She counted the seconds in her head, slow and steady.

One. Two. Three—

A sharp gasp cut through the stifling air, followed by sudden, violent rustling.

Someone else had woken up.

No, no, no, Elishia thought desperately. Stay quiet. Please stay quiet.

The girl shifted, then jolted like she’d been electrocuted. “W-What—?! W-Where am I?! What the hell is this?!”

Elishia inwardly flinched, her shoulders tensing involuntarily under the rough sack. This is going to go badly. Very, very badly.

“Help! Somebody help me!” The scream tore from the girl’s throat, echoing off the metal walls like a siren. “HELP!”

Panic laced her voice as she thrashed against her restraints. Something metallic crashed nearby—maybe a bucket, maybe someone’s bound feet hitting a crate. The sound reverberated through the hold like a gunshot.

Idiot, Elishia cursed silently, then immediately felt guilty for the thought. She’s terrified. We’re all terrified. But screaming is going to get us all hurt.

She forced herself to go completely limp again, feigning unconsciousness. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears so loudly she was sure everyone could hear it.

“What the fuck’s going on down here?!” the girl continued screaming. “Let me go! LET ME GO!”

Stop. Please stop. Elishia squeezed her eyes shut under the hood. You’re making it worse for all of us.

Heavy doors banged open above them, the sound like a death knell.

“Shut her up!” a man’s voice barked, fury and irritation mixing into something dangerous.

Thunder on the metal stairs—multiple sets of boots pounding down into their prison. Heavy footsteps stormed across the hold.

“No! NO! Get away from me!” The girl’s screams turned to pure terror.

A scuffle. The sick sound of flesh hitting flesh. Gagged screams, muffled but no less desperate. The sound of rope being jerked tight, cutting off air and voice.

“Dumb bitch!” another man snarled, his voice closer now. “You wanna get tossed overboard? Keep making noise and find out!”

The girl’s screams turned to broken sobs, gasping and wet. Something sharp scraped across the metal floor—a knife, maybe, or a boot heel. Then came the unmistakable sound of a hand connecting with skin. Hard.

Another scream, weaker this time.

They’re hurting her, Elishia realized, her stomach churning. They’re actually hurting her.

The commotion was stirring the others now. Groggy moans filled the room as more girls began to wake—confused, disoriented, and increasingly panicked as reality set in. Coughs. Groans. The rustle of sacks and the clink of restraints. Rising whispers of fear and confusion.

It’s all unraveling, Elishia thought, keeping her body perfectly slack even as every muscle wanted to tense. They’re all waking up now. The element of surprise is gone.

She lay still, forcing her breathing to remain deep and even, her eyes open but useless under the stifling sack. She listened to everything—every word, every sound, every nuance of voice that might tell her something useful about their captors.

Think like you’re studying for an exam, she told herself. Gather information. Find patterns. Look for weaknesses.

And she thought about home.

Trilen Country.

That’s where she was born. Where she’d lived every day of her unremarkable twenty-year life, thinking she understood how the world worked.

Trilen was a mid-tier nation on the Rotta Continent, sandwiched awkwardly between wealthier, fortified countries with advanced technology and professional armies, and the lawless, war-torn zones where chaos reigned supreme and human life had no value.

Trilen was neither. Just… stuck in the middle, like everything else in her life.

The cities pretended to be modern—tall glass buildings reflecting artificially blue skies, digital billboards advertising products most people couldn’t afford, overpriced cafés serving coffee to college students drowning in debt. But underneath the veneer, the cracks were everywhere. Corruption seeped through every system like rot through wood.

I should have seen the signs, she thought bitterly. They were right there.

Her college tuition barely made it through the education system without getting siphoned off by corrupt administrators. Her apartment sat above an illegal gambling den that operated openly because the right palms were being greased. Police showed up only when someone important was paying them to, and even then they moved like they had somewhere better to be.

The headlines had been flashing on her phone screen for months:

“Woman Missing After Night Shift in Palmreed Street—Family Pleads for Information.”

“Spike in Disappearances Across Coastal Regions—Government Officials Promise ‘Ongoing Investigation.'”

“Human Traffickers Targeting Inner Districts—Police Deny Organized Crime Connections.”

She’d scrolled past them all, like everyone else did. Urban legends. Isolated crimes. Tragic but distant news that happened to other people—people who weren’t careful, people who didn’t pay attention, people who made bad choices.

Not people like me, she’d thought. I’m smart. I’m careful. I go to college. I have a plan.

But now?

Now she was gagged, bound, and floating on some nightmare ship in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by girls just like her—girls who’d probably thought they were safe too.

They’re doing this right in the city, she realized, horror sinking into her bones like ice water. They didn’t even try to hide it. They took me off a public street I walk every single night.

