted a game?

She’d play.

But she wouldn’t just run. She was going to leave a trail. Something the cops or someone could find. She started loosening more boards, just enough to mark things. Tucked bread bits into the cracks. Tiny pieces of herself, placed like breadcrumbs.

Each move was small.