As the early morning sunlight hit my face, I squinted, my eyes struggling to adjust. Pain ripped through my body—from my legs up to my stomach—making every small movement unbearable. Nausea churned inside me as I realized the full horror: my body was soaked in my own blood.
"Carlos, she's awake," a whisper came from the corner of the room, hidden in shadows.
My heart slammed against my ribs. James? Did he call them? Did he send me back?
"It's about time. Get clean. We're leaving," Carlos said, stepping closer, a knife glinting in his hand.
He moved with precision, lifting my chin to force me off the bed. Every step toward the bathroom was a battle. My legs shook, knees threatening to give out, but his grip was iron, guiding me forward.
I stumbled into the bathroom, gripping the grainy sink to steady my trembling hands. My reflection stared back at me—pale, hollow, drenched in fear and blood.
"Hurry up," Carlos growled, banging on the door. The sound made me jump. I tried to clean my wounds as best I could, trying to numb the pain with each movement, but the cuts were too deep.
"Geez, woman! Get done before James finds us," he snapped again.
Even as frustration and fear clutched at me, a tiny spark of hope flickered. Maybe James wasn't behind this. Maybe this wasn't his doing.
The banging grew more violent, forcing me to move faster. My legs gave out and I tripped over my own feet, slamming into the cold tile floor. I barely caught myself on the sink, my hands pressing against the rough grain to stay upright.
My throat burned, scratchy and raw. Warm tears rolled down my cheeks. "Not now," I whispered to my reflection. Please, not now. I begged the gods above me, though I knew they weren't listening.
Even if my chances of escaping were slim, I had to try. I couldn't give up—not when I might get another chance to save Cara. I had left her behind in that hellhole, and the guilt gnawed at me every single day.
The banging at the door finally stopped. The silence that followed was worse. Then heavy footsteps approached, and the lock clicked open.
We drove off to a secluded area, the city fading behind us. The car rattled over rough roads until it finally stopped. A guard roughly dragged me into a holding cell, locking the bars behind me. Cold metal bars. Damp concrete walls. The faint metallic tang of blood hung in the air.
It was absurd, uncanny, the way these men treated women. Whatever happened to women's rights? To the fight against gender-based violence? Shenanigans. Scumbags. Honestly, there were countless names I could call them.
I'd almost died three times already. I was a survivor. I wasn't giving up now.
The guard returned, unlocking the cell, and shoved me forward, forcing me to my knees. The cold barrel of a gun pressed against my head, the safety off. In a second, I could be dead.
Panic clawed at me. My chest tightened. Air vanished from my lungs. My hands trembled. My vision blurred.
I forced myself to stay awake, to focus. If I closed my eyes now, I might never open them again.
They tied my wrists with rope, restraining me completely. Every movement was checked, every attempt to resist met with more pressure.
What did I do to deserve this?
Is this it? Is this the end?
"You're going to kill her!" a voice roared from close by.
The guard froze for a half second. I could hear the footsteps approaching, heavy, deliberate, each step making my stomach churn.
"Let her go!" the voice screamed, vibrating in my ears.
I tried to lift my head, but my eyes refused to focus. Everything blurred—shapes and shadows dancing in my vision.
"I said, let her go!" the voice thundered again.
Chaos erupted around me—shuffling feet, fists colliding with flesh, bodies slamming into walls. Someone shoved me aside. Pain exploded across my skull as an elbow hit me hard, stars dancing across my vision.
"You're just like your father!" the man restraining me shouted, venom in every word.
I froze. My father?
The words struck harder than any punch. My father had died years ago. How would they even know who my parents were… or who I was?
What does my father have to do with who I am?
No one had spoken of them in years. The last time I'd even heard their names was at their funeral—a blur of black clothes, muffled sobs, and faces I barely remembered.
Why now? Why here? Why did they know something I didn't?
The rope bit into my wrists, the sting sharp and unrelenting. I shook, nausea and fear coiling inside me, and yet, deep down, one thought held firm: I was still alive. And as long as I was, I would survive.
The chaos continued around me. Fists slammed, curses flew, and I felt bodies collide as the intruder tried to free me. I gritted my teeth against the pain in my head and the ache in my side, clinging to consciousness.
I will not give up. I can't.
A voice screamed over the commotion: "Not another step! Let her go!"
I blinked through the haze. I couldn't see clearly, but the sounds of the fight gave me a heartbeat of hope. Somewhere in the mess, someone was on my side.
But the fear didn't leave. Not yet. Not while my father's name echoed through the room and the mystery of their knowledge hung over me like a storm cloud.
Every slam, every shout, every rope that bit into my skin reminded me: they could control my body. They could threaten my life. But they could never, ever break my will.
Somewhere in this nightmare, I would find Cara. And when I did, we would both get out.