I go still. Before dawn. That matters. Moving soon. Auction window pushed up. Transport.If I can stay aware, if I can remember sounds, turns, smells, anything, maybe I can help. Maybe I can leave pieces behind. Maybe I can make myself more than cargo. My body trembles.
I hate that. Then I stop hating it. Trembling means my body is still fighting.
Let it.
I stare at the ceiling again, at that crack cutting through the plaster, and I start counting breaths. Not because it calms me. Because it gives me a job.
One. Two. Three.
Stay alive.
Four. Five. Six.
Wait for him.
The tears come eventually, silent and hot, sliding into my hairline because I can’t lift a hand to wipe them away. I let them fall.
Crying doesn’t mean I’m broken.
Screaming didn’t mean they won.
Being afraid doesn’t mean I’m done.
I repeat that until it becomes something close to truth. Then I look at Eli again. “I’m going to tell them,” I whisper. “I’m going to tell them you said no.” My voice cracks. I keep going. “I’m going to tell them you were brave.”
The room doesn’t answer. But the words stay. That’s something. Small. Not enough. But something.
The men outside laugh again.
One of them says, “She’ll be easier now.”
I close my eyes. Let my face go slack. Let my breathing slow. Let them think whatever they need to think.Easier. Quiet. Broken. Fine.
Let them believe it.
Because deep down, under the pain and shame and guilt, under the fear so real it feels like a second skin, something hard begins to form. Not hope exactly. Hope feels too soft for this room. This is sharper.
Survival.
I am still alive.
I need to stay that way.
Cobra will come.
And when he does...
I want to be breathing.
I come awake fighting. Not slow. Not groggy.
Violent.
My eyes snap open, and for half a second the room tilts in pieces around me. Ceiling. Wall. Couch. Light too sharp. Air too thick. My body knows something is wrong before my mind catches up, and I’m already moving before the rest of it comes back.
Olivia.
Gone.
