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“Shut it,” one of the men growls.
Finally, we reach a section of the warehouse cordoned off with chain-link fencing. Makeshift cells, each about ten feet square. Three are already occupied. Huddled forms peer out at us with dead eyes.
My blood runs cold. How many people are trapped here?
Correction.
How many kids …?
A gate screeches open. Hands shove me inside. I spin around just in time to see Aria dragged toward a cell on the opposite side of the warehouse.
“No!” The word tears from my throat. “Don’t separate us.”
A backhand across the face sends me reeling. Stars explode behind my eyes as I hit the ground.
“One more word,” a voice snarls, “and I’ll cut out your tongue.”
The gate slams shut. A padlock clicks into place.
I push myself up, tasting blood. The man looming over me is a mountain of muscle, his face set in a permanent scowl. A jagged scar runs from his left eye to the corner of his mouth. As he advances, my eyes catch on another, fainter scar peeking out from his collar—an old, crescent-shaped mark that looks suspiciously like a child’s bitemark.
Seeing it makes me smirk, and I silently cheer on the nameless kid who had the guts to chomp down on this brute.
“Enjoy your new home, street rat.” He leers, revealing tobacco-stained teeth.
Bruiser. That’s what I’ll call you.
As Bruiser walks away, I take stock of my “cell.” Bare concrete floor. Three walls of chain-link fencing, the fourth the warehouse’s original brick. A threadbare blanket in one corner. A bucket in the other.
Home sweet home.
I press myself against the fencing, straining to see Aria. She’s a tiny figure huddled in the far corner of her cell, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
“Aria,” I call out, my voice echoing in the cavernous space. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll get out of this.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Bruiser roars from somewhere out of sight.
I bite my lip, frustration boiling in my chest. We need a plan. A way to communicate. A way out.
Hours crawl by. Guards patrol at irregular intervals. I count four—no, five different men. Bruiser’s in charge, barking orders and dealing out casual cruelty.
But there’s another one of the men. Younger. Softer features. His eyes linger on us captives with something almost like… Pity?
Soft Eyes. He could be useful.
As night falls, the temperature plummets. The thin blanket does little against the chill seeping up from the concrete. I huddle in the corner, shivering.
Think, Ember. You’ve been in worse spots.
I reach into one of the many pockets of my ragged coat and pull out a small taper, its wax smooth under my fingers. It’s barely bigger than my thumb, but it feels like a lifeline. I strike a match, the flame sputtering to life before settling into a steady flicker. The firelight dances in the dimness, casting long shadows on the cracked pavement around me.
For a moment, the warmth and glow pull me back to a different time, not the brutal reality I had lived but something softer, something kinder. I close my eyes and pretend—just for a second—that I’m not huddled in the cold.
Instead, I imagine a home filled with light, where the flickering flame is a comfort, not a crutch. A time when life wasn’t about survival but simple pleasures, like the smell of fresh bread and the warmth of a hearth.
Soft Eyes appears, carrying bottles of water. He slides one under each cell door without a word.
“Thank you,” I murmur as he reaches mine.