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EIGHT

Ember

The Calm Before the Storm

A heavy silence falls over the warehouse, thick and stifling, like the air holds its breath. The usual sounds—the muffled sobs, the clinking of chains, the harsh bark of orders—have all vanished.

Even the rats are still.

Something shifted.

I feel tension in the air, and it clings to my skin, prickling with unease. The hair on my neck stand up, a warning I can’t ignore.

Whatever’s coming, it’s close, and that’s not good.

My attention shifts to the guards. Jaws clenched, their hands hover near their weapons. They’re on edge, more so than usual.

Bruiser paces near the main entrance, his massive frame coiled tight like a spring about to snap. Soft Eyes—the younger one with a hint of humanity until I realized he is a pedophile —keeps glancing at his watch, tension radiating from every movement. And then there’s Twitch—his hands fidgeting, eyes darting around the room like he’s waiting for something to explode, nerves fraying more than usual.

They feel it too.

I shift, wincing as the movement sends jolts of pain through my battered body. Every breath is an effort, ribs protesting from Bruiser’s “lesson” in obedience. The concrete floor has leeched all warmth from my bones, leaving me chilled to the core despite the nervous sweat beading on my brow.

“Aria?” I whisper, my voice barely audible.

No response.

She sits huddled in the corner, knees drawn to her chest, eyes vacant. Lost in some private hell I can’t reach.

I crawl closer, ignoring the screaming protests of my muscles. Up close, the changes in her are even more stark. Her designer clothes are filthy. Her once-perfect hair is matted with grime. Her eyes are dull and empty.

My fingers brush against something in my coat pocket.

Something familiar.

Something tapered and smooth.

A candle.

For a moment, I’m transported back to my tiny apartment. The comforting scent of melting wax. Shelves lined with colorful jars. A dream of something better, of rising above the hand life dealt me.

Now, like everything else, it’s tainted by this nightmare.

Hands shaking, I fumble with my striker. One spark, two, three… The tiny flame sputters to life, casting flickering shadows across my cell. The warm glow feels almost obscene in this place of darkness and despair.

“Aria, look.” I hold the candle up, willing her to focus on something, anything beyond her trauma. “Remember what I told you about candle magic? How each scent transports you someplace else?”

Her eyes flicker with a ghost of recognition.

“This one’s lavender scented.” Desperation creeps into my voice. “Close your eyes. Imagine a field of purple stretching out as far as you can see. The sun is on your face. The wind is in your hair. You’re safe. Free.”

Nothing. Not even a twitch. It’s like talking to a corpse; the thought sends a chill down my spine. How easy would it be to give up? To retreat into the safety of your mind and never come back?

No. I can’t think like that. I won’t let this place win.

“Perimeter secure.” Bruiser’s voice, low and urgent, cuts through my thoughts. “Double the patrols. The boss says no one goes in or out without authorization.”

My breath catches.

Something’s definitely up.

But what?

I strain my ears, trying to catch any whisper of information, but the guards are quiet, communicating in terse nods and meaningful glances. The silence is worse than their usual taunts and threats.

Exhaustion tugs at me, a lead weight threatening to pull me under. How long have we been here? The hours blur together, marked only by meager rations and bursts of brutality.

Sleep is a luxury I can’t afford, not when every moment could be our last.

My stomach growls with a hollow ache that’s become a constant companion. The last “meal”—if you can call moldy bread and lukewarm water a meal—feels like a lifetime ago. I’d kill for one of those overpriced food truck tacos I used to treat myself to on a good sales day.

A muffled groan from the cell next to ours snaps me back to reality. The new guy. Daniel. Another poor soul caught in this nightmare.

“Hey,” I whisper, pressing close to the chain-link fence separating us. “You okay over there?”

A pause, then a bitter laugh. “Define ‘okay.’?” His voice is rough, pain evident in every syllable. “Turns out being a trust fund brat doesn’t count for much here.”

“What’s your story?” I ask, desperate for any distraction from our bleak reality.

