“Sixty million.”
The man’s voice above me is flat and clinical, like this is all normal to him.
“Wired?” A second male voice answers from far way, but it’s deeper, calmer, and seemingly younger.
“Already done.”
After that, there’s no more words between them, just the sound of the zip being ripped down roughly on the bag.
Footsteps retreat—heavy boots smacking against the floor until they grow distant. A door opens, then closes with a soft click that might as well be the lid on my coffin.
I lie perfectly still inside the bag, heart hammering hard.
I don’t dare move, and I don’t dare pull this damn blindfold off my face. Because as long as I remain inside this bag, blinded, I can pretend there’s still one thin layer between me and the nightmare waiting for me outside it.
But deep down, in the pit of my empty stomach, I know the truth.
Whatever comes next is going to be far worse than anything I’ve ever imagined.
And no one, absolutely no one, is coming to save me.
ageTwenty-three...
Standing across the vast, dimly lit expanse of my living room, I watch the black duffle bag slumped against the open kitchen’s wall.
The only light comes from the cold glow of spotlights over the island, carving long shadows across marble floors and dark wood.
As always, I wait, but never help. They usually come out on their own accord, eventually.
But this one has now been in there for ten long minutes. I can hear her heavy breathing through the thick fabric—shallow, panicked, but very much alive.
Then, finally, there’s movement and my head tilts to the side.
The opening parts slowly and a slender hand emerges, followed by the rest of her.
Messy black pigtails, damp with sweat, fall over her scrawny shoulders, and her once white dress is ruined—theback soaked through with fresh blood, blooming across thefabric like dark rose petals.
My jaw tightens hard at the sight.
With her back still to me, she awkwardly peels the duct tape away from her lips, a soft hiss escaping before pushing the blindfold up to her forehead using those rope-bound wrists.
Her head turns warily, as if trying to sense the room through blurred vision—to locate the danger she already feels watching her.
I slide my hands deeper into the pockets of my tight black pants and simply observe. My intense, piercing eyes tracing every unsteady twitch of muscle.
Then, she freezes again, listening closely, but the only sound in this house is her own fear.
She cautiously sweeps the room, red eyes wide and glassy, until her gaze finally finds mine over her shoulder.
The moment our gazes lock—her vivid hazel against my cold blue—something inside me stops.
My jaw unhinges, my lips parting, and my eyes widen, just a fraction, before I can stop it.
For the first time since I’ve been doing this, my pulse stutters wildly in my chest.
Terror explodes across her face, and she twists fast, her bloodied back slamming against the wall with a thud. Herchest heaves in frantic gasps as she yanks her knees tight to her chest, trying to make herself as small as possible.
She’s shuddering so hard I can see it from across the room, but I can’t seem to tear my eyes away.
