Five minutes passed.

They didn’t feel like five.

They felt like a lifetime—stretched thin across sobs, prayers, and the shuffle of bound bodies trying not to fall apart.

This isn’t real, Elishia thought, her mind cycling through the same desperate denial it had been clinging to for hours. This can’t be real. People like me don’t just disappear. Someone will notice. Someone will come.

But even as the thoughts formed, she knew they were lies. Who would notice? Her landlord, when the rent came due? The café owner, when she didn’t show up for her next shift? By then, it would be too late. By then, she’d be…

She couldn’t finish the thought.

Then came the movement.

Doors screeched open, the thick metal scraping against rusted hinges. Cold, briny air rushed into the cargo hold, sweeping over the girls like a slap.

“Move it!” one of the men barked. “Get the upper lot first. One by one!”

Boots stomped in—heavy, deliberate, each step echoing like a countdown.

Elishia’s head turned instinctively, just in time to see the first girl being grabbed under the arms and yanked to her feet. She flailed and screamed, a muffled wail through her gag. Her legs folded beneath her. They dragged her anyway.

Please fight, Elishia found herself thinking desperately. Please get away. Please prove this isn’t hopeless.

But the girl disappeared through the cargo doors, and hope went with her.

Another girl was dragged next. Then another.

The noise built—whimpers, soft cries, the occasional curse. More men came in. A few of the girls started pleading outright, voices cracking, begging for their parents, for help, for it to be a mistake.

It wasn’t.

One of the men—tall, scarred across his left cheek—paused near a girl with dark hair. “This one’s feisty,” he said, chuckling as she tried to bite through her gag. “Buyer’s gonna love breaking her in.”

“Save the commentary for later,” another voice snapped. Chad’s voice. “We’re on a timeline.”

Timeline, Elishia thought numbly. Like we’re cargo. Like we’re nothing but items to be moved from point A to point B.

Elishia was at the farthest corner. They were going row by row.

Closer.

Each step they took toward her felt like thunder.

Closer.

Her eyes darted to the others being taken. No one came back. One by one, they vanished through the cargo doors into whatever hell waited beyond.

Think, she told herself frantically. You’re supposed to be smart. Think of something. Anything.

But her mind offered nothing except panic.

Her breathing quickened. She pressed her knees closer to her chest. Her fingers twitched behind her back, testing the bindings that held her wrists. Still tight. Still unforgiving.

Her heart—

Thud. Thud. Thud.

It was all she could hear. Louder than the voices. Louder than the footsteps. Louder than the sound of her own world ending.

And then her mind—

Blanked.

Everything in her chest constricted. Like a cord snapping. Thought unraveled into fragments. Faces flashed through her memory like blinding headlights on a highway.

Her first job at the café, nervous hands shaking as she took her first order.

The professor who told her she had potential, that she could be anything she wanted.

Jennie, handing her leftover pastries with a grin, saying, “You look too skinny, hon. Eat up.”

That broken microwave in her tiny apartment—the one she’d been meaning to fix for months.

Her scholarship letter, still pinned to her refrigerator.

Her parents—no, she barely remembered them. Just a picture. A scent. A smile too far back to hold on to.

Is this real? Is this really happening? Where are they taking us? What are they going to do to us?

Mom, she thought suddenly, desperately. I wish I could remember your voice. I wish you were here to tell me what to do.

She wanted to cry, to scream, to run.

But she just sat there. Eyes wide. Limbs refusing to respond.

Until—

A voice.

Beside her.

Too close.

“Well, well… thought maybe you’d pass out from the tension.”

Mark.

She turned her head, and there he was again. The same stupid grin. As if this were all a game.

He crouched down and leaned into her ear, his breath warm and stale.

“You should’ve kept pretending to be dumb,” he whispered. “Would’ve saved you some attention.”

Her throat tightened. What does that mean? What attention?

“Don’t worry,” he continued, his voice dropping lower. “You’ll still be worth something. Pretty face, sharp mind. A real catch for the right buyer.”

Buyer. The word hit her like a physical blow.

