The biting chill of the basement seeped into Raven's bones, a familiar companion in her small, neglected corner. The faint light filtering through the tiny window barely pierced the perpetual gloom, illuminating dust motes dancing in the frigid air. Her thin mattress offered little comfort against the concrete floor, but the hum of the washing machines, a rare source of warmth, provided a small, fleeting solace.

She stretched, her body protesting with a symphony of pops and cracks that felt far too old for her eighteen years. The threadbare maid's uniform, a pale blue dress that hung loosely on her emaciated frame, felt like a second skin of subservience. Her dull brown hair, pulled back in a tight ponytail, reflected her muted existence. A quick glance in the cracked mirror revealed hollowed cheeks and shadowed eyes, a stark reflection of a life lived in shadows.

Today, like most days, promised endless chores. The packhouse awaited, specifically its many bathrooms, a task that would consume her until dusk. As she crept silently up the stairs, avoiding any creaking floorboards, a quiet hope stirred within her—a hope for enough leftovers, for a few hours of undisturbed sleep, and, perhaps, a moment of peace before the cycle began anew. Her only true escape, for now, lay in the pages of borrowed books and the distant promise of a university acceptance letter.