The trunk opens. A dark mouth waiting to swallow me whole.
Atlas, I think, and I don't know why his name is the one that surfaces.Zero. Bane.
Please. Please find me.
I don't want to die. I don't want to disappear. I take it back—all of it. The shame, the running, the stupid fucking pride that made me think being alone was better than being vulnerable.
Please.
They lower me into the trunk. The lid slams shut, and everything goes black.
I don't know how long I'm out. Minutes. Hours. Time has no meaning in the dark.
Consciousness comes in waves—the rumble of an engine pulling me up, then the drugs dragging me back down. Voices filter through, muffled and distant, speaking words I can't quite make out. The smell of exhaust and old carpet and something chemical that burns my nostrils.
I try to move. My arms won't respond. My legs are numb, folded under me at an awkward angle. My wrists are bound—zip ties, I think, biting into my skin every time the car takes a turn.
Think. Think.
My phone. Where's my phone? Did they take it?
I shift, trying to feel for my pockets, but my body moves like it's underwater. Sluggish. Wrong. Whatever they injected me with is stifling my system, turning my muscles to jelly.
The car slows. Stops.
Doors open. Footsteps crunch on gravel.
The trunk opens, and I'm blinded by a flashlight beam. Hands grab me, haul me out. My legs buckle immediately—I can't stand, can't do anything except hang limply between two sets of arms as they drag me forward.
A building. Concrete walls. Metal doors. The kind of place where no one can hear you scream.
No. No no no—
"Processing's in the back." The smaller man's voice again, somewhere behind me. "Get him cleaned up and catalogued. Full workup—blood type, heat cycle, scent profile. The buyers are going to want documentation."
Buyers.
The word echoes in my skull, horror crashing over me in waves. This isn't random. This isn't a robbery or a kidnapping for ransom. These people traffic omegas. And I just walked straight into their arms.
Because I was too ashamed to stay.
Because I thought being unwanted was worse than being dead.
They drag me down a hallway. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead. I catch glimpses of other doors, other rooms. A woman's voice crying somewhere in the distance. The smell of fear and heat and desperation—other omegas, I realize. Other people like me, trapped in this nightmare.
A door opens. They throw me inside.
I hit the ground hard, shoulder first, the impact jarring through my drugged body. The door slams behind me. A lock engages—heavy, mechanical, final.
I'm alone.
The room is small. Concrete floor, concrete walls, a drain in the center that I don't want to think about. A single bare bulb provides just enough light to see by. No windows. No furniture except a thin mattress in the corner and a bucket that I assume is meant to be a toilet.
I curl in on myself, trying to make my body work, trying to think through the fog in my brain. My wrists are still bound. My phone is gone—I can feel the empty space in my pocket where it should be. No one knows where I am.
No one is coming for me.
The thought hits with devastating clarity. Atlas doesn't know. Zero doesn't know. Bane doesn't know. They're probably still at the house, sleeping or working or doing whatever they do, completely unaware that I snuck out and drove straight into a trap.
