Benson's POV
Every day was a grueling blend of exhaustion and survival. I learned the brutal rhythms of the Warehouse. Each morning, we were jolted awake by the clang of iron pipes striking the bars of our cells, signaling the start of another endless shift.
The dust filled the air, choking our lungs and clinging to our skin like a suffocating shroud. By the end of each shift, my hands were raw and blistered, my arms aching from the endless lifting and pouring.
At night, we were herded back to our cells, where we’d collapse on cold, hard cots with barely enough energy to breathe. Food was scarce—gruel served in small tin bowls, tasteless and cold.
Water was rationed, a small, filthy cup that barely quenched the thirst left by the dust we inhaled all day. The guards watched us with ha