“Rich dad, expensive habits. Thought I was untouchable.” Another harsh laugh, ending in a wet cough that makes me wince in sympathy. “Guess the Night Pack had other ideas.”

Night Pack. The name sends a chill down my spine. And now we’re caught in their web.

“How’d they get you?” I press, keeping my voice low—no need to attract unwanted attention.

Daniel shifts, chains clinking. “Stupid, really. I met this guy at a club. Thought I was in for a good time. Next I know, I’m waking up here. Guess Daddy’s money wasn’t enough this time.”

My fingers trace the burn scar on my wrist, a souvenir from my first lesson in using fire as a distraction. The convenience store owner never saw me slip out the back while his dumpster blazed.

Sometimes, a small spark is all you need to survive another day.

My mind races, piecing together the fragments of information. A pattern emerges. Aria was snatched off the street in broad daylight. Daniel was lured with the promise of pleasure.

Me?

Hell, I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, playing hero to a stranger.

Myself aside, I can’t help asking why.

What’s the endgame?

A clatter of metal on metal jerks me back to the present. Guards checking weapons, movements sharp with nervous energy. Soft Eyes fumbles with his rifle, earning a sharp reprimand from Bruiser.

Whatever’s got them spooked, it’s getting closer.

Then, as if summoned by some silent signal, the shadows come alive. Men materialize from hidden corners and concealed doorways, their movements fluid and practiced. One by one, they approach Bruiser, their faces hard masks of anticipation.

I count them silently. Five… eight… twelve in total. Each armed to the teeth, checking magazines and adjusting body armor with practiced ease. These aren’t the usual thugs. The military precision of their movements sets my nerves on edge.

Bruiser speaks to each in turn, voice too low to make out the words, but his gestures are clear enough. Points of entry, lines of sight, kill zones. They’re setting up a perimeter. Not to keep us in but to keep something out.

Not out.

Bruiser’s not setting up a perimeter. He’s creating a kill zone. I take note of every man and where Bruiser sends them.

The men nod, receiving their orders without question. Then, as silently as they appeared, they melt back into the shadows. The warehouse seems to swallow them whole, leaving no trace of their presence.

But I know where they’re hidden.

It’s a trap.

They’re expecting someone.

Someone they’re prepared to meet with overwhelming force.

But who?

The cops?

Seems unlikely—these guys are way too professional for a simple police raid to rattle them. A rival gang, maybe? Or—could it be a rescue attempt?

That seems the most likely. The spark of hope that flares in my chest is almost painful. I squash it ruthlessly. Hope is dangerous in a place like this. It makes you vulnerable, and I can’t afford to be vulnerable. Not now.

But a rescue for who?

Not me. Nobody cares about me.

Aria, for sure. Perhaps even Daniel. They’re both kids of wealthy men.

Still, I can’t help but file away every detail. The positioning of the hidden men, the weak points in their setup. If there is a chance, I need to be ready to take it.

Good thing I know every secret space. Where to run. Where to hide. How far to jump. How high to climb. I know which beams will hold and which will not.

I take stock of our situation for the hundredth time. Chain-link cells, padlocked. Armed guards at every exit. My lockpicking skills are decent—you don’t survive on the streets without picking up a few tricks, but they’re useless without tools. And even if we could get out of the cells, then what?

We’re outnumbered, outgunned, and in Aria’s case, barely functioning.

Daniel’s barely a step above that. He took a beating during his kidnapping and is nursing torn muscles and contusions.

The hopelessness of it all threatens to overwhelm me, but then I think of all the times I’ve been counted out before. Foster homes that said I’d never amount to anything. Streets that should have broken me but only made me harder.

Stronger, like metal tempered by flame. Each close call, each desperate act of survival, left its mark. The trash can fires I set behind the group home kept the older boys away on cold nights —they were too busy trying to catch the “mysterious arsonist” to bother hunting the younger kids.

I’m still here.

Still fighting.

Not dead yet.

A memory flashes—striking matches in the back of Mrs. Henderson’s foster home, the small flames dancing as footsteps approached my closet hiding spot. The fire alarm’s shriek gave me enough time to slip away before her “special friend” could find me.

