“Wait!” I lunged for the bars, wrapping my fingers around the cold metal. “Where am I? What is this place?”
They didn’t bother answering. Just the scrape of boots on stone fading into the dark.
I forced myself to look past the bars. In the middle of the room sat a long wooden table, chairs scattered around it. On top were empty bottles and old takeaway boxes. Torches in the walls sparsely lit the area. More cells circled the space, their iron doors gaping like hollow mouths.
It looked like something from the Middle Ages, a dungeon. But not aged.
I pressed my forehead against the bars, heart thumping, wondering where Miki was. Had they dragged her here, too, or was she being taken somewhere else, somewhere worse?
For the first time since stepping onto this island, I understood just how deeply in trouble I was. Whatever this place was, I wasn’t just along for the ride anymore.
26
Miki
The Chopman hadn’t taken his eyes off me once since we started driving. I tried to ignore his stare, but every time I snuck a glance, there he was, eyes locked on me, chest heaving like a bull’s. He kept tapping his finger against his thigh like he was keeping count of something. It was annoying. I couldn’t take it any longer.
“What! Is your eye stuck? Sheesh, take a picture, why don’t you.”
I was in the back of a van on some strange island, separated from my best friend, heading God knows where. Getting stared at should’ve been the least of my worries. Instead, I was irritable when I should’ve been scared. Don’t ask me to explain. Shock, maybe.
The van rolled to a stop, and the doors swung open. The guy who’d been staring the whole ride shuffled closer to help me out.
“Uh, no thanks. I can move on my own,” I said, batting his hand away.
I slid across the van floor and hopped out. Fresh air never tasted so good. But breathing took a back seat when I saw where we were: outside an immaculate villa.
Two stories, white stucco walls glowing faintly under the scattered moonlight, with terra-cotta tiles crowning the roof in shadow. Wide stone steps led up to a balcony lined with wrought iron railings and tall arched windows. Bougainvillea spilled down one side in dark cascades, softening the edges of what screamed Mediterranean beachfront estate. Except this one didn’t just have the beach. It had the entire island.
It was the only house in sight. On all sides, thick trees walled off the horizon, encircling the villa like it was the center of the universe.
The Chopman grunted and pointed toward the entrance.
I climbed the stairs to the massive wooden doors, their dark panels carved with swirling patterns I couldn’t quite make out in the low light.
The Chopman shoved the door open, and the music slammed into me—bright, synthetic, ridiculously upbeat. J-pop. My heart was still trying to recover from the eerie quiet outside, but now it was doing double-time, keeping pace with the bass.
We crossed the foyer, its floor gleaming under recessed lights. The place was spotless, almost hotel-like, except for the bass thumping through the walls. I followed the Chopmen into a large open space that led to a sunken lounge alive with color. Lights spun lazily across the ceiling—pink, green, electric blue—painting everything in waves of neon. A sleek bar glittered along one wall, bottles catching the glow. The furniture had been shoved back, leaving the center wide open, a makeshift stage. And off to the side… was that a DJ?
Four women danced in perfect sync. Short pleated skirts, knee-high socks, platform boots, tied-off blouses. Each with different-colored hair that whipped and glittered under the lights, their movements sharp and practiced. A tripod stood in front of them, a phone clipped in place, recording it all.
I froze at the edge of the pit, staring down like I’d stumbled into another world. My pulse thudded in my ears. Who were they? Where was I?
Then they parted.
A man burst out from behind the dancers, sliding between them with exaggerated hip rolls. He was lip-synching every word with perfection. His legs and arms nailed each move like a professional dancer. One moment he was pointing skyward, the next he was spinning in place, the next he was falling to his knees, clutching his chest like he’d just been shot through the heart.
The dancers barely glanced at him, focused on perfecting their moves. But clearly, he was the star, the one soaking up the imaginary spotlight, as if an arena full of fans were screaming his name.
I glanced at the Chopman, half expecting him to explain what the hell I’d walked into. Instead, he was watching the performance, his massive shoulders bouncing in time with the music, lips quirking like he was enjoying the show.
My stomach flipped. Was I invisible here? Or was this just another part of the strange Leftover world?
27
The music cut out, leaving my ears buzzing in the sudden quiet.
The dancers froze for a beat, then one of them hurried to the phone on the tripod to stop the recording.
