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Scarlett

Suddenly, the van's tires screech against the gravel in a violent protest, jarring me from my thoughts. My body lurches forward, and I brace myself against the cold metal wall. They've stopped. I press my ear to the side of the van, straining to hear over the pounding of my heart. The front doors creak open, and heavy boots crunch on the ground outside. Muffled Russian words float through the air—harsh, staccato sounds that slice through the silence inside my prison.

"Viktor," I whisper to myself, the name tasting bitter on my tongue.

The men's voices grow louder, more animated. An occasional laugh punctuates their speech. A sound devoid of humor, chilling in its casual cruelty in the most terrifying way.

My breath catches as the sound of footsteps draws nearer to the back of the van. Fear coils in my stomach, tightening until it's hard to breathe. My pulse quickens, each beat resounding in my ears like a drum of war, signaling impending doom. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to disappear into the shadows, to become nothing more than a wisp of air.

But I am not invisible. I am here, flesh and bone, heart flapping frantically in my chest—a trapped bird desperate for escape yet bound by invisible chains. The footsteps stop, poised just beyond the thin metal that separates me from them. My fate rests in the hands of these merciless strangers, and every fiber of my being screams for salvation.

"Please," I murmur, a silent plea to the universe. But there are no saviors here, only predators and prey. And as the footsteps resume, coming ever closer, I know which one I am.

The lock twists, a metallic click heralding dread. The door of the van is yanked open with such force it groans in protest. A man leans in, his features before hardening into something cruel and unyielding. "Hello bitch," he greets me mockingly, a smile playing on his lips that doesn't reach the coldness in his eyes.

For a fleeting second, I see what might have been considered handsome—sharp jawline, high cheekbones, a straight nose. But any semblance of attractiveness is ravaged by the evil etched deep into his expression, twisting his features into a mask of malice. It's a face you can't forget, one that haunts your nightmares, promising pain and terror.

Panicked, I scramble backward, my hands clawing at the metal floor, seeking escape. But there's none. I feel like a cornered animal about to be picked up by its predator. His hand shoots in, fingers entwined viciously in my hair, yanking me out as if I weigh nothing. My scalp burns, and a sharp cry is torn from my throat. Tears spring to my eyes, blurring the world into a mess of lights and shadows.

He drags me toward the building, my legs stumbling to keep pace with his strides. Each step is agony, each tug a reminder of my powerlessness. I am at his mercy—a concept alien to the likes of him—and at this moment, I understand true helplessness. It's not just the physical pain but the realization that I am nothing more than an object to be moved at will, my humanity stripped away with every pull, every mocking word.

The night air hits me with a briny chill, laced with the unmistakable tang of seaweed and salt. My eyes flicker around, catching glimpses of the expansive darkness, the moon reflecting off undulating waves in the distance. There's no mistaking the rhythmic lapping of water against what must be a dock and the distant creak of moored boats swaying gently. I'm by the sea.

His grip is unrelenting as he steers me towards an imposing structure, its vast silhouette a black void against the night sky. We pass under a flickering light, and my shadow stretches grotesquely across the gravel-strewn ground. The warehouse doors open before us, monstrous and gaping.

Inside, the air is thick and oppressive—smelling of oil, metal, and decay. A maze of crates and machinery casts eerie shadows as if hiding sinister secrets within their depths. He doesn't pause, hauling me deeper into the belly of the warehouse, past shuttered windows that offer no glimpse of the outside world.

Then we arrive at something else—a small, isolated cubicle carved out of the surrounding chaos. It's like stepping into another world; one smaller, more confined, infinitely more terrifying. The stench that greets us is suffocating: the sharp, acidic reek of urine mixed with the stale odor of sweat.

It's too much. My stomach, already knotted with dread, revolts violently, and I double over, retching uncontrollably. My body expels everything, bile burning my throat, tears streaming from my eyes. This tiny space, this hovel of human misery, has stripped me of the last vestiges of composure.

His cruel laughter cuts through the thick air as he surveys my appalled expression. "I can see you have reservations about your new accommodation, Bambi," he sneers, the word 'Bambi' twisted into an insult by his mocking tone. His free hand motions dismissively towards a filthy bucket in the corner. "Well, this is about the best five-star treatment you are going to get from me." The implication is clear: I am less than nothing to him.

A wave of humiliation washes over me, merging with the nausea that still claws at my insides. My lips part to object, to retain some shred of dignity, but before a single word can escape, I am propelled forward. His shove is forceful, careless of my well-being, and I stumble into the grimy enclosure.

My knees buckle as I crash onto the hard floor, the world tilting dangerously. I'm covered in vomit, the acidic smell mingling with the foul odors already permeating the cubicle. Strands of my hair stick to my face, plastered there by the vile substance, as they flail wildly in every direction with the momentum of my fall.

Mortification burns hotter than the pain that radiates from where I've landed. I can feel his eyes on me, taking in my sorry state with a smirk. This is his power, his control—reducing me to this pitiful condition.

I claw my way to my feet, the world spinning as I narrowly avoid the makeshift potty. It's just a bucket, rusty and reeking, a mockery of sanitation. My foot slips, and I catch myself against the damp wall, my fingers tracing the grooves etched by countless others who've probably faced similar fates in this very spot.

A sob wrenches from deep within me, raw and ragged, as the door slams shut with a finality that echoes through the tiny space. It's pitch black now, the absence of light suffocating. I'm alone, truly alone, trapped in a place not fit for any human being.

Tears stream down my cheeks, hot against the cool air of the cubicle. They mix with the remnants of vomit, creating streaks of misery on my face. How could Viktor ever find me here? The thought circles in my mind, a vulture preying on the last shreds of hope. He doesn't even know where to start looking, and every second that passes carves a deeper despair into my heart.

I slide down to the floor, the cold concrete leeching the remaining warmth from my body. I hug my knees to my chest, trying to make myself as small as possible, as if I could disappear from this nightmare. My sobs subside to whimpers, each breath a struggle against the weight of dread that crushes my chest.

Weakness creeps into my limbs, and tiredness wraps around me like a thick blanket. Everything that has happened—the fear, the pain, the betrayal—it all converges into a numbing fatigue that pulls at the edges of my consciousness. I'm about to give in to it, to let the darkness take me away from this hell when a sliver of light pierces the gloom.

The door creaks open again.

Rough hands seize me, dragging me out of the cubicle and into the harsh glare of warehouse lights. I squint against the brightness, my eyes adjusting to the sight of a circle of men. At their center stands a man with an aura of danger so palpable it raises the hairs on my arms. They call him pakhan , a title that drips with authority and fear. His eyes, cold and calculating, fixate on me as if I'm nothing more than a pawn in his cruel game.

"This is nothing personal," the pakhan begins, his voice void of empathy. "But anyone tied to Viktor Makarov is a loose end. And loose ends," he says, drawing a finger slowly across his throat, "must be taken care of."

A shiver runs down my spine, the finality of his gesture hanging in the air like a guillotine blade poised to fall. My heart races, pounding against my ribs in frantic Morse code for help that won't come.

As the pakhan's decree echoes in the cavernous space, a shadow detaches from the wall of onlookers. My breath catches when a familiar figure steps forward into the light.

Marina!

What is she doing here? I know she is Russian, but she never goes back there, and I believe she has no ties back home. She’s never mentioned any family back in Russia so what is she doing here? Her presence is a gut punch, a betrayal that slices deeper than any knife the pakhan could wield.

"Marina?" I gasp, my voice breaking on her name. The look in her eyes does nothing to quell the rising panic within me. How did she become entangled in this web of violence? My mind races, seeking answers in her hardened gaze but finding none.