Page 4

FOUR

Ember

Warehouse of Horrors

Rough hands shove me forward. I stumble, knees scraping against the ragged metal bumper of the van. Uneven concrete beneath my feet makes me stumble.

The warehouse looms around us, a monolithic structure of rust and shadows. Shafts of dying sunlight filter through broken windows, casting a ghostly light on the swirling dust—like the remnants of something long dead. Scattered pigeon feathers drift lazily in the still air, abandoned, like the echoes of life that once filled this place.

The stench hits me first. Mold and rat droppings. Stale sweat and fear. My stomach churns.

This used to be my home—days I’d rather forget—nights that will haunt me for the rest of my life.

Memories flood back, unwelcome and sharp—a scared preteen girl huddling in corners, trying to stay warm. The constant gnaw of hunger. The desperation that led me to trade my body for a fix, to numb the pain of existence. And the crushing loneliness, always present, reminding me that no one was coming to save me.

I remember the first time I had to run.

A gang of older boys, eyes gleaming with cruelty, chased me through the labyrinth of rusted machinery. Heart pounding, lungs burning, I squeezed through a small gap in the wall. They were too big to follow. I spent that night curled in a forgotten air duct, shivering and watchful.

But I learned. Oh, how I learned.

I mapped every inch of this decaying kingdom. I found forgotten places and hidden nooks where even the rats didn’t venture. When you’re small and scared, you learn to become invisible.

Most of the time, I got away. The times I didn’t… well, those taught me to fight dirty, to bite and claw, and never give up because giving up meant not seeing another sunrise.

I learned to read people here. To spot the ones who’d hurt me and the rare few who might show a shred of kindness. It was a tightrope walk between trust and suspicion, with a long fall on either side.

The despair was a constant companion. Some nights, curled up on bare concrete with an empty belly and track marks on my arms, I wondered if it wouldn’t be easier to just—let go. To close my eyes and drift away on a chemical tide.

But something in me refused to break. Maybe it was spite. Maybe it was hope. Maybe it was sheer survival instinct. Whatever it was, it kept me breathing, kept me fighting, even when every breath felt like gargling glass.

Now I’m back, no longer that lost girl, but just as trapped. The irony isn’t lost on me. I clawed my way out of this hell once before. I’ll be damned if I don’t do it again.

“Move it.” A meaty hand clamps down on my shoulder, propelling me deeper into the gloom.

I straighten my spine, lifting my chin. They might have me in chains, but my spirit was forged in the fires of survival. Whatever comes next, I’ll face it head-on.

Because that’s what I do.

I survive.

Aria whimpers behind me. I strain to look back, but a sharp jab between my shoulder blades keeps me facing forward.

We weave through a maze of abandoned machinery and fallen iron beams. The space seems endless, stretching into darkness. Water drips in the distance, a steady rhythm like a broken metronome.

Plip. Plip. Plip.

A rat skitters across our path. Aria lets out a strangled yelp.

“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.

He pauses, meeting my eyes for a brief moment. There’s conflict there. Uncertainty.

The tiny candle flame sputters.

I cup my hands around it, relishing the feeble warmth. It’s not much, but it’s something. A reminder that even in the darkest places, there can be light.

But then, a keening wail splits the air.

Aria.

The girl is not equipped for this, and it’s going to cost all of us.

I scramble to the front of my cell. She’s curled into a ball, rocking back and forth.

“Shut up,” Bruiser snarls, stalking toward Aria’s cell. “Or I will make you.”

I need a distraction. Fast.

Without thinking, I grab my water bottle and hurl it at the nearest stack of rusty barrels. It connects with a resounding clang.

“You little bitch.” Bruiser whirls, eyes locking onto me. “Think you’re some kind of comedian?” He storms toward my cell, his face contorted with rage, but Aria’s cries subside.

It’s finally sinking in. She may be slow on the uptake, but she learns fast.

Worth it.

Bruiser reaches through the fencing, meaty fingers grasping for my throat. I dance backward, just out of reach. A tattoo, stark black against pale skin, gives me pause. A serpent coiled around a dagger, its forked tongue tasting a drop of blood at the blade’s tip.

“Looks like someone needs to learn some manners.” Bruiser’s lips curl into a sneer, his scarred knuckles tightening into fists as the muscles in his jaw flex.

A commotion from the far end of the warehouse draws his attention. Two of the other guards drag in a new captive. A young man, by the looks of it. He’s putting up one hell of a fight.

Despite being half-carried, half-dragged, the newcomer thrashes wildly, his expensive loafers scuffing against the concrete. Blood mats his dark hair, streaking down a face that’s more bruise than skin.

Yet even battered, there’s no mistaking the quality of his clothes—a tailored suit, now torn and stained, that probably cost more than I’ll ever make in my lifetime.

My eyes lock onto the glint of gold at his wrist. A watch. Rolex, maybe? And those rings are not cubic zirconia.

They didn’t rob him. Which means…?

Oh shit. This is bigger than I thought.

Bruiser hesitates, clearly torn between punishing me and dealing with the new arrival. His eyes narrow as he takes in the man’s expensive attire, a cruel smile twisting his lips.

“Well, well, looks like we caught ourselves another big fish.” Bruiser spits on the pavement and then turns to me. “This isn’t over, street rat.” He spins around and then stalks toward the new prisoner.

The guards drag the man closer, and his unfocused eyes and slack jaw come into view. He’s barely conscious, yet still fighting. Gotta admire the spirit, if not the lack of self-preservation.

They shove him into the cell next to mine. He crumples to the ground, a broken marionette in designer clothes. For a moment, all is still. Then his chest rises and falls. He’s alive.

For now.

I press against the chain-link fence separating us, straining to get a better look. Who is he? And, more importantly, why is he here?

One thing’s for sure—with his fancy clothes and jewelry still intact, he’s not here for the same reason as the rest of us. This isn’t about trafficking. We’re caught in the middle of something much, much bigger.

Somehow, that doesn’t improve our odds of making it out alive. I slump against the wall, heart racing. As for Bruiser, that was too close.

As the night drags on, I drift in and out of restless sleep, bits of conversation slip through the haze.

“…Wolfe won’t be happy with this one…”

“…auction’s in three days, though…”

“She’s dead weight… not much to look at, street rat in rags…”

There’s a pause, then another voice, more uncertain. “We could clean her up. There might be more to her than dirt and wild eyes. Could fetch a decent price.”

“She’s not worth the trouble,” someone else mutters. “Easier to just get rid of her.”

The first voice chuckles darkly. “Nah, let’s see what Wolfe says. He’s got a nose for these things. Might surprise us.”

Soft Eyes appears later, this time with meager rations: stale bread and lukewarm soup. I take it without a word, their conversation still ringing in my ears. As he slides the tray under my door, I catch his eye.

“Please,” I whisper. “Help us.”

He glances around nervously. “Keep your head down,” he murmurs. “Don’t draw attention. It’ll be over soon.”

“What will be over?” I press. “What’s going to happen to us?”

But he’s already moving away, shoulders hunched.

I turn my attention to Aria. She hasn’t touched her food.

“Aria,” I call softly. “You need to eat. Keep your strength up.”

She stares blankly at the wall.

I close my eyes, fighting back tears of frustration. We’re running out of time.

Wolfe.

The name alone sends a chill down my spine. I’ve heard of him before—a bloodthirsty street thug who leads the Night Pack. They rule the underworld with ruthless violence.

You don’t cross paths with the Night Pack unless you’re looking for trouble, and even then, you’re lucky to come out alive. An auction. The other captives. It all starts to make horrifying sense.

I stepped into some pretty scary shit.