Oliver sat alone in the flickering lamplight, cradling his burned wrist against his chest. The pain was sharp, immediate, but somehow less terrible than the hollow feeling spreading through him.
I was such an idiot.
Then suddenly...
Footsteps echoed from the corridor.
Light, measured steps approaching the hidden entrance.
Oliver's head snapped up, fear spiking.
Had they come back?
A figure descended the ladder with practiced ease.
Chestnut brown hair. Brown eyes. A soft, sympathetic expression that seemed almost maternal in the dim light.
Elena.
"Oh, Oliver..." Her voice was gentle, pitying as she approached. "Look what they did to you."
Oliver tried to pull himself together, wiping at his face with his uninjured hand. "It's fine. I'm fine."
"You're not fine." Elena knelt beside him, examining his burned wrist with a concerned frown. "Your own friends hurt you. Threatened you. Used you."
