“I see him.”
Ayla keeps moving.
Then she turns the corner at the end of the platform and disappears out of frame. The first man follows. Then the second.
Gone.
That’s it.
No fight. No scream. No flash of her trying to break free.
Just empty frame and fluorescent light and the blood pounding so hard in my ears it makes the room feel far away.
“What the fuck?” Dimitri mutters.
Pietro is already clicking, pulling up the next camera.
Another angle. Service corridor exit.
Thirty-two seconds later, two men come through carrying a limp body between them.
My body goes cold all at once.
Ayla.
Her head hangs back at a wrong angle. Hair falling loose. Arms dead weight. Boots dragging for one second before one of them readjusts his grip and lifts her higher.
Unconscious.
Not running.
Taken.
The room blurs at the edges. For one second, all I can see is her. Her body hanging there.
Gone boneless.
Gone still.
Something low and vicious tears up my throat.
Not a word. Not a sound I know.
Just something animal and ruined and full of blood.
No one in the room says a fucking thing.
Good.
Because if any of them speak right now, I’m going to put somebody through a wall.
I straighten slowly, every muscle in my body pulled so tight it hurts.
“Again.”
Pietro doesn’t hesitate. He rewinds. I watch the first clip. The men behind her.
The turn.
