The air inside the factory had grown heavier in the past few days. Not because of the thick smoke or the stench of rusting iron — but because something far worse had begun.
They were disappearing.
First it was Mila, the sixteen-year-old who hummed lullabies while folding sheets. Then it was Roya, barely fifteen, gone from her bed before sunrise. No screams, no struggle. Just an empty space where she used to sleep. By the time the third girl vanished — Ada, fourteen, soft-spoken and quiet — no one dared to close their eyes at night.
Rumors spread like wildfire, whispered from cracked lips to trembling ears during laundry shifts and food lines.
"They're taking them to the city," someone murmured. "Selling them to rich men. Like property."
"No," another girl hissed. "Auctioning them. Like cattle. Heard it happens in the underground rings."
I sat in the corner, silent. Listening.
Every word sank into my skin like thorns. I stared at the girls around her — thin, bruised, frightened. Children pretending to be women because this island gave them no choice.
"What if we're next?" a girl sobbed behind her, no older than twelve.
I clenched my fists.
They think they can steal us in silence. One by one. Like we won't notice.
Lily leaned in close during a water break. "They're keeping records," she whispered, eyes darting around. "A list. Only under eighteen. Once they're taken, they erase them from the board like they never existed."
My jaw tightened.
First Lilith. Now this.
This island doesn't just destroy bodies. It erases names, histories, identities.
I woke up to the whispering wind, the chill of dawn curling through the broken windowpanes. The murmurs were still fresh from yesterday — whispers about girls vanishing, especially the ones under eighteen. Disappearing without a trace. No punishment. No public example. Just... gone.
Some said they were taken to the city.
Others whispered of auctions.
I rolled off the thin mattress, the ache in my limbs a dull reminder of last night's burial. Lilith was gone. Now the island whispered new warnings. And today, I was assigned to clean the supervisor's office — the room where orders were given and fates sealed.
The hallway was quiet when I arrived. I stepped in with my head low and hands clutching the rag. The office reeked of old cigar smoke and something far more bitter — power. I crouched near the desk, scrubbing quietly, when the door creaked open and two guards walked in.
"Block C girl's next," one said casually, flipping through a file. "Elira. Midnight transfer."
Elira?
My hands paused mid-wipe.
"She'll be easy. Doesn't talk much. Prep her right before the shipment. We've got special buyers this time."
They laughed. The door shut behind them.
My hands trembled as I squeezed the rag, heart hammering against my ribs. Elira was only fourteen. A soft soul with dreams stitched into her silence. I finished the floor in silence, but inside me something cracked wide open.
That night, I didn't sleep.
Instead, I waited. I watched from the shadows, just outside the sleeping quarters. Elira stirred quietly, walking out toward the latrines. Her silhouette was small beneath the moonlight.
As she stepped out of the bathroom, I saw movement behind her.
A tall man in dark clothing.
He pressed a cloth to her face. She thrashed weakly, once. Then her body went limp.
My fists clenched. I moved fast, silent, following as he carried her through an overgrown path behind the eastern factory. It led to a place most of us weren't allowed — the loading docks.
And that's when I saw it.
A ship. A massive cargo vessel docked in the shadows. Guards lined the edges, weapons slung across their backs.
Girls.
Dozens of them.
Some are familiar. Some I'd never seen before.
All being loaded into massive metal containers — silent, sedated, barefoot, trembling.
One by one.
My lungs stopped working.
They weren't being punished.
They were being sold.
Business.
I pressed myself into the trees, memorizing faces. Elira's limp arm. The numbers on the side of the container. The logo etched on the ship's hull. I stayed until the last girl disappeared inside.
Then I slipped back.
They thought they were ghosts in the night.
But I saw them.
And I'd never forget.
Because now I knew — this island wasn't just a prison.
It was a market.
The rumors were correct. Girls were being trafficked—taken like objects, most of them under eighteen.
These monsters always found new ways to reach unimaginable lows. Each time I thought I'd seen the worst this island could offer, it laughed in my face and peeled back another layer of horror.
I crouched low behind a thick, gnarled tree, the bark rough against my back. My breath hitched, coming in shallow, careful gulps as I peeked from the shadows. My eyes locked onto the scene ahead, refusing to blink.
They were being lined up near the edge of the docks—young girls, trembling, dazed, walking like their bodies had been separated from their minds. Their eyes were glassy, half-lidded, as if they couldn't quite see the nightmare they were living. Some of them staggered like drunks, unable to stand without support.
They had been drugged.
My chest tightened. These were the same girls who had disappeared days ago—one by one, without a sound, without a trace. The rumors whispered through laundry steam and cold factory air... they hadn't been rumors at all.
They were the truth. Ugly, vile, bloody truth.
I clenched my hands into fists so tight my nails cut into my palms. What should I do? My mind screamed for answers, but my body stayed frozen. My limbs weighed down by dread and something else—powerlessness.
My gaze shifted. A guard stood nearby, a deep scar dragging down one eye like a blade had once kissed his face, It was Rex. He watched the girls with the boredom of someone who had done this too many times. Beside him, a man in a black suit scrolled through a clipboard, nodding as each girl was accounted for. He was too clean. Too sharp. He didn't belong to this dirt-covered world of chains and screams.
Then recognition hit me like a slap.
I had seen that man before. Once. On a television screen in a store window, back when I was still in the city. Back when I still had a life. He stood beside the president during an inauguration speech, smiling and clapping, shaking hands for the cameras.
He was the president's right-hand man.
A sick, crawling feeling slithered down my spine.
