Will it be an old man who buys me?
A young one—cruel, calculated, with dead eyes and a smile that never reaches them?
Or worse… will it be a group?
At this point, I’m not ruling anything out.
I close my eyes and try to think of something else—anything else.
Boomerang.
I hope Cameron remembers to feed him. Kibble only. No cheese—cheese messes with his stomach. I hope he remembers that.
A wave of hopelessness crashes over me, heavy and cold as I realise that I’ll never cuddle Boomerang again. Never feel him kneading biscuits into my lap, or stabbing me with his claws like he’s trying to love me and maim me at the same time.
Never scold him for knocking over my favourite mug, or find him curled up in the laundry basket like he owns the place.
All those tiny, ordinary moments are just gone. And the worst thing is, I didn’t even know they were the last ones.
A lump rises in my throat, thick and unrelenting. Before I can stop it, tears slip down my cheeks, soaking into the black fabric stretched over my face, gluing it to my skin like a second, suffocating layer.
I can’t afford to cry. Not here.
It’s already hard enough to breathe—every gasp shallow, every inhale laced with panic. Crying only makes it worse. But the tears come anyway.
I wish I’d been smarter.
I wish I’d done more research—learned what really happens to girls who disappear like this.
But instead, I wasted time fantasising about Cameron. About all the filthy, beautiful things he might do to me.
And that’s a mistake I’ll carry to my grave.
There’s a shift beside me.
Movement.
Shadows loom like tall, faceless monsters. From under this hood, they’re nothing but nightmares. And maybe that’s all they are. Nightmares waiting to devour me the second I close my eyes.
If only I were that lucky.
“Grab a few from here,” a voice says, utterly detached. “He’ll want them fresh. The older ones will need disposing.”
Disposing?
My stomach turns.
Is that what happens to the girls who stay down here too long? They’re discarded like spoiled meat—used up, no longer worth the trouble?
Because they’ve had longer to rot?
I feel bile rise in my throat. My whole body clenches, trembling with the effort not to be sick. But the truth is already here, curling around me like vines.
I’m not a person to them.
I’m inventory.
A rough pair of hands seize me, and just like that, I become one of the girls begging—stammering pleas for mercy we know won’t come.
