I looked at the heavy oak door. It wasn’t a portal to safety; it was the gate to the lion’s den. The silence of the room wasn’t peaceful; it was the quiet before a mortar strike.

Suddenly, the door swung open. It didn’t glide; it slammed against the wall with a deafening thud.

Beatrice stood there. She wasn’t holding flowers. She wasn’t holding balloons. She was clutching her Hermès bag like a weapon, her face twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated hate.

She stepped inside. The hallway behind her was empty. No nurses. No security. Just the long, indifferent stretch of linoleum.

I was trapped.

Chapter 2: The Assault in the Sanctuary