The crate had gone silent again.

No sloshing bucket. No footsteps. Just the steady tick of a clock somewhere beyond the wall and the rhythmic beat of Bianca’s own thoughts trying not to spiral.

She lay curled in the dark, fingernails chewed and bleeding, whispering a mantra to herself she didn’t really believe: You’re not done. You’re not done.

The last time he came in, she’d barely breathed. He didn’t open the crate just walked around it like a carpenter measuring a table, dragging that sour bleach scent in with him and humming something under his breath that felt... off. Too calm. Too human.

She hated that he hummed.

Still, she'd caught it the way he folded the towel before leaving, how he always stepped to the left side of the door before sliding the lock into place. Routine. He was consistent. She could use that.

The pendant around her neck felt heavier than usual. She kept it tucked under her shirt, fingers brushing the back. Her sister gave it to her when they were barely out of high school. A bird in flight, carved from dark walnut. Strength in small wings.

She held onto that weight like it might anchor her to something real. Something she could still become.

She wasn’t waiting for rescue anymore. She didn’t believe in it.

But she was going to make sure if someone ever found this place if they even walked past her crate, they’d know she’d been here. They’d know she fought.

She pulled one of the longer slats back just enough to wedge a tiny strip of wood she’d snapped off the crate’s floor into the gap. It was crudely shaped like a bird now hers.

Let’s ride the current while it’s hot. Here’s the continuation from Bianca’s side where her small signs of defiance begin to stack up against the walls around her, just as the net starts to close from outside:


The next time the crate opened, it wasn’t with a bang but a whisper.

A quiet creak, the kind that barely registered if you weren’t paying attention. But Bianca was paying attention to everything now. Every breath, every shadow.

He didn’t speak.

Just slid the top back and peered in with those eyes cold, clinical, like he was checking inventory. A flash of light hit her face. Not a flashlight. A phone screen, maybe? She couldn’t be sure. Her pupils screamed against it, but she didn't flinch. Just met his stare, calm as she could fake.

The man blinked. Once.

Then he lowered something water and a torn-up sandwich and shut the crate again.

But this time, the rhythm was different. Off by just a beat.

He noticed something.

The slat she’d been working on wasn’t back where it usually sat. She must’ve rewedged it just a hair too loose.

Inside, Bianca’s pulse skidded. She stayed frozen. Silent. Listening.

Nothing happened.

He didn’t open the slat. Didn’t slam the lid shut. Just the lock again. A low, mechanical click, then footsteps slowly fading until they vanished completely.

She exhaled shakily and wiped her palms against her jeans.

Close.

Too close.

But something told her the endgame was coming one way or another. Her captor was meticulous, sure. But nobody could be that perfect. Not when they thought they were in control.

Somewhere, someone had to be looking. Piecing it together. That pendant. Her name in a file. A sliver of internet history tied to her gallery’s security footage maybe, or that one nosy barista who always remembered her weird chai order some thread had to lead somewhere.