The warehouse was quiet—but not silent.

Muted voices filtered in from the main room. Calm, calculated. The kind of stillness before a transaction, not a rescue. A few girls whimpered softly behind their gags, while others trembled so hard their skin audibly rubbed against the concrete.

Elishia strained to hear past the curtain, her pulse hammering against her eardrums. What are they saying? What’s happening out there?

Then Chad’s voice rang out, clear and commanding, cutting through the atmosphere like a businessman opening a conference.

“Gentlemen,” he said smoothly, “we appreciate your discretion—and your return. What we have for you today is fresh, carefully sourced, and fully compliant with your requests.”

Compliant.

That word alone made bile rise in Elishia’s throat. We’re not compliant. We’re trapped. We’re people, not—

Chad continued, his tone dipping into sales pitch territory, like a host at a grim fashion show. “All standard screening complete. Clean. Untouched. Unspoiled. Some trained for light domestic duty, others left completely raw. We’ll begin the showcase in groups of five. Starting now.”

Showcase. The word echoed in Elishia’s mind like a death sentence. They’re talking about us like we’re merchandise.

A short pause.

Then—

“Haul out one through five!”

Elishia flinched, her whole body jerking against the concrete wall.

Beside the curtain, Mark moved lazily from the wall where he’d been leaning, stretching his arms like it was just another chore. “Alright, ladies,” he drawled, cracking his knuckles. “Showtime.”

There was no smirk this time. Just something colder. Detached. Professional.

He moved quickly. Efficiently.

The first five girls—numbered 1 through 5—cried, kicked, begged, but he grabbed them by the arms like sacks of laundry, dragging and pushing them toward the curtain.

“Please, no, please!” Number Three, a pixy cut brunette, sobbed through her gag, the sound muffled but desperate.

Mark didn’t even look at her face. “Save your breath,” he muttered under his breath. “Won’t change anything.”

One nearly fell, and he righted her without a second thought, his grip neither gentle nor cruel—just mechanical. The protesting was muffled by their gags and the indifference of the operation.

Another man—Vic—stood waiting just outside to receive them.

“Fresh batch coming through,” Mark said, his voice flat as he passed them off without looking back.

“About time,” Vic replied. “Chad’s getting impatient.”

Elishia watched all of it through her lashes, her mind screaming. This is really happening. This is actually happening to us.

Then she turned her ear again toward the main room, desperate to understand what awaited them.

Chad’s voice resumed, louder now as he introduced the first batch.

“Lot One. Prime picks—youthful, healthy, unblemished. Number Two is the youngest. Number Five—fluent in three languages. Take your time, gentlemen.”

They know everything about us, Elishia realized with growing horror. They’ve been watching us, studying us, cataloging us like—

Then came the voices. Multiple men, their tones casual, businesslike.

“Three thousand on Number One.” 

“Five on Four.” 

“Six on Two.” 

“Six-five.” 

“Eight.”

They’re bidding.

It hit Elishia like ice water in her veins.

She was being auctioned. Not metaphorically. Not suggested. Not symbolic.

Literally sold.

No, no, no. Her breath caught. Her chest tightened. Her stomach turned. This can’t be real. People don’t just—they can’t just—

But they could. They were.

She pressed her forehead against her knees, trying not to scream, trying to keep the panic from clawing its way out of her throat.

Breathe. Just breathe. Think. There has to be a way out. There has to be—

Then she felt it.

A burning stare. So intense, it made her skin prickle like electricity.

Slowly—too slowly—she looked up.

Mark.

He was standing back near the entrance to the holding area, arms crossed, half-shrouded in shadow.

But his eyes were on her.

No teasing grin this time. No casual mocking.

His stare was sharp, narrowed, almost angry. Like he was trying to solve a puzzle he didn’t like.

Why is he looking at me like that? Elishia’s heart hammered faster. What did I do? What does he see?

She quickly dropped her gaze, the way a rabbit might lower its head when a wolf passes by, but she could still feel his eyes burning into the top of her head.

The scowl deepened just before he looked away. She felt like a cold knife had just grazed her neck.

Maybe if I make myself smaller, invisible, he’ll forget about me. Maybe—

For a moment, she forgot where she was. All she could think about was that look, that calculating intensity that felt different from his usual indifference.

Then the curtain rustled again.

Chad’s voice came loud and smooth. “Next five. Six through Ten. Let’s keep this pace moving.”

Mark’s boots scraped against the concrete as he moved again.

And Elishia’s number inched ever closer to being called.

****

The next batch was called.

“Six through Ten!” Chad’s voice rang again, steady and bored—as if he were calling out raffle numbers, not living people.

The process repeated.

More struggling. More muffled begging. The same detached rhythm.

“No, please, I have a family!” one girl tried to scream through her gag as Mark reached for her.

“Yeah, well, you’ll have a new one soon enough,” Mark replied coldly, hauling her to her feet. “Move.”

He stepped forward without hesitation. He moved like a machine—grab, drag, pass. His motions didn’t falter, his face didn’t twitch. Even when one of the girls tried to bite him, he barely reacted—just shoved her harder through the curtain.

“Feisty,” he commented to Vic. “Buyer’s gonna love that.”

“Or hate it,” Vic chuckled darkly. “Either way, not our problem.”

The minutes passed like heartbeats in Elishia’s ears.

“Eleven through Fifteen!”

Getting closer. The thought hammered in her skull. They’re getting closer to my number.

It kept going.

Each call etched itself deeper into Elishia’s mind. Each group taken away felt like a countdown ticking just beneath her ribs.

What number am I? Twenty? Thirty? She tried to remember, tried to calculate how much time she had left, but her mind felt like static.

She sat frozen near the back of the holding room, knees drawn in tight to her chest. Her palms were slick with sweat where they pressed against her thighs. The zip tie around her wrists dug deeper with every small twitch.

Think, Elishia. Think. When they call your number, what will you do? Fight? Run? Scream? But even as she thought it, she knew the truth. Nothing. I’ll do nothing, just like all the others.

Her dark gray eyes, streaked faintly with specks of silver, flicked around the room—at the crates, the curtain, the numbers on the girls’ arms, the faces of the others trying not to cry.

We all look the same now, she realized. Scared. Broken. Just numbers.

Her breath came shallowly through her nose. The strands of her raven-black hair, damp with sweat, clung to her cheeks, her lips, her forehead in disarray. She didn’t bother brushing them away.

What’s the point? What’s the point of anything anymore?

Her heart pounded in her throat.

Then came the call.

“Sixteen through Twenty!”

And that’s when Elishia saw her.

The redhead.

One of the girls she’d noticed earlier—freckled face, trembling shoulders. Maybe nineteen. Her hands were bound tightly like the rest, but her eyes… her eyes were searching.

She’s looking for hope, Elishia realized. She still thinks someone might save her.

As Mark reached down to grab her arm and haul her up, the redhead twisted slightly—and in that half-second before being pulled away, she looked straight at Elishia.

Her lips moved behind the gag.

“Help…”

The word never came out loud. But Elishia heard it.

Heard it in her mind. In the silence between every breath.

That fragile, hopeless cry. That quiet plea. The way her eyes didn’t fight anymore—they just begged.

I can’t, Elishia thought desperately, tears burning behind her eyes. I’m just as trapped as you are. I’m just as powerless.

Then she was gone.

Dragged through the curtain like the rest.

Elishia’s chest ached. She pressed her forehead to her knees again, trying to breathe, but the room was getting smaller.

I couldn’t help her. I can’t help anyone. I can’t even help myself.

The weight of that realization settled over her like a burial shroud.

We’re all alone here. Completely, utterly alone.