Page 12 of Shadow Waltz
Holding area two was another converted space, this one looking like it had been a conference room in its previous life. Folding chairs arranged in neat rows, fluorescent lights that hummed constantly, no windows or decorations or anything that might make the space feel human. Other lots sat waiting, some I recognized from the cells, others who must have been processed before me.
Miguel was three chairs away, wearing the same gray uniform, his head tilted back against the wall with his eyes closed. He looked tired in a way that went deeper than physical exhaustion, the kind of bone-deep weariness that came from carrying too much weight for too long.
I scanned the room, letting my eyes wander past the hunched shoulders and bowed heads to the details that mattered: the pattern of the guard’s rounds, the way the security cameras in each corner blinked red every twenty-three seconds, the subtle scrape of a door that didn’t quite fit its frame. Most people in here were trying not to be noticed, but I was watching everything, piecing together the rules of this place with every breath.
You learned fast in cages—how to count time without clocks, how to spot the difference between real authority andsomeone just playing at power. I kept my body language loose, nonthreatening, but my brain was running laps. The guards were new. I recognized the type: fill-ins, nervous, always looking at each other for cues. The real muscle was stationed somewhere else, probably guarding the VIPs or the exits, leaving us with the ones who were just trying not to screw up. That meant mistakes. Weak points.
A girl two rows over was rocking, knees hugged to her chest, muttering under her breath. Her barcode was half-peeled, her hair a tangled mess, but her eyes kept darting to the door, calculating like mine. I caught her gaze and, with a tilt of my head, signaled to stay quiet, mouthingwait for your moment. She blinked, uncertain, then nodded just barely. Someone else watching the room. Maybe later I’d have an ally.
I watched the guard by the door fidget with his keys, twirling them around his finger until one dropped. He knelt to pick it up, exposing the faded outline of a scar at the nape of his neck—a tattoo removed, probably military, maybe ex-con. I memorized the key order on his ring, the way his hand shook. I’d need those details later.
“See anything?” Miguel muttered, barely moving his lips.
“Plenty,” I replied, keeping my eyes forward, tone almost bored. “Third camera's got a blind spot where the mounting bracket blocks the corner view. The exits are all coded, but the panel near the storage closet's scratched up—someone tried to force it and the casing is still damaged. The fire alarm's collecting dust, which means maintenance isn't regular.”
Miguel snorted softly, but I caught the flicker of hope in his eyes. “You never stop, do you?”
“Not if I want to live.”
He shifted, dropping his shoulder until we looked like two tired prisoners instead of conspirators. “Any actual escape plans yet, genius?”
“Not yet. But I’m working on it.”
That was the truth. Every minute, every detail—how the lights flickered, the angle of the cameras, the pattern of the guards’ boredom—it all went into the file I kept in my head. I might not have a way out now, but I would. They’d built this place to break us down into numbers and inventory, but numbers had always been my anchor. Numbers were something I could control.
Across the room, the girl I’d signaled to stopped rocking. She started counting, tapping her fingers in rhythm with the guard’s footsteps. Smart. Sometimes surviving meant being the quietest, cleverest person in the room. Sometimes it meant waiting for the music to change, and knowing exactly when to waltz.
I took the empty chair beside him and waited until the guard wasn't looking before I spoke.
“How'd it go?” I whispered.
Miguel opened his eyes and looked at me with something that might have been amusement. “Same as always. They poke you, they prod you, they write down everything that makes you valuable or worthless to their customers.”
“Learn anything useful?”
“Security's lighter than it looks. Most of the guards are temps, barely trained, more worried about their paychecks than their jobs. The real muscle stays upstairs with the buyers.”
That was good information, the kind of detail that could matter if the right opportunity presented itself. I filed it away along with everything else I'd observed about the layout, the routines, the weak points in their operation.
“What about the others?” I asked, glancing around the room at the dozen or so people waiting with us.
“Mix of new and returning customers. That girl over there,” Miguel nodded toward a young woman with haunted eyes andfresh bruises on her arms, “this is her second time through. Her previous owner got bored.”
The casual way he said it made my stomach turn. Bored. Like she was a toy that had lost its novelty, a possession that had outlived its usefulness. The fact that someone could buy another person, use them until they got tired of the game, then send them back for resale like a defective appliance was the kind of evil that made my hands clench into fists.
“And him?” I nodded toward a kid who couldn't have been older than eighteen, sitting alone in a corner with his knees pulled up to his chest.
“First timer. Runaway from somewhere in the Midwest. Still thinks someone's coming to save him.”
The kid had the kind of wholesome, innocent look that would appeal to certain types of buyers. Blond hair, blue eyes, the kind of face you'd see in family photos or high school yearbooks. In a few hours, he'd be standing on a stage while men in expensive suits bid on the privilege of destroying that innocence.
“We should warn him,” I said.
“Warn him what? That fairy tales don't come true? That the good guys don't always win? That sometimes the monster gets to keep the princess?” Miguel's voice was bitter, edged with the kind of pain that came from learning those lessons the hard way. “Kid's gonna learn soon enough. Might as well let him keep his hope for a few more hours.”
I wanted to argue, to insist that we had a responsibility to prepare him for what was coming. But Miguel was right. Hope was a luxury in places like this, and maybe it was cruel to take it away before it was absolutely necessary.
A door at the front of the room opened, and Carina stepped through who commanded attention just by breathing.