The air in the Leften house was thick with unspoken threats, a familiar weight on Annabelle's shoulders. Her adoptive father, Tony, loomed over her, his voice a low growl that preceded inevitable pain. "Where the hell are my work clothes!" he bellowed, his face contorted in a familiar mask of rage. Before Annabelle could offer an explanation, a stinging slap echoed in the quiet room, sending her sprawling to the floor. Her cheek burned, a prelude to the bruise she knew would blossom. She scrambled to retrieve the suit, her every movement calculated to avoid further wrath, the memory of his recent re-organization order flashing through her mind.

Later, as dusk settled, Annabelle lay curled on her thin mattress, the only solace a worn photograph of her real parents. Their smiling faces, captured in a bygone moment of happiness, were her anchor in a sea of cruelty. The floorboard creaked, and her breath hitched. Damon, the Leftens' son, materialized from the shadows, his presence a cold dread. He spoke, his words laced with menace, his breath reeking of alcohol. "I've been waiting for this moment." Annabelle's heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat of terror as she struggled against his grip, knowing this night would be different. This time, she would fight.