Lara
The corridor was damp again.
Not the kind that came with storms or leaks—but the breathing kind. Warm, metallic, like rusting iron and dried sweat left to steep in silence. Lara didn't flinch as she walked through it. You couldn't flinch down here. The walls were always listening.
She passed a man groaning low behind one of the heavy doors. Someone was working on him—slowly. Efficiently. It wasn't her business. Her job came after. When the fists failed and fear settled in, that's when she stepped in.
Her eyes itched faintly under the strip of cloth tied around her face. A precaution. The Eyes of Truth weren't meant to be used idly. Or freely. You couldn't go around seeing souls like faces in a crowd.
Her boots brushed against old stones as she reached the room marked for her. Room thirteen—always the same number when they needed her to crack something special. A tough one.