If the government was doing anything about it, it clearly wasn’t working. Or worse—they didn’t care enough to make it work. Maybe they were even complicit.

How much does a blind eye cost these days? The cynical thought surprised her with its bitterness.

There were always rumors about the Lower Trilen Districts—the broken urban sprawl near the southern borders where hope went to die. No legitimate jobs, no functioning schools, no services that weren’t corrupt or broken. Just smoke-stained buildings, rusted infrastructure, and the constant stench of desperation.

Murders were common there. Bodies turned up in landfills and abandoned lots with depressing regularity. People vanished and no one asked questions. Everyone assumed it was drug lords settling scores or gang turf wars claiming casualties.

But maybe it was this, she thought, the pieces clicking together in her mind like a horrible puzzle. Maybe it’s been this all along. Maybe they’ve been taking people for years and we just… didn’t want to see it.

And she’d thought she was safe because she lived in the “good” part of the city. Because she went to college. Because she had dreams and plans and a future mapped out.

I was so naive, she realized. I thought education made me untouchable. I thought being smart was enough.

Another girl started crying somewhere across the room, her breathing fast and shallow—hyperventilating. A different voice called out, hoarse and desperate. “Where are we? What’s happening to us?!”

The traffickers’ response was immediate and brutal.

“Quiet down, bitches!”

“You want your faces rearranged too?!”

“Next one who opens her mouth gets the knife!”

More girls whimpered, their terror palpable in the stifling air. The room was fully alive now—with fear, confusion, and the quiet desperation of the utterly powerless.

Elishia remained perfectly still, but her thoughts were loud and sharp as broken glass.

This is real. This is actually happening.

No one is coming to save me. No one even knows I’m gone yet.

The only way I’m getting out of this alive is if I figure out how to save myself.

Elishia counted five full breaths before allowing herself to stir.

Her limbs were cramped and sore, her head pounding from whatever they’d drugged her with, and her neck ached from lying at an uncomfortable angle for who knew how long. But now that the others were awake and the men were down here, she couldn’t maintain the pretense of unconsciousness any longer.

Time to join the nightmare, she thought grimly.

She moved slowly, deliberately, groaning just loudly enough to blend in with the general misery around her. She let her body language communicate disorientation and fear—which wasn’t hard, since both were genuine—while keeping her mind sharp and observant.

Act weak. Look harmless. Don’t give them any reason to see you as a threat.

Somewhere to her left, a girl was sobbing quietly, the sound broken and hopeless. Another was dry heaving, probably from fear and whatever drugs they’d been given. Whispers filled the cramped hold like poisonous smoke—confused, pleading, desperate voices asking questions no one could answer.

“Where are we?”

“How long have we been here?”

“Are we going to die?”

She flexed her fingers experimentally against the zip ties, testing their strength without being obvious about it. The plastic cut into her wrists, already raw from struggling while unconscious. The restraints were tight—professional grade, not something improvised.

They’ve done this before. Many times.

Then someone shouted from above, voice cutting through the chaos like a blade.

“Take the damn sacks off! Let ’em see what they’re dealing with!”

Here we go, Elishia thought, her heart slamming against her ribs. Show time.

Heavy footsteps approached. Rough hands grabbed the top of her sack, and someone yanked the cloth off her head. Harsh white light stabbed into her eyes like needles, and she couldn’t suppress a genuine wince.

She blinked rapidly, forcing her vision to adjust while fighting every instinct that screamed at her to cower.

The space wasn’t a proper cell—it was clearly a ship’s cargo hold, with rusted metal walls and ceiling-mounted ventilation grates. No portholes or windows. Industrial. Functional. Designed to transport things, not people.

But here we are, she thought, taking in her surroundings with forced calm. Things being transported.

Dozens of wooden crates lined one wall, probably legitimate cargo to make the ship look normal to any coast guard inspections. A portable LED floodlight stood in the corner, its clinical white glow making everything look harsh and nightmare-like.

And scattered around her across the metal floor were girls. Too many girls.

She did a quick count—maybe twenty, possibly more. Some looked barely sixteen, others could have been in their early twenties. All bound with zip ties or rope. All terrified.

College age, she realized, studying their faces. They’re targeting college-age girls specifically. Why?

Then came the sound that made her stomach drop—a sharp, wet slap that echoed off the metal walls.

A girl with red hair cried out, her voice breaking.

“Shut your hole!” snapped a tall man with a ragged military-style vest and buzzed hair. His face was scarred, his eyes cold and empty.

He raised his hand again and struck the redhead across the face—harder this time. The girl shrieked, curling in on herself as her hair stuck to her cheeks, matted with tears and snot.

“You deaf, huh?! I said quiet!” His voice carried the kind of casual cruelty that came from practice.

