The biting cold of the Omega bathroom was a familiar comfort against the fresh welts blooming across Anaiah's back. The water, a cruel mimicry of her tears, streamed down her bruised skin, each droplet a reminder of Leah's venom and Amos's callous disregard. She shivered, not from the cold, but from a deeper chill that seeped into her bones.

Today, the slap had been harder, the kicks more brutal. It was the price for existing, for breathing the same air as those who deemed her less than nothing. Her reflection in the chipped mirror of her cramped, closet-like room showed a pale, gaunt girl with eyes that held too much sorrow for her seventeen years. Yet, beneath the pain, a spark flickered – a defiant will to survive.

She dressed in her worn clothes, each movement a quiet ache. The scent of breakfast, a full English feast for the entitled, wafted up from downstairs. Her stomach rumbled, a constant companion to her misery. Another day of servitude awaited, another day to endure, to survive, to plot her escape.