//CLARA//
Time in the cellar didn't pass in hours. It passed in the slow, agonizing rhythm of water dripping from the ceiling and the fading warmth of my own skin.
I was weaker now. The hunger had stolen my strength, the thirst had stolen my clarity. My head felt like it was stuffed with damp cotton, and every time I closed my eyes, I saw phantom images of modern New York—the neon lights of Times Square, the hum of a refrigerator, things that felt like fairy tales in this cold, bone-dry reality.
But I am Clara Vance. And I don't go down without a fight.
When the silence was deep enough, I started working. My wrists were a mess of raw skin and dried blood, but I'd found a flaw. The chair I was tied to wasn't some high-end mahogany piece from the Guggenheim Estate.
It was a cheap, splintered thing. I leaned my weight to the left, feeling the wood groan. I rubbed the hemp against a jagged edge on the underside of the seat, back and forth, until my muscles screamed.
