I inhale too quickly. The air tastes like rain and exhaust. Outside. For one wild second, my body wants to run. The thought is stupid. Impossible. I’m barefoot, barely clothed, wearing a collar that can kill me with the press of a button. Men surround me. Vehicles idle nearby. There are floodlights and cameras and probably guns hidden in shadows I can’t see. But still. Outside.
My muscles twitch.
The man behind me says, “Don’t.” Just that. One word. The remote doesn’t need to be shown.
I stop.
They guide me toward a dark van. Not the same one, I don’t think. Maybe it is. Vans all look the same now in the part of my mind where fear stores them. The side door opens. I’m helped in.
No.
Placed. Like cargo. The inside smells like rubber, stale air, and cleaning chemicals. There are benches along the side, straps bolted to the floor, a dim light overhead.
And a girl.
She sits strapped on the opposite bench, knees pressed together, arms wrapped around herself as much as the restraints allow. She wears the same kind of barely there clothing. The same collar. Her eyes lock on mine immediately. Recognition moves between us without words. Not because we know each other. Because we know this. She’s around my age, maybe a little younger, with dark hair tangled around her shoulders and mascara smudged beneath eyes that are too alert to be numb. She looks terrified.
She also looks alive.
That matters.
The men secure me across from her, fastening a strap over my lap and another across my wrists, leaving enough movement to breathe but not enough to do anything useful. The collar stays armed. I know because one of them checks the small device near my throat before stepping back. “Quiet ride,” he says.
The door slides shut. Darkness tightens around us. The engine hums. For a few seconds, neither of us speaks. The van starts moving.
The girl across from me swallows, eyes flicking toward the front partition, then back to me. “What’s your name?” she whispers. Her voice is hoarse.
I hesitate. Not because I don’t want to answer. Because names feel dangerous now. But they also feel necessary. “Olivia.”
She nods, like she’s holding onto it. “Nina.”
Nina.
A real name. A person. Not lot number. Not inventory.
I breathe a little easier, even though nothing has changed. “Are you hurt?” I ask quietly.
Her mouth trembles once before she controls it. “I don’t know.”
I understand that too well.
“That’s okay,” I whisper. “You don’t have to know right now.”
Her eyes fill, but she blinks fast, forcing tears back the same way I did.
“Where did they take you from?” I ask.
“Bar,” she says. “I’m a bartender. I was closing. Took the trash out because the new guy forgot, and I was pissed about it. I remember thinking I was going to yell at him tomorrow.” Her laugh breaks in the middle. “There wasn’t a tomorrow,” she finishes.
My chest aches. “They tried to take me twice before they got me,” I say quietly. “Outside the salon after work.”
Her gaze lifts. “They tried before?”
“Yeah.” My throat tightens. “They failed that night.”
“And then?”
I look down at my bound hands. “They got me when I went shopping.”