Fire has always been my protector when I needed an escape.

My mind races, weighing options. This might be our only chance if something’s about to go down. A distraction, a moment of chaos, could be the opening we need. I can slip past the guards. Or, at least, I know where to hide until they give up looking for me.

But Aria… I glance at her huddled form. She’s dead weight, lost in her mind. Could I leave her behind? Save myself?

The thought makes my stomach churn. Self-loathing rises like bile in my throat. My biggest fault is despite being a street rat, I never learned to look out for number one.

That’s not me.

Never was.

Even after that night when the rats tried to eat me, I still gave them my crumbs. I still gave them fresh water… As fresh as anything could be.

I close my eyes, memories washing over me like a tidal wave. Cold nights huddled in alleyways, stomach growling with hunger. The terror of footsteps approaching in the dark, of hands reaching out to take what little I had. The weight of choices no child should have to make.

But even then, in the darkest moments, I never turned away from the suffering of others, even when it meant pain for me. That little girl at St. Mary’s Group Home cried in the corner as the older kids closed in. I stepped between them and her and took the beating meant for her. There was that foster brother, trembling as our foster father raised the belt. I grabbed Tommie’s hand and ran with him into the night, knowing what awaited us when they caught us.

They never did.

The St. Catherine’s Home fire was different, however. It’s the one and only time fire ever scared me. The matches I used were wrong—something was off about them. The flames were too eager, too hungry. Too well fed.

The first match I struck to light my candle caught faster than it should, spreading across the floor like a living thing.

Smoke filled the dormitory within minutes. Through the chaos of screaming children and crackling flames, I remembered the maintenance tunnel—my secret escape route during the bad nights.

While the staff rushed to the main exits, I gathered the younger kids, leading them through the maze of corridors I had memorized.

“Keep low,” I whispered, guiding them through the thickening smoke. “Hold hands. Don’t let go.”

The tunnel felt endless, the air growing thinner with each step. The smoke thicker. Behind us, the roar of the fire grew louder, hungry flames devouring everything in their path. One of the little ones stumbled. I scooped her up, ignoring the burn of exhausted muscles.

We emerged into the cold night air as the building’s windows exploded, showering glass like deadly rain. I counted heads frantically—twelve kids, all breathing, all alive. They huddled against me, trembling and soot-stained, as sirens wailed in the distance.

That fire taught me something crucial—even my most trusted ally could turn against me. The matches that had always been my salvation nearly became my destruction. It was the only time fire ever betrayed me.

I never saw those kids again. Never knew what happened to them after the ambulances and police cars arrived. Sometimes, on the darkest nights, I still smell that strange chemical smoke and still feel the weight of small hands clutching mine as we ran for our lives.

The memory fades, but the lesson remains: fire might be my weapon and protector—but it demands respect. One wrong move and one moment of carelessness and it will consume everything.

With my memories uncorked, they begin to pour out of me.

There was the loading dock in this awful place. Heart pounding, legs burning, I ran from a gang of boys. Not fast enough.

Never fast enough when it mattered.

Rough hands. Mocking laughter. Pain that went beyond the physical, stealing something I could never get back.

Bruiser. He did that.

I remember it all too well.

But even then, even as he raped me, I protected the new girl, her eyes wide with terror, hiding behind the dumpster as I took what was meant for her.

I had to keep their attention on me. I had to be loud and fight hard enough that they wouldn’t notice her because no one should ever endure what I endured.

Not if I had the power to stop it.

I open my eyes, the present rushing back in. Aria and Daniel, broken and vulnerable. Just like that little girl, that foster brother, that terrified new kid on the streets, and the dozen lives I saved from a fire I set.

And for me?

I’m still that same stubborn, foolish girl who can’t walk away. Who’d rather take the hit than watch someone else fall.

I made a choice when I tried to save Aria. I’m not backing out now. Because backing out and walking away when someone needs me is a pain I don’t think I can survive.

My jaw sets, determination hardening like steel in my gut. We’re getting out of here. All of us. Whatever it takes.