Another man approached—shorter, leaner, with a switchblade in one hand and a smile that didn’t reach his dead eyes.

“Joey,” the second man said calmly, his voice like poisoned honey. “Come on now. We talked about this.”

But Joey was already crouching in front of the redhead, his blade tapping against her tear-stained cheek with gentle, horrible precision.

“You cryin’, sweetheart?” he asked, tilting his head like he was genuinely curious. “Huh? You think mommy and daddy are gonna come save their little princess?”

The redhead trembled, trying to turn away, but he grabbed her jaw with his free hand—tight enough to leave fingerprint bruises.

“Here’s some free advice, sweet thing,” Joey continued, his voice conversational. “Better save those tears for the auction block. Maybe if you cry pretty enough, your new owner’ll go easy on you. But I wouldn’t count on it.”

Auction, Elishia thought, the word hitting her like a physical blow. They’re going to sell us at an actual auction.

The redhead’s eyes went wide with fresh terror. Around the hold, other girls began to understand what they were hearing. Soft sobs turned to choked gasps of horror.

“Listen up real good,” Joey said, pressing the flat of his blade against the girl’s cheek. “You scream again—you so much as sniffle too loud—and I’ll carve out that pretty little tongue and sell you as a mute. Understand?”

The girl nodded frantically, tears streaming down her face.

He’s not bluffing, Elishia realized. He’s done this before. Probably more than once.

“Joey.”

The rough voice cut through the hold like a whip crack, and the entire mood shifted. Even Joey straightened up, his casual cruelty faltering.

A third man emerged from behind the floodlight, his arms folded across a broad chest. He wasn’t the biggest man she’d ever seen, but his presence filled the space like smoke. A cigarette was tucked behind one ear, and when he spoke, his voice wasn’t loud—but it cut through every other sound.

The boss, Elishia understood immediately. This is the one in charge.

“Don’t damage the goods,” he said simply.

Joey clicked his tongue in annoyance but pulled back from the redhead. “Yeah, yeah, Chad. She’s fine. Just scarin’ her a little. They behave better when they know what’s what.”

Chad. She filed the name away along with everything else she was learning. The leader’s name is Chad.

Chad stepped forward, and Elishia felt the air grow heavier with his presence. This wasn’t a man who needed to raise his voice or wave weapons around. Authority radiated from him like heat from a furnace.

“We’re on a schedule,” he said, his eyes scanning the group of bound girls like a farmer appraising livestock. “The buyer’s expecting delivery in two hours. Clean them up. Keep them conscious and responsive. No visible bruises where the clients will be looking.”

Two hours, Elishia thought, her mind racing. Two hours until we reach wherever they’re taking us. Two hours to figure out something—anything.

Joey scowled but pocketed his knife. “Fine. But when some buyer complains his new toy doesn’t know how to behave—”

“That’ll be his problem to solve,” Chad cut him off. “Our job is delivery, not training.”

Then the other men began to move through the hold, and Elishia’s blood ran cold. They were circling the girls like predators, laughing and commenting as they went.

“Hey, look at this one,” one called out, crouching beside a brunette who recoiled from his touch. “Pretty blue eyes. Bet she’ll fetch a premium.”

“This blonde’s got some fight left in her,” another observed, studying a pale girl whose hands were clenched into fists despite the restraints. “Some buyers pay extra for spirit.”

A third man whistled low and appreciative. “College batch, huh? Always the best quality. Fresh faces, educated enough to train properly, but not smart enough to avoid getting caught.”

Don’t react, Elishia ordered herself as bile rose in her throat. Don’t flinch. Don’t cry. Don’t give them any reason to notice you.

She kept her expression carefully blank, forcing herself to observe and analyze instead of drowning in horror. Every detail mattered now. Every word could be the key to survival.

Joey—violent, unstable, easily provoked. Sees this as entertainment.

Chad—cold, professional, focused on profit. Dangerous because he’s smart.

The others—followers. They do what they’re told.

The redhead beside her whimpered softly, wiping her bloody nose against her shoulder. Without thinking, Elishia leaned slightly toward her and whispered from the corner of her mouth, barely audible, “Stay quiet. Don’t fight.”

The girl’s eyes met hers briefly, and she nodded almost imperceptibly.

Chad was watching them now, his cold gaze moving from face to face like he was taking inventory. When his eyes reached Elishia, she forced herself to look down—submissive, defeated, broken.

Let him think I’m not a threat. Let him think I’m just another scared college girl.

“Two hours ’til drop-off,” Chad announced to his men. “Get them ready for inspection. And remember—damaged goods don’t sell for full price.”

Two hours, Elishia repeated to herself. Whatever I’m going to do, it has to happen in the next two hours.

Think, El. Think like your life depends on it.

Because it does.