The boat rocked steadily as it cut through the dark water. Hours seemed to pass in that cramped suffocating hold, the salty night air mixing with the stale scent of fear and sweat.
Outside the sky was patchwork of distant stars, but down below, the air was thick and heavy, pressing against my skin like a weight I couldn't shake. Suddenly, the engines slowed and then stopped with a deep rumble. Shouts echoed above deck, sharp commands slicing through the silence.
The heavy metal door creaked open, letting in a rush of cold, salty air that hit my face like a slap. Men in black suits appeared, their faces unreadable, their eyes cold. They pushed us out into the night, herding us like cattle toward the dock. The air was sharp and biting, the smell of salt and diesel hanging now heavier around us, mixed with something darker that made my stomach twist.
Waiting for us at the dock was another large truck, its cargo bed hidden beneath a flapping tarp. Without hesitation, the men forced us inside, crowding us so tight I could barely catch a breath.
The truck growled to life, rumbling away from the dock. City lights faded behind us swallowed by darkness and the occasional flicker of distant streetlamps. I had no idea where we were headed, but a cold not of dread settled deep in my gut. This wasn't rescue – it was something far worse.
When the truck finally stopped, we were dumped in front of a huge, grimy building that looked like it had been abandoned years ago – cracked walls, shattered windows and a rusted gate hanging loosely on its hinges.
Inside, the air was thick with dust and a sour smell I couldn't place – a mix of sweat, fear and rot. Men in black suits with cold, hard eyes herded us inside like cattle.
We were forced into a dimly lit warehouse room, scattered with long metal tables, crates and endless stacks of packages. The place looked like some kind of factory but for what, I quickly understood.
One by one, the women were lined up and a guard clipped plastic wristbands onto our wrists. Each band had a unique number printed in bold black ink, my own number felt like a scar branded onto my skin and that is when I lost my name. I became a number.
These tags weren't just identification, they tracked us, controlled us. Anyone caught trying to remove theirs was punished severely. Then the real work began.
The guards pushed us toward different stations. Some sorted through the crates, others packed boxes or cleaned floors. I was assigned to the packaging line. The job was humiliating, standing there in nothing but skimpy clothes, forced to pack drugs into juice containers.
No pay, just stale food and harsh orders shouted at us by men who ran this hellhole.
Every day, I watched women break. Some tried to run, only to be caught and dragged back, their screams echoing in the cold warehouse walls. This place wasn't just a prison; it was a factory of pain. We were just cogs in its cruel, unrelenting machines.