Elishia sat perfectly still—legs curled beneath her, wrists bound behind her back, the dull throb of fear humming beneath her skin like a live wire.

The girls around her had all been gagged again after their brief moment of consciousness. Rough cloth strips tied tight enough to leave marks. Some whimpered softly through the fabric, the sound muffled but heartbreaking. A few still sobbed openly, unable to hide their terror anymore. The redhead beside her—the one Joey had slapped—was breathing unevenly, her whole body trembling like a leaf in a storm.

She’s going into shock, Elishia observed with detached clinical precision. Her breathing’s too shallow. She’s not getting enough oxygen.

Elishia’s own breath was steady. Controlled. Too steady, maybe, for someone in her situation.

I should be crying, she thought distantly. I should be screaming and begging and breaking down like the others. Why aren’t I?

She had cried once already, when she first woke up and the reality had hit her like a freight train. But now… the tears were gone. What replaced them was something sharper, heavier. It settled in her stomach like molten lead, burning but somehow strengthening her resolve.

She had always been practical. Even as a child, when other kids threw tantrums, she’d analyzed the situation and found solutions.

What does crying accomplish here? she asked herself. Nothing. It won’t change where I am. It won’t bring help. It won’t make them let me go.

But thinking might.

She needed answers. She needed time. She needed a plan.

Two hours till drop-off. That’s what Chad had said. But how long ago was that?

She tried to count backward, using her heartbeat as a rough metronome.

How long had she been unconscious before waking up? When exactly had they taken her from the alley?

The memories came in fragments: her phone dying, the earbuds falling silent, footsteps echoing off brick walls. The hand over her mouth that tasted like cigarettes and motor oil. The sharp sting of a needle piercing her jacket. Her canvas bag being yanked from her shoulder as her vision went dark.

I left the café at 9:15, she calculated. The walk home takes twenty minutes. They grabbed me around 9:30, maybe 9:35. If I’ve been here at least twenty-four hours—and it feels longer—then we’re probably close to shore by now.

Her body felt dehydrated, her mouth cotton-dry despite the humid sea air. Her joints ached from being in the same position for too long. Her wrists were raw where the zip ties had rubbed against bone.

So if we have two hours left—or less now—we’re approaching a port. Somewhere they feel safe bringing a ship full of kidnapped girls.

Maybe not Trilen’s City. But somewhere.

For a brief, desperate moment, she imagined port authorities boarding the ship. Coast guard officers discovering their cargo hold. Police sirens and rescue crews and—

No, she cut off the fantasy before it could take root. Don’t be naive. Not if they’re this brazen.

If these traffickers had the audacity to snatch college girls off well-lit city streets in Trilen’s central district, then they had connections. Protection. Money changing hands in the right places.

This is organized, she realized. Professional. They’ve done this before, many times, and they’re not worried about getting caught.

She’d read about places like this in her sociology classes—black-market ports where ships could dock without inspection. Auction houses disguised as warehouses or factories. Private estates where the wealthy could indulge their darkest impulses without consequence.

And she knew with bitter certainty that the government wouldn’t lift a finger to help them. They’d brush it off, claim lack of evidence, maybe blame the victims for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Just like they’d ignored the girls who’d gone missing in the Lower Districts. Just like they were ignoring all of them now.

We’re on our own, she acknowledged. Completely and utterly on our own.

Elishia exhaled slowly through her nose, keeping her face carefully neutral. Every second counted now. Every detail mattered. Observe. Learn. Adapt. Survive.

A shadow fell across her field of vision.

She didn’t look up immediately, not wanting to seem too alert or aware.

But then came a voice—drawling, amused, with an undercurrent of something predatory. “Well, well… look at this one.”

Shit. Her stomach dropped, but she kept her expression blank.

Slowly, reluctantly, she raised her eyes.

The man standing over her was younger than the others—mid-twenties, maybe. Not as grizzled or scarred as Chad or Joey. He had tan skin, long crop dark hair, and a wooden toothpick rolling between his lips. His posture was casual, relaxed, but his eyes were sharp and calculating as a hawk’s.

“Name’s Mark,” he said, his grin revealing perfectly white teeth. “You got a name, sweetheart?”

Elishia stared through him, focusing on a point somewhere beyond his left shoulder. Don’t engage. Don’t give him anything to work with.

He waited for a response that didn’t come, then crouched down beside her with fluid grace.

“Aw, don’t be shy now. You’ve been awake longer than the rest, haven’t you? I can see it in those pretty eyes of yours. You’re not like the others—screaming, crying, pissing themselves like scared animals.”

He chuckled and glanced over his shoulder at his companions. “Yo, Chad! This one’s playing it cool. Little poker face over here.”

Several of the men laughed, their voices echoing off the metal walls.

Mark turned back to her, his voice dropping to something more intimate. “So what’s your game, princess? You trying to act tough, or are you really just that cold inside?”

He’s fishing, Elishia realized. Testing me. Trying to get a read on my psychology.

She said nothing, but her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

Mark caught the micro-expression and his grin widened. He reached out with two fingers and touched her cheek, tilting her face toward him with gentle but unmistakable ownership.

“Hey now—look at me when I’m talking to you. You think you’re smarter than us? Think you’re gonna figure some clever way out of this?”

The touch made her skin crawl, but she forced herself to meet his gaze directly. No fear. No submission. No defiance either—just… nothing. A blank wall where her emotions should be.

Mark blinked, momentarily thrown by her complete lack of reaction. Then his smirk returned, but there was something darker behind it now.

“Damn,” he said, loud enough for the others to hear. “Check this out, boys. Girl’s got a death stare that could freeze hell over.”

Another trafficker laughed from across the hold. “Maybe she’s mute. That’d be a shame—buyers usually want some vocal response when they’re training them.”

