TW: this scene contains references to captivity and past abuse (not depicted on page), threats of violence and forced medical intervention, and themes of suicidal ideation. Reader discretion advised.
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The room had no windows.
Ren Hao had counted the days by the meals that came, three a day if Shen Zihao remembered, sometimes only one if he didn't. He had lost count somewhere around the second week, when the counting itself had started to feel pointless, like keeping a calendar for a life that wasn't going to continue long enough to need one.
He sat curled against the metal frame of the bed, knees drawn to his chest, wrists raw where the cuffs had rubbed the skin over and over until it stopped healing between uses.
The raw places weren't red anymore. They were a wet, shiny pink, and when he moved too fast, they split open again with a sting that made his teeth ache. The left one had started to weep a thin, cloudy fluid that smelled faintly of rot.
