The command slices through the air, and the girls around me begin to move in unison. No one questions it. No one hesitates. I follow, not because I want to, but because being left behind means being singled out—and I’ve already learned what that leads to.
Safety, if you can call it that, is in numbers.
I don’t pay attention to where we’re going. I just keep my head down and my feet moving, swept along in the current of bare skin and hollow eyes. We stop in front of a tiled room that looks like it was ripped straight from a public swimming pool—communal showers, cracked grout, rust-stained drains. The kind of place that should hold childhood memories. Not this.
The girl from my room is still beside me. She hasn’t said a word, but she stays close, like a shadow, or maybe a shield. She reaches for a bar of soap that’s been passed around so many times it’s barely more than a sliver, then hands it to me without meeting my eyes, and jerks her chin toward my body.
Wash.
It’s not a suggestion.
Around us, girls begin to strip and step under the cold spray. No privacy. No dignity. Just skin and silence. Every girl here is malnourished—ribs like scaffolding, collarbones sharp enough to cut. Some look dazed, like me. New. Brought in last night, maybe even this morning. Others move with mechanical precision, like they’ve done this a hundred times before.
But the girl from my room—she’s the smallest. The youngest. No creases at the corners of her eyes. No sun damage. No signs of a life lived long enough to be here.
She looks like porcelain.
Seventeen, maybe.
A child.
And for a moment, I let myself hope—hope that she’s been spared, that she hasn’t been forced to service the monsters who run this place.
But that hope is a lie.
A hollow, naive little thing that doesn’t belong here.
Because in a place like this, innocence isn’t protected.
It’s sold.
40
Cam
The security guard’s hand tightens around his weapon, his gaze lingering on me a beat too long. He nods toward the thin, fresh scar just above my cheekbone.
“Interesting mark.”
I don’t flinch. “Yeah,” I say coolly, adjusting my cuff. “Amazing what these girls can do when they’re not properly sedated.”
It lands exactly how I want it to—casual, cruel and completely believable. His suspicion fades, replaced by a flicker of amusement. He gives a grunt of approval, the kind men like him mistake for camaraderie, then steps forward to pat me down. Quick, impersonal. He checks my pockets, brushes past the burner phone, then waves me through, allowing me to step into the den.
It’s colder in here, and it’s been decorated to look sleek and expensive. The lighting is low, the air thick with cologne and anticipation. About fifteen men mill around, all dressed in tailored suits like mine, sipping whiskey, checking their watches,murmuring to each other in low voices. Predators in polished shoes.
They’re waiting to be let into the auction room.
There will be more online, no doubt—anonymous bidders hiding behind screens. But these are the ones who like to see the merchandise up close. The ones who want to inspect the girls like livestock before they buy.
I scan the room, keeping my expression neutral. Detached. Interested, but not overeager.
The plan is simple; bid, but don’t win. Blend in. Talk just enough to be remembered, but not questioned. Embed myself deep enough that they start to trust me.
Because the closer I get to them, the closer I get to her.
And I’ll walk through every circle of hell if it means getting Nell back.
A chime sounds—soft and utterly out of place—and the double doors at the far end of the lounge swing open.