“Nah,” Mark said, never taking his eyes off Elishia. “She’s not mute. She’s just thinking. Calculating. Plotting. Aren’t you, smart girl?”

His voice carried a note of genuine curiosity mixed with threat. Like a scientist studying an interesting specimen.

“You know what I think?” Mark continued, his grin taking on a cruel edge. “I think you’re one of those college girls who thinks education makes her special. Thinks her degree’s gonna save her somehow. But here’s the thing, princess—your buyer’s gonna love breaking that attitude out of you. Smart girls are always the most fun to train. They fight harder, which means they break prettier.”

Elishia held his gaze for exactly three seconds—long enough to show she wasn’t intimidated, not long enough to seem challenging—then slowly, deliberately looked away. Dismissive. Like he wasn’t worth her attention.

The message was clear: You’re not as interesting as you think you are.

Mark’s jaw tightened. His casual demeanor flickered for just a moment, revealing something uglier underneath.

“This one’s gonna be trouble,” he said, standing abruptly. But his voice carried a note of uncertainty now. “Real trouble.”

Good, Elishia thought as he walked away. Uncertainty means I got under his skin. That’s information I can use.

But even as she congratulated herself on the small psychological victory, she knew it came with a price.

They’d noticed her now.

Too early, she thought grimly. I should have stayed invisible longer. Should have blended in with the others.

But it was too late for regrets.

****

From that moment on, Mark kept glancing her way.

Not constantly—just small, calculated looks when he thought she wouldn’t notice. A flick of his eyes here. A slight turn of his head there. Like he was studying her, trying to figure out what made her tick.

He knows I’m different, she realized. He can sense that I’m not broken yet.

The attention made her skin crawl, but she forced herself to analyze it objectively.

He’s cautious now. I surprised him, and he doesn’t like surprises. That could be useful.

Still, every fiber of her being wanted to shrink away from his scrutiny.

She looked down at her scraped knees, focusing on the physical pain to ground herself. Her wrists throbbed where the zip ties had cut off circulation. She flexed her fingers experimentally, testing for numbness. Still responsive. That was good.

Her mind raced in a thousand directions at once, thoughts spinning like a cyclone.

When we dock, will they take us one by one or all together? How many guards will there be waiting? Will they have weapons? Are we going straight into a building or loading us onto trucks first?

She tried to construct mental flowcharts of possible scenarios, exit strategies, anything that might give her an edge.

Could I make a run for it? No—too many of them, and they know the area. Could I scream for help? But who would hear? And even if someone did, would they care enough to intervene?

What about the other girls? Could I get them to coordinate? No—most of them are too terrified to think straight. And organizing a group escape would be impossible without communication.

The questions multiplied faster than answers, creating a feedback loop of anxiety that threatened to overwhelm her analytical approach.

Focus, she commanded herself. One variable at a time. Don’t try to solve everything at once.

What time is it?

She had no watch—they’d taken everything. Her phone was gone. She studied the shadows cast by the portable floodlight, but they told her nothing useful about the time of day.

How long has it been since Chad said “two hours”? Thirty minutes? An hour?

The uncertainty gnawed at her. Her earlier clarity was starting to blur around the edges, smudged by exhaustion and the constant pressure of Mark’s attention.

I’m losing track, she realized with growing alarm. I need to stay sharp, but I can feel myself starting to fray.

A soft cry echoed from across the hold. One of the younger girls was praying under her breath in what sounded like another language. Another kept whispering “Mom” over and over like a protective mantra.

They’re looking for comfort, Elishia observed. Something familiar to cling to while their world falls apart.

She envied them their faith, their hope that someone or something might still save them. Her own worldview had always been more pragmatic.

The only person who’s going to save me is me. And I’m not even sure I’m capable of that.

Then—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

A fist hammered against the metal bulkhead with deliberate authority.

Every conversation stopped. Every breath caught.

Chad’s voice cut through the sudden silence like a blade—calm, confident, and utterly final.

“We’re five minutes out. Get them ready for inspection.”

The words hit the hold like a physical blow.

Five minutes. Elishia’s pulse spiked, adrenaline flooding her system. It’s happening. Whatever comes next, it’s happening in five minutes.

She couldn’t help herself—her head turned slightly, instinctively seeking… what? Escape routes that didn’t exist? Allies among the terrified girls around her? Some sign that this nightmare might still have a different ending?

That’s when her eyes met his.

Mark was already looking directly at her, his back against the far wall, arms crossed, boots planted wide in a stance that spoke of absolute confidence. When their gazes locked, he didn’t look away or pretend he’d been watching someone else.

Instead, he smiled.

Wide. Too wide. All teeth and no warmth.

It wasn’t amusement. It wasn’t even cruelty, exactly.

It was knowing.

He had seen through her carefully constructed mask. Seen past her blank expressions and controlled breathing to the churning terror underneath. He knew she’d been thinking, planning, desperately searching for some way out of this hell.

And he was enjoying watching her realize that all her intelligence, all her careful observation and analysis, hadn’t been enough.

You’re not as smart as you think you are, his expression seemed to say. You’re just another scared little girl.

Elishia quickly looked away, her jaw clenching so hard her teeth ached.

You’re not ready, she told herself, the admission bitter as poison. You had hours to think of something, and you’re still not ready for what’s coming.

Around her, the other girls had begun to sob again as Chad’s words sank in. The redhead beside her was hyperventilating, making small choking sounds through her gag.

None of us are ready, Elishia realized. And that’s exactly how they want it.

But ready or not, whatever came next was happening in five minutes.

And there was no turning back now.

Think faster, she commanded herself desperately. Five minutes. Find something. Anything.

Because this might be your last chance.