It starts with her saying yes.

There’s a simplicity to it—one syllable, two letters. Yes. The kind of word that slips out before you think. Like a cough, or a confession. She didn’t realize, at the time, that the word had weight. That it would thicken in her throat every night after, settle like a stone in her stomach.

They had asked for volunteers. Just a few. Just the brave ones. And she, desperate to be brave—desperate to _be seen_ at all—raised her hand. The way you might raise a weapon, or a white flag.

She told herself it wouldn’t matter. That it was just one moment, one choice. And besides, there was something almost romantic about it, wasn’t there? To step forward when no one else would? To say, _I will go. I will be the lamb._

The lamb. God, how stupid she’d been.

---

Now she understands what it means to be chosen. Not a gift. Not a blessing. Not some poetic metaphor about sacrifice and salvation. It’s a corridor without end. A scream without sound. A hand brushing her face in the dark, tracing her jaw with a tenderness that feels cruel.

She doesn’t know what she volunteered for. Not really. All she knows is that it wants her. The thing. The man. Whatever it is. Its voice is smoke, filling every corner of her head. Its hands are constant, careful, like it’s building something out of her—a house, a temple, a fucking coffin. And every time she tries to resist, it only laughs, low and rasping, like wind through a broken window.

_You asked for this._

She hates how right it is. How her own voice echoes back at her, distorted and distant: _Yes._

---

She used to dream in color. Now her dreams are black and white, like old film reels, flickering and silent. There’s always a hallway. Endless. Always its shadow, waiting at the far end. She runs, but her legs are syrup-slow. It catches her. It always catches her. When she wakes, her throat is raw, her sheets soaked with sweat, her body aching in places she doesn’t want to name.

She tells herself she’s still alive. That she can leave. But the truth is worse: she doesn’t want to. Not anymore. The thought of it makes her stomach churn, her skin crawl. She hates it, hates herself, but the wanting is there, sharp as broken glass. Because when it’s close, when its breath is warm on her neck, she feels seen in a way she never has before. Whole. Like it knows her—every shame, every secret—and still wants her anyway.

Maybe that’s the worst part. The way it feels like love.

---

There’s a mirror in her room. She’s stopped looking at it. Every time she does, she sees something behind her. Not fully formed, just a shadow, a suggestion. But its shape is unmistakable. The curve of its shoulders. The glint of its teeth. She doesn’t know if it’s real or if she’s losing her mind.

It doesn’t matter. She’s trapped, either way.

---

Sometimes it whispers to her. Things that sound like truths. “You’re mine,” it says, and she believes it. Because she _is_. She doesn’t know when it happened, but she feels it, deep in her bones. Like she was always meant for this. For _it_. For the dark, and the hurt, and the terrible comfort of its hands.

She thinks about the day she said yes. The way the word tumbled out of her, bright and hopeful. She wonders if she could go back, if she would choose differently. If she would lower her hand and let the silence stretch on forever.

No, she decides. She wouldn’t.

Because the truth is, some part of her has always wanted to be ruined.