You wake up on cold concrete with no memory of how you got here. No light. No sound except your own breathing — and then someone else's, close but invisible, steady in a way that feels deliberate, like they've been listening to you for a while. The room gives you almost nothing: a bed, a sink, a toilet and a shower. Food appears through a slot in the wall. A camera watches from a corner you can only find by feel. During the day, light seeps in — just enough to see her face. Ava. A stranger. And somehow, the only thing standing between you and the silence.