He stood and moved behind her. She heard the snip of scissors, then the deliberate snick of a knife blade unfolding. He cut the ropes binding her wrists. The blood rushed back into her fingers in a painful, prickling wave. But she didn’t move. She kept her eyes forward.

The camera’s red light blinked. The seconds dripped by like honey.

The rest of the tape was just her cutting him free, one slow, deliberate snip at a time. And the silence, for the first time in years, was a kind, quiet place.

“You designed the prison,” he said, his voice carrying that strange, detached warmth. “Every knot. Every constraint. You built the walls of your own head, Marina. Now… I’m just showing you the blueprints.”