Her body had become a battlefield, and each scar was a battle won by Fenrir.
Three months had passed since Fenrir had imprisoned her in this room. He had turned her body into an object of his desire, touching her at will, even though Freya vehemently resisted.
Each time she defied him, it resulted in a cruel punishment, usually in the form of a beating.
Fenrir had plunged her into a filthy abyss.
As the days turned into weeks and then months, she desired nothing more than death. Her spirit was broken, her body ached, and her soul felt tarnished beyond repair.
She existed in a living nightmare, trapped in a cycle of torment from which she saw no escape.
Freya gazed at the scorching sun outside, radiating brightness and glare. Yet, there was no warmth in its rays.