“Some rich bastard’s gonna pay top dollar for you,” Mark said, almost conversationally. “Probably keep you in some fancy house. Hell, you might even like it after a while. I hear they feed the expensive ones real good.”

The casual cruelty in his voice made her stomach turn.

He reached for her arms, grabbing her by the bindings.

She jerked back, her body twitching, legs trying to kick, twist, anything—

But he was stronger.

Much stronger.

“Now, now,” Mark said in mock patience, “none of that. We’re going public soon. Can’t have you flopping around like a dying fish.”

Public. The word sent ice through her veins. Other people are going to see this. Going to watch. Going to do nothing.

Then, without hesitation, he hoisted her up onto his shoulder like a sack of grain.

Her stomach lurched as her head hung down, the room spinning upside-down.

She struggled. Her body writhed. But all she managed was a grunt and a hard blow to her pride.

“Easy there,” he chuckled. “You wanna make it worse for yourself?”

Worse? she thought wildly. How could this possibly get worse?

As he carried her toward the exit, Elishia could hear Chad’s voice somewhere ahead, calm as ever.

“—Client’s already inside the gate. Says the main batch goes to the secondary hall. No branding yet—just display.”

“Elites?” another man asked.

“Nah. Mid-tier buyers. Mix of house and private.”

Display, her mind latched onto the word. They’re going to put us on display. Like animals. Like objects.

The words barely made sense. Elishia’s head spun. Her blood roared.

She caught a glimpse of the port as they crossed the threshold.

Gray. Cold. Industrial. A shipyard closed off from the city. Stacks of shipping containers towered like monuments to human misery. Metal stairs zigzagged up warehouse walls. A large building just ahead, lit from within by sterile white light.

And inside that building—

That’s where it begins, she realized. Whatever happens to me next, it starts in there.

The nightmare had only just begun.

****

The air outside hit colder than Elishia expected.

Salt. Oil. Smoke. Her hair whipped around her upside-down face as Mark hauled her off the ship toward the dock, his grip firm around her thighs. She twisted again, her body jolting slightly with each step he took.

She couldn’t see where they were going anymore—just cold pavement, steel crates, the passing shadows of more girls being dragged ahead.

This is really happening, the thought crashed over her like a wave. This is my life now. This is how I’m going to die.

Then suddenly—

It cracked.

Elishia let out a raw, guttural sob. The first real sound she had made in hours.

And then another.

Her legs kicked. Her bound wrists flailed. Her voice rose into panicked, unfiltered crying.

“Hmmm—! Hm, mmmm, hmmm—!”

Mark staggered, nearly dropping her.

“Son of a—!”

She thrashed harder. Desperate, wild. Like a trapped animal who had finally realized the cage door would never open.

I don’t want to die like this, she thought through the panic. Not as someone’s property. Not as a thing to be used and thrown away.

“Hold still, dammit!”

But she wouldn’t. Her entire body writhed as if trying to tear itself out of reality. She wasn’t calculating anymore. Wasn’t pretending. The dread she had been holding in finally spilled out in full.

“Fucking—stop squirming!” Mark yelled.

He stumbled, caught himself, then cursed violently before setting her down hard on the ground with a shove. Gravel scraped her knees through her jeans. Her breath came in hiccups.

“I said shut up!” he snapped, yanking off her gag.

But Elishia wasn’t listening.

She was sobbing uncontrollably now, tears and spit running down her chin. Her voice cracked as she screamed through it all.

“No—please, no—don’t take me in there, please—”

Mark raised a hand, ready to slap, but paused when she blurted—

“Kill me instead! Just—just kill me now!” she sobbed. “I’d rather die than be sold to—to some old pervert, or drugged-out freak, or some—some rich psycho who wants a pet! Just kill me, you bastard!”

The words poured out of her like a dam breaking. Every fear, every horrible possibility she’d been trying not to think about.

Mark stared down at her, his hand still raised. For a moment, something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe. Or discomfort.

He didn’t expect this, Elishia realized through her tears. He’s not used to us talking back.

Elishia’s mind had gone white with terror and rage.

The cold pavement bit into her knees as her body shook from deep, raw sobs she couldn’t stop. Her lungs seized between each desperate breath, her throat hoarse from screaming into the dockside wind.

Mark stood over her, looking suddenly smaller than he had moments before. His shoulders were tense, lips curled in a grimace.

“Shut the hell up—” he hissed, but she didn’t stop.

Her voice cracked. “Just kill me! I’d rather die—kill me now!”

She couldn’t even see him anymore. Her tears blurred everything into a kaleidoscope of gray concrete and harsh lights.

The other men around the dock stopped to glance, but no one interfered. It wasn’t unusual to them. Just noise. Just another girl breaking down.

But to Mark—it was something.

What the hell? he thought, staring down at her heaving form. She’s completely lost it.

He hadn’t expected this.

She had been the quiet one. The calculating one. The one who watched everything with those sharp eyes, like she was planning something. And now she was completely unraveling in front of him.

Shit, he thought. Chad’s gonna blame me if she’s damaged goods.

He stood stiff for a moment, unsure what to do with the sight. Part of him wanted to just pick her up and keep moving, but something about her screaming made his stomach twist in a way he didn’t like.

It’s just a job, he reminded himself. Just cargo. Don’t think about it.

But he was thinking about it.

He hadn’t handled “goods” before.

Not directly.

This was his first time assigned to actual transport. First time putting hands on one of the girls. Until now, he’d been stuck with the grunt work—carrying boxes, fueling the trucks, sweeping the damn floors of the warehouse. His cut had been small, but it had kept him fed. Three meals a day. A bed that didn’t smell like piss. Even let him rent a tiny apartment near East Stack.

That alone had felt like a miracle.

Before this, I was nothing, he thought, watching Elishia sob into the gravel. Less than nothing.

He had lived under a bridge before this. Literally. East Bridge in the lower district of Troas. No parents—his mother had overdosed when he was twelve, and he’d never known his father. No schooling beyond eighth grade. Nothing but a torn hoodie and a hole in the concrete to crawl into at night.

He used to fight stray dogs and junkies for crusts of bread and wilted leftovers behind diners. Sometimes he won. Sometimes he didn’t, and went to bed with a growling stomach and fresh bruises.

No one ever looked at him.

No one ever cared.

At least someone would care if she disappeared, he found himself thinking, then pushed the thought away. Don’t go there. She’s cargo now. That’s all.

So when he heard from a contact about a “crew that paid,” he didn’t hesitate. He didn’t ask questions. He begged to be let in.

They didn’t make it easy.

Chad and the others beat him to the ground behind a shuttered port building—fists and boots until he bled into the gravel. Baptism, they called it. If he could crawl home after that, he could wear their patch.

He crawled.

I crawled through broken glass and my own blood to get here, he thought. And now this girl wants me to throw it all away because she’s scared?

And now, after months of silence, obedience, and hauling crates, they’d finally handed him one of the girls.

And this is what he got.

Screaming. Thrashing. Crying so broken it echoed in his head and made him think of things he didn’t want to remember.

She sounds like I did, the thought came unbidden. That night under the bridge when Tommy and his crew found me. When they—

No. He wouldn’t think about that.

Mark clicked his tongue, fists clenching at his sides.

He wanted to yell again. To shut her up. To drop her and walk away and pretend this was just another job.

But he didn’t.

He just stood there, while the girl sobbed on her knees like her soul was being torn out, and tried not to remember what it felt like to be completely powerless.

Behind him, Chad’s voice cut through the cold air.

“Problem?”

Mark straightened immediately, shoulders snapping into place. The fear of disappointing Chad—of losing everything he’d worked for—overrode everything else.

“Nah. Just… got one of the dramatic ones.”

Chad’s boots crunched closer, each step deliberate and measured. He was the kind of man who never hurried, never showed emotion. Mark had seen him break a man’s arm with the same expression he wore while drinking his morning coffee.

He gave Elishia a brief glance—nothing more than he’d give a broken piece of equipment—and turned back toward the warehouse.

“She damaged?”

“No.”

“Then get her inside.”

Chad was already turning away, dismissing them both from his thoughts.