They know.
The government. The people who were supposed to protect us. They didn't just know—we were part of their system. This island wasn't just some off-the-grid criminal sanctuary.
It was organized. Funded. Protected.
My legs shook under me. Every breath I took felt heavier, harder.
I had always held on to a sliver of hope—maybe, just maybe, someone out there would save us. That this place was hidden, secret, forgotten. But now I knew the truth.
There was no rescue coming. No justice waiting.
My stomach churned as another container door slammed shut with a loud clang. The girls inside didn't even flinch. They were too far gone. Drugged into silence. Herded like cattle.
I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood.
I wanted to scream.
To run.
To tear that clipboard out of that bastard's hands and set it on fire.
But I stayed hidden, trembling like a leaf as the cold air whipped through the trees. If I made a single sound, I'd join those girls. Or worse.
Just then, a sharp grip seized my wrist.
I gasped.
A strong hand yanked me from behind the tree, dragging me out of the shadows like I was nothing more than a sack of dirt.
"No—let go!" I thrashed, but the grip only tightened.
I was dragged across the gravel, my bare feet scraping the sharp stones as I fought to stay upright. My heart pounded in my chest as the dock neared—along with the one man I never wanted to see again.
The supervisor.
He stood beside the containers, speaking to the suited man. His face twisted with fury as he turned to me.
"You!" he bellowed. Without warning, his hand cracked across my cheek.
One. Two. Three times.
My vision blurred. My legs collapsed.
Pain bloomed across my face as my skin burned. The air tasted like blood and salt. My knees hit the ground hard.
The supervisor roared and slammed the clipboard against Rex back with a loud crack.
"You fucker! Are your guards blind? Why is a maid out of the castle?!" he screamed, voice tearing through the sound of crashing waves and metallic clangs from the containers. The burly guard cowered, lowering his head, but didn't dare speak.
My face throbbed, the aftershock of his earlier slaps still stinging across my cheek. I tried to rise to my feet, but my knees wobbled. Then I felt it— a stare.
I looked up slowly and locked eyes with the man in the suit.
Disgust oozed from his gaze as he examined me like one would a piece of livestock. His eyes were cold, greedy. He wasn't shocked to see me. He was calculating.
"Why aren't you selling her too?" he asked, his voice sickeningly calm as he turned to the supervisor. "She's pretty. We'll get a higher amount for it. She's a virgin, right?"
He said it like I was meat.
Before I could react, he crouched down to my level and grabbed my chin roughly with thick fingers. I could smell his breath—bitter, stale, tainted with cigar smoke and something else... something chemical, artificial. Drugs.
I stiffened but didn't flinch.
I wouldn't give him that satisfaction.
His thumb pressed into my cheek, tilting my face left and right like I was on display. "Hmm," he hummed, as if inspecting a diamond at a pawnshop. "The eyes are defiant. That sells well too."
I clenched my fists so tightly my nails cut into my palms. The urge to spit in his face pulsed through me like lightning. I wanted to claw his eyes out, tear his hand away from my skin, scream.
But I didn't.
Not yet.
I held his stare, forcing him to see that I wasn't afraid. Not of him. Not of this. Let him think I was just another silent girl to be loaded in a box. I wanted him to underestimate me.
"Let her go," the supervisor finally snapped. "She's... under watch."
The man in the suit frowned but dropped his hand, brushing off his fingers like I'd dirtied them. "You're wasting profit."
The supervisor didn't answer. He looked shaken, his hands twitching slightly.
The suited man stood and turned away, already disinterested. But the weight of what just happened pressed down on me like iron chains. I tasted blood on my tongue—I'd bitten down too hard.
I didn't know if I had seconds or minutes before they made up their minds. But one thing was clear—
I had seen too much.
They wouldn't let me walk away.
That was when I heard it.
Footsteps. Heavy. Confident. And then a voice—low, sharp, familiar. It sliced through the air like a whip.
"Take your filthy hands off her."
My stomach twisted.
No.
I knew that voice.
The man in the suit backed off slightly, confused. But I didn't need to look—I already knew. I knew who was walking toward me. I could feel it in my bones. My skin prickled. My breath hitched for the first time that night.
Noah.
I looked up. He was standing at the edge of the dock, rain dripping off the black coat slung over his shoulder. His hands were in his pockets, but his presence was loud—too loud. The same cocky cruelty dressed in silence.
He hadn't changed. Not even a little.
His cold eyes slid over the crowd until they landed on me. And for a second—just one second—I saw something flicker in them. Rage? Possession? I didn't care. My fists clenched by my side.
"Is this how you're running things when I'm gone?" he asked the supervisor without even looking at him. "Touching what doesn't belong to you?"
Belong.
That word made my stomach churn.
The supervisor stuttered. "I-I didn't know she—"
Noah raised a hand. Just one. And everyone went silent.
He walked over, slow. Controlled. Like a predator taking his time. The others stepped back.
And then—he was in front of me.
Those same eyes that once watched me cry in a cell. That same mouth that gave the order to kidnap me. That same man who ruined my life.
He leaned in close, his breath brushing my cheek.
"You're not supposed to be here, Ava."
"And yet," I said, meeting his gaze, "here I am."
Something darkened in his stare.
He didn't like that. Good.
Noah's jaw flexed. He turned to the guard. "Get her back to the castle. Lock her in the east wing. And this time, make sure no one hears her scream."
But before he turned, he looked at me again.
And smiled.
The kind of smile that promised nothing good.
I was the fire under their feet. And soon, I'd be the one smiling.