Innocent Silesia

"Sorry, boss. Your brother is here," one of the guards muttered from the doorway.

Matteo's head snapped up. His gaze cut to me one last time, a warning, a promise, and then he straightened. He dragged his shirt over his shoulders, buttons snapping into place with precise, sharp movements. His tie hung loose around his neck, but he didn't bother to fix it. He didn't need to. Power clung to him like skin, even half-dressed.

His eyes lingered on me, curled up on the bed, my torn dress hanging in ribbons around me, shame clinging to me like sweat. Then he turned and strode out, his footsteps a storm retreating down the hall.

"Lock her up," he ordered flatly. His voice carried no hesitation, no softness. Just command.

The men didn't hesitate. Rough hands seized my arms, yanking me from the sheets. I stumbled, legs weak, knees scraping the marble as they dragged me through a maze of shadowed corridors. My feet, bare and raw, slapped against the cold floor. Each step echoed, hollow and merciless.

We stopped at an iron door, bolted and scarred with age. One of the guards shoved it open, the hinges shrieking in protest, and the stench of damp stone hit me. Before I could resist, they threw me inside.

The door slammed shut.

The clang reverberated through my bones, louder than thunder, rattling my skull. Then silence.

---

The room was barely a room at all. Four stone walls, rough and uneven, scraped gray against the dim glow of a single bulb that flickered overhead. The air smelled of rust, mold, and something sour - despair, soaked into the walls from all who'd been here before me.

A narrow bed sat in the corner, its thin mattress sagging, sheets stiff with dust. Beside it, a bucket, half-hidden in shadow, told me what kind of "guest" I was meant to be.

No window. No clock. Only the hum of the light and the sound of my own ragged breathing.

I sank onto the bed, curling inward. My body trembled, muscles screaming from the night's violence. Every bruise pulsed like fire beneath my skin. My wrists throbbed raw, angry lines where the ropes had bitten deep. My lips were split, my throat scraped from screaming until my voice had broken.

But worse than the pain was the silence.

The silence swallowed me whole.

"It wasn't me," I whispered hoarsely, the words cracking in the stillness. My voice sounded foreign, too small, too weak. "I don't even know you. I don't even know what you lost."

But the shadows didn't care. They devoured my words, burying them in the cold.

I pressed my hands to my face. My fingers shook uncontrollably, no matter how hard I tried to still them. Every time I closed my eyes, his face was there, those black, merciless eyes burning through me. His voice, low and rough, repeating the lie he believed as truth.

Perfume. Bed. Necklace.

A ghost wearing my face had destroyed me in one night.

---

Somewhere beyond the walls, footsteps echoed. Heavy boots. Slow. Measured. Then voices, muffled and low, trading words I couldn't make out. Guards. I had seen them before, broad shoulders, hard jaws, eyes empty of compassion. Shadows loyal to a darker shadow.

I forced myself upright, even though every muscle screamed in protest. My legs trembled as I staggered to the door, pressing my palms against the icy metal.

"Please!" My voice cracked, splintered. "You've got the wrong girl! I don't know him, I don't know anything about a necklace!"

For a heartbeat, silence. Then a chuckle drifted through the door, cruel and dismissive.

"That's what they all say."

The words hit me harder than a fist. My knees gave way, sliding me down the door until I crumpled on the floor. Tears burned hot, spilling into my palms as I covered my face.

This wasn't supposed to happen. I had come to this city chasing hope, chasing survival, chasing something, anything, better. A letter, a promise of work. A chance to start over.

But now? Now my name meant nothing. My innocence meant nothing. My life meant nothing.

Someone had stolen my face, and in return, I had lost everything.

---

Time blurred. I didn't know if minutes passed, or hours. Hunger gnawed at me. Thirst burned my throat. My body wanted sleep, but every time my eyes drifted shut, I jolted awake with the echo of his shadow pressing me down.

At some point, footsteps returned. Heavy. Slow.

I shot upright, clutching the blanket tight to my body. My breath came fast, my heart leaping painfully against my ribs.

The lock rattled, metal scraping metal. I scrambled back, pressing myself into the corner of the bed, every muscle taut with dread.

But the door didn't open.

Instead, a tray slid through a narrow slot at the bottom. The scrape of it against the stone was loud in the silence. Bread. A tin cup of water. A sliver of cheese.

My stomach twisted painfully at the sight, but pride rooted me to the mattress. I didn't move. I wouldn't crawl to the floor like an animal.

Then a voice, quiet, almost too soft to hear. "Eat. You'll need strength."

Not cruel. Not mocking.

I froze, staring at the door, but the footsteps were already retreating.

For the first time since I had been dragged into this mansion, I felt something shift. A crack in the wall of cruelty. Someone, someone other than him, didn't want me dead.

I don't remember when I ate. I don't remember giving in, crawling to the tray and devouring the bread, gulping the water so fast it spilled down my chin. Shame burned me, but survival was stronger.

I climbed back to the bed, pulling the blanket over my shoulders, the stone beneath me humming with the echo of footsteps that weren't there anymore.

And that's when I heard it.

Whispers.

Faint, muffled, as though seeping through the cracks in the walls. Two voices, deep and low, arguing.

"...not her... you're blind, Matteo..."

"...you're blaming me for your own mistakes..."

"...how am I supposed to know you'll do such a thing to her, you'll regret it..."

The voices faded, swallowed by silence again, but they left my skin prickling, my blood roaring in my ears.

Not her. Someone knew. Someone believed me.

I don't know how long I sat there, clutching the blanket, replaying those words over and over. Not her.

The bulb flickered again, buzzing louder, then steadied. The silence stretched, but my heartbeat wouldn't calm.

I thought I was alone again.

Until I heard it, the scrape of the lock turning.

The iron door groaned as it swung open, the light from the corridor spilling into my cell.

I held my breath.

And there, framed in the doorway, stood not Matteo.

But another man.

His face was the same shape, the same bone structure, but softer somehow. His eyes weren't obsidian, they were warmer, though still sharp. His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile, but not a threat either.

"I'm Matias," he said, voice low. "And I know you're not the girl my brother thinks you are."