Born To Be More

Taken

Raine

Argh, my head is pounding. What the hell happened?

I groan and try to open my eyes. It’s dark—too dark to make out much—but I’m lying flat on the ground. My fingers twitch against what feels like cold, wooden floorboards. I squint, letting my eyes adjust. There’s a pile of cleaning supplies in the corner... brooms, maybe a mop. A storage closet? A basement?

Where the hell am I?

Where are Tiffany and Sam?

I push up, slowly, my hands sliding out to brace myself. The motion sends the room spinning and my stomach lurches.

Shit.

I roll to the side just in time to throw up, my body shaking as I retch.

My arm is damp with sweat—or is that blood? I wipe my forehead, blinking through the haze. That’s when I hear it: a metallic clank. I lift my arm again. A chain. A f*****g chain is cuffed around my wrist, bolted to something out of reach.

Panic claws at my chest.

No. No no no.

Breathe, Raine. Just breathe. Freaking out won’t help you.

Max. Think of Max.

I manage to push myself up onto my knees, my body trembling as I brace against the floor. The room tilts and rolls like a boat in a storm, and my head pounds so viciously it’s like my skull’s trying to crack open.

I blink, squinting against the haze, and follow the chain dragging from my left wrist. It leads across the floor to a wall bracket—heavy-duty and bolted in tight. I use it to help me stand, my legs shaky, my knees weak. Every muscle aches. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.

Lacy always made me watch those damn horror movies. There’s always a girl, always screaming, always running blindly into a trap.

Not me. I’m not screaming. I’m thinking.

Even if my brain feels like mush right now.

I pat down my pockets. No phone. Of course not. I'm still wearing the same clothes I had on the ferry... Did I even get off the ferry? s**t. Focus, Raine. Focus.

The room is small—tight walls, low ceiling, a rank mix of bleach and mildew hanging in the air. Cleaning supplies are stacked haphazardly in the corner. Looks like a janitor’s closet. There’s one door, no windows, and only a sliver of pale light sneaking in from the gap underneath.

I find a crate of half-empty containers and tip them out as quietly as I can, flipping the crate over to sit on. My entire body throbs. Every inch feels battered and bruised. My throat tightens. I want to cry—but I won’t.

I close my eyes.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Again.

Slow. Steady. I can’t fall apart. Not now.

I don’t know where I am.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here.

I close my eyes and try to rewind.

Max. The ferry.

We were on the phone. I remember his voice in my ear as we walked onto the deck. Craig ordered coffee. We sat up front, sipping it. I think I remember feeling nauseous—dizzy, off—but then… blank.

Shit.

I sigh, trying to focus, when the sound of footsteps echoes down the hallway. Sharp. Deliberate. Getting closer.

My body locks up. Instinct takes over.

I drop back to the floor and curl on my side, half-shielding my face, watching the door through lowered lashes.

The lock clicks.

The door creaks open.

Heavy boots step inside.

"You awake, b***h?"

His voice is rough, greasy. I don’t respond.

He kicks my leg, hard. I let out a small hiss, like I’m stirring but not fully conscious. My heart is thundering so loud in my ears, I can barely hear him.

"Pretty little thing… ah, Kiwi b***h. You’re gonna make me a lot of money."

Another kick.

"And I think I’ll enjoy you myself before then. Bit of bonus pay."

He laughs—a sound that makes my stomach twist—and tosses something onto the floor before turning and walking out. The door slams shut, the lock clicks again.

Silence.

Tears stream down my face.

That voice—I know that voice.

Mark.

Of course it’s him. Smug, twisted, and violent. I listen as his footsteps echo down the hallway to my right, then fade into silence.

I force myself to breathe.

I reach out blindly in the dark and find what he threw in— a sandwich and a bottle of water. A sick part of me registers the irony: they plan to keep me alive… at least for a while.

I set the food on the shelf, ignoring the twisting in my stomach. Survival matters more than hunger.

Sliding back onto the upturned crate, I wipe my tears away with the heel of my hand. I won’t give him the satisfaction. I won’t break. Not for him.

The chain gives me limited movement, but enough. I inch along the wall, fingertips tracing every surface I can reach. Any vent, gap, or screw could be a chance. A tool. A weakness.

My hand finds something.

A small toolbox shoved behind a mop bucket—basic janitor gear, the kind we used to keep in the boot of the ute back home. My breath catches.

In New Zealand, we could fix a tractor with a roll of number 8 wire and a bit of stubbornness. If there's a way out of here, I’m going to find it.

I pull out everything I can reach, working by feel and faint outlines. Each item I lay on the shelves, sorting them by shape and weight. I can't read the labels in this dim light, but one bottle reeks like that old school floor polish—half toilet cleaner, half bubblegum. It burns my nose and stirs up memories I don’t have time for.

My chest tightens again. Panic tries to claw its way back in. I sit, pