No one spoke.

Only the sounds of muffled crying filled the cold air—sharp, panicked breathing and the occasional choked sob from one of the other girls being dragged through the docking platform.

Elishia knelt where Mark had dropped her, her sobs reduced to sharp gasps now. The worst had passed—tears had run dry, but her mind was still in pieces.

Get up, she told herself. Think. There has to be a way out. There’s always a way out.

But even as she thought it, she knew it was desperation talking. The logical part of her mind—the part that had gotten her through calculus and organic chemistry—was screaming that this was real, that this was happening, that the statistics for girls like her in situations like this were…

She couldn’t finish the thought.

Then she saw him.

Chad.

Just two meters away. His coat caught in the wind, his back half-turned as he gave curt orders to someone out of sight. His figure stood solid against the metallic backdrop of shipping crates and floodlights.

“—want them cleaned up before display,” he was saying into a phone. “No bruises visible from the front. Back damage is acceptable if it’s below the shoulder line.”

Damage, Elishia thought numbly. He’s talking about damage to us like we’re merchandise that got banged up in shipping.

“Yeah, I know the client prefers them responsive,” Chad continued. “Tell him we’ve got some fighters in this batch. Should be fun to break.”

Responsive. Fighters to break. The words made her stomach clench.

No. No. She whipped her head left and right. Looking. Searching. And when she noticed that he seemed distracted with a heavy expression, a voice in her head whispered. Urged her.

Now.

He’s distracted. Mark isn’t watching. This might be your only chance.

Elishia sniffled, looking up, and slowly—slowly—began to shift her weight backward.

One scoot. Her bound hands scraped over the gravel, the rough surface tearing at her wrists.

Quiet, she thought. Don’t make noise. Just get to those containers. Hide until—

Mark didn’t move.

Another scoot. Her breathing hitched, but she kept going. Mark’s head was still turned. He was looking in Chad’s direction, silent, rigid.

Maybe if I can just—

Third—almost—

A hand snapped out, grabbing her roughly by the collar of her shirt and yanking her upright like she weighed nothing.

“Where do you think you’re going, huh?” Mark growled, now nose to nose with her.

His breath was warm and acrid with frustration. The look in his eyes had changed—gone was the mocking grin. What replaced it was edged, shadowed, irritated.

“You wanna crawl off into the dark like a little rat?” he hissed.

Elishia shook her head frantically, but no words came out. Just another hiccupped gasp.

Please, she thought desperately. Please don’t hurt me. I was just scared. I wasn’t thinking.

“You think you’re clever?” he went on, his voice getting louder. “Try that again, and I swear—when the clients are done, I’ll make sure I’m the one who gets what’s left of you.”

What’s left. The phrase hit her like ice water. What’s left of me after they’re done.

His fingers clutched her jaw, forcing her to look him in the eye.

Look at me, Mark thought, staring into her terrified face. Look at me and remember this feeling. Remember that you’re nothing now. It’s easier that way.

But looking at her—really looking—made something twist in his chest. Her eyes were wide with terror, but behind that terror was something else. Intelligence. The kind of sharp awareness he’d never had the luxury of developing.

She probably had a future, the thought came unbidden. Probably had dreams and plans and people who loved her.

He pushed the thought away violently.

Elishia froze. She felt her knees give under her again.

With a grunt, Mark shoved the gag back into her mouth—rougher this time, not even tying it as neatly. Her muffled cry was drowned in cotton.

She squirmed. Kicked weakly.

But it didn’t matter.

Mark ignored it all, though his hands shook slightly as he secured the gag.

Just do the job, he told himself. Don’t think. Don’t feel. Just do the job.

Without another word, he slung her back over his shoulder—harder this time—like she was just another sack of grain.

The dock behind them faded into metal and shadow as the warehouse doors loomed up ahead.

Inside waited harsh lights.

Chains.

Numbers.

Buyers.

****

The warehouse from the outside had looked like any other industrial space—dull, gray, weather-beaten steel with a sliding cargo door and a few flickering security lights. But inside…

It was different.

The moment Mark carried her past the threshold, Elishia’s senses were assaulted by the harsh glare of overhead LEDs, sterile and unrelenting. The air was cold, recycled, far too clean compared to the grimy dock.

It smells like a hospital, she thought wildly. Like they cleaned everything with bleach to hide the blood.

The floor was smooth concrete, recently washed. Against one side stood a row of white plastic chairs, maybe ten or twelve, facing a raised wooden platform about a meter high, set like a stage. Toward the back, enormous sealed crates and boxes were stacked floor to ceiling—some labeled, some not. They weren’t meant for show.

That’s where they keep us between sales, she realized with growing horror. Those crates. That’s where they store the ones who don’t sell.

And scattered throughout the space were men.

Men in suits, holding tablets, clipboards, or speaking into earpieces. Calm, composed. Buyers or handlers. Professionals. Their indifference was a colder cruelty than fists.

“—expecting the shipment from Hemer next week,” one was saying casually. “Younger batch, I hear. Fresher.”

“Good,” another replied, not looking up from his tablet. “Market’s been asking for variety.”

They’re talking about children, Elishia’s mind reeled. They’re talking about buying and selling children like they’re discussing livestock.

No one looked surprised to see a girl crying over someone’s shoulder.

How many times have they done this? she wondered. How many girls have they dragged through here?

Mark didn’t pause.

He walked straight toward the back of the room, where another wide curtain of plastic flaps separated the main space from a makeshift back room—a cordoned-off storage area turned holding pen.

The smell hit her first.

Sweat. Disinfectant. Fear.

And something else, she realized. Something metallic. Blood.

Inside, nearly two dozen girls were huddled in one large space, some sitting, some collapsed to the floor, their hands still bound, their gags either removed or hanging loose. Many were crying. Others stared blankly at nothing.

God, Elishia thought, taking in the sight. So many of us. So many.

One girl—she couldn’t have been more than sixteen—was rocking back and forth, whispering something over and over. Another sat perfectly still, her eyes completely empty, like she’d gone somewhere else in her mind.

That’s going to be me, Elishia realized. That’s what I’ll look like after… after they’re done with me.

As Mark entered, Joey stepped forward with a grin, a cheap lollipop in his mouth and a marker pen in hand.

“That the last one?” he asked casually, like he was asking about a delivery of office supplies.

“Yeah,” Mark grunted, shifting Elishia off his shoulder and dropping her roughly onto the cold floor.

She grunted, the air knocked from her lungs. The concrete was so cold it burned against her cheek.

Joey crouched next to her, pulling up her sleeve without asking, then uncapped the marker.

“Let’s call you number twenty,” he said, as though naming a puppy. “Lucky, lucky twenty.”

Twenty, she thought numbly. I’m the twentieth girl they’ve processed today. Or this week. Or this month.

With a crude motion, he painted the number 20 on the inside of her upper arm—thick, black, ugly.

It stung slightly. Cold ink on warmer skin.

She stared at the number.

It wasn’t a name.

It was the opposite of one.

It was erasure.

Mark stood nearby, arms crossed, breathing heavy from exertion.

She’s just staring at the number, he observed. Like it’s the first time she’s realized this is real.

He’d seen that look before. On his own face, in the cracked mirror of a gas station bathroom, the first time someone had called him “street trash” and he’d realized they were right.

Joey stood and stretched, nodding. “Not bad. Lot of fresh ones today. Should sell good.”

“Fresh,” he said it like they were talking about produce. Like youth and innocence were just selling points to be advertised.

Then came Chad’s voice, just beyond the curtain.

“They’re here.”

The buyers, Elishia thought, her blood turning to ice. They’re here.

The curtain lifted as he stepped in, hands in his coat pockets. His eyes scanned the room once—taking inventory—then stopped on Joey.

“Buyers are seated,” he said. “We start now. Pull them out by fives. Start with the youngest-looking. Let the sickos spend early.”

Joey popped his lollipop from his mouth, grinning. “Got it.”

The casual enthusiasm in his voice made several of the girls start crying harder.

He turned, gave Mark a solid clap on the shoulder.

“Watch ’em. Start hauling by number. One through five first. Pass them to Vic outside—he’ll take them to the platform.”

Platform, Elishia thought. They’re going to put us on display. Like we’re at an auction.

Which, she realized with growing horror, was exactly what this was.

“What about the ones who don’t sell?” Mark asked quietly.

Joey’s grin widened. “Don’t worry about that. Someone always wants them eventually. Even if we have to lower the price.”

Lower the price, Elishia thought. What happens when the price gets too low? What happens to the girls no one wants to buy?

Then he disappeared behind the curtain, whistling.

Mark now stood in charge of a room full of silent, shaking girls.

And Elishia—Number 20—sat near the back, her eyes locked on the dirty floor, her thoughts spinning again.

I’m number twenty, she thought. In a few minutes, they’re going to drag me onto that platform and sell me to the highest bidder. And after that…

She couldn’t finish the thought.

Instead, she closed her eyes and tried to remember her mother’s voice, tried to hold onto the last piece of herself that these monsters hadn’t touched.

My name is Elishia Melaina, she whispered in her mind. And somehow, some way, I’m going to survive this.

Even if she had to become someone else to do it.