‡Chapter Seven‡
MARTINA 
"Wake up, Martina.... You're not done yet." 
Silence 
Then–
My body jerks violently, yanked down as if the world itself has suddenly grabbed me and is pulling me toward something I can't see. My chest tightens, and my heart leaps into my throat. For a split second, I feel weightless, suspended in midair, like I'm floating, but it's only a cruel illusion. Cold hands, unyielding, they latch onto me with an iron grip, fingers digging into my arms, my shoulders, my waist. They pull, dragging me upward, but it doesn't feel like salvation. It feels like being wrenched from the void, like my very existence is being torn in two. 
Water.
It's everywhere. Thick, suffocating, drowning me in a silence so vast it feels endless. My lungs burn, my body screaming for air that doesn’t exist. 
The pressure shifts. The deeper I was, the heavier it crushed me—now, as I rise, it peels away layer by layer, but the relief never comes. The cold grows sharper, seeping into my bones, into my skull, until my thoughts feel frozen in place.
I still can't breathe.
My chest constricts, ribs tightening like a vice, as if the air itself is rejecting me, as if I don't belong. The darkness thins, bleeding into something lighter, but it's not comforting. It's blinding. The higher I rise, the more it burns, searing through my eyelids.
My lungs burn, my body screaming for air, but there is none—only the heavy, unrelenting weight of the water, dragging me deeper into the abyss. I can't see. I can't hear. I can barely feel. The world is reduced to a cold, oppressive void, and I am nothing more than a tiny speck lost in it. 
‡
A sharp, bone-deep jolt slams through me, like I've been flung back into existence. My nerves ignite, my body reawakening too fast, too violently.
My head spins, every inch of me feels out of control, as if I've been tossed between two extremes, one moment freefalling and the next, crashing to the ground. The cold, sharp impact of it all sends my nerves into full throttle.
Silence.
I try to move. My fingers twitch, stiff, like they don't belong to me. My body is heavy—numb yet aching, as though every limb is waking up separately, struggling to piece itself back together. My lungs feel too tight, like they forgot how to work. The weight in my chest is suffocating, pressing down as if something is still holding me beneath the surface. 
I force my eyes open. 
My eyelids flutter. Blurred light bleeds through, shapes shifting, shadows stretching. My breath rattles, and a sharp pang shoots through my skull, like a nail being driven straight into the center of my forehead. I'm cold. 
But somewhere—close—there’s warmth, brushing against my skin. The contrast sends a shiver through me, a slow, aching pull back to reality.
I groan. Or maybe I just think I do. My own voice feels distant, swallowed by the ringing in my ears. My skin tingles, raw and hyperaware, as if every nerve has been stretched too thin. The fabric beneath me is rough, each individual fiber pressing against my skin like tiny needles.
Something shifts nearby. A sound—muffled, hesitant. Footsteps, the slight shift of fabric as someone moves nearby. It's close. Someone is near me. 
Dim light flickers against uneven stone above me. The ceiling isn't smooth—it's cracked, eroded, like it's been here for centuries. Shadows pool in the crevices, shifting as the lantern flickers nearby. My breath shudders, my fingers curling instinctively, gripping the blanket. I can feel everything—the roughness of the fabric, the cold press of the stone beneath me, the faintest motion of air shifting against my skin. 
"Where am I?" I part my lips, my throat raw and aching, but my voice barely escapes. I blink. The world sharpens.
The room is small and bare, its stone walls rough and cold to the touch. A single torch hangs from the wall, its weak flame flickering and casting long shadows that dance across the uneven surface.
A heavy coat hangs limply from a rusted hook, its fabric worn and stained. Below it, a shallow basin sits on the ground, water inside murky and still. Dirty clothes are scattered across the stone floor, stiff with grime and carelessly tossed aside.
The air is damp and stale, carrying the faint, musty smell of wet stone and old fabric. A curtain of ragged fabrics stitched together hangs loosely over the entrance, swaying slightly with the faintest movement of air. The uneven patches of cloth are frayed at the edges, some pieces thinner than others, allowing slivers of dim light to slip through. The seams are rough, hastily sewn, as if whoever made it cared more about function than appearance. It barely covers the doorway, its tattered ends brushing against the cold stone floor.
Beyond it, murmurs drift through—muffled, indistinct, like voices pressed against a barrier just thin enough to tease their presence. I can't make out the words, only the hushed tones, low and tense, broken by the occasional shift of footsteps. 
I try to move, but the moment I shift, a dull ache spreads through my body. My muscles feel stiff and heavy, like I haven't used them in a long time.
I push myself up, my arms weak and shaky. Pain shoots through my shoulders and back, making it hard to sit up straight. My legs feel strange—numb and unsteady, as if they might give out the second I try to stand.
When my feet touch the cold stone floor, a shiver runs through me. My knees wobble, and for a moment, I think I might fall. I take a slow breath and try to stand anyway. My body protests, sore and sluggish, but I grip the nearest surface to steady myself.
My head spins a little, my vision blurring at the edges, but I force myself to stay upright. I can't just lie here. I have to move. I glance down, my hands running over the worn-out material—these aren't my clothes.
The fabric is thick and faded, patched in places where it must have torn before. The sleeves are too loose around my wrists, but the fit isn't entirely wrong. The shirt is plain, rough to the touch, and hangs a little differently than I'm used to. The pants are just as worn, slightly baggy but secured well enough to stay in place.
It's not mine. Who changed my clothes. What happened. I try to think back, to piece together how I got here, but my mind feels like a thick fog—scattered, unreachable. The harder I try to remember, the more it slips through my fingers, like grasping at smoke.
I close my eyes, searching for something—anything. But all I find is a voice. Low, steady, lingering at the edge of my memory.
"Wake up, Martina… You're not done yet."
A shiver crawls down my spine. Whose voice was that? It feels familiar, but I can't place it. 
The voice is inside me. Woven into the empty spaces where memories should be. It should be familiar, but I can't place it. I can only feel it—lingering, pressing, curling around my ribs like a phantom touch.
Then—pain.
A sudden, violent flash. White-hot agony, searing through my body like fire. My breath hitches. My knees nearly give.
But then, it’s gone.Leaving me empty.
I take a slow breath and force my legs to move. They feel weak, unsteady, like they might give out at any moment. Each step is heavy, my body sluggish, but I push forward, one foot in front of the other.
The stone floor is cold beneath me, rough against my bare feet. My balance wavers, and I reach out, fingers brushing against the uneven wall for support. My head still feels light, and every movement sends a dull ache through my limbs, but I keep going.
The curtain at the entrance sways slightly, the dim light from outside casting flickering shadows through the gaps in the fabric. I can still hear the murmuring voices beyond it, low and tense.
I hesitate for a moment, hand hovering near the worn cloth. Then, swallowing down the uncertainty curling in my chest, I push it aside and step through.
As I step out, the murmuring stops.
Four pairs of eyes turn to me, their expressions frozen in shock—like they've just seen something impossible. The dim torchlight flickers against the stone walls, casting long shadows across their faces. Three men stand together, tense and unmoving, while another one sits in front of a small fireplace, his expression unreadable. An older woman stood near them, watching me with a careful gaze.
But it's the boy with the cloth bandana tied around his forehead that catches my attention. His face goes pale, his mouth slightly open, like he wants to say something but can't. His eyes stay locked on mine, filled with disbelief and something else—fear, maybe. 
A thick silence hangs between us, heavy and suffocating. Then, the older woman breaks it, her voice steady as she leans forward, a slight hint of relief in her tone.
"Well," she says, glancing at the others.
 "She's awake now."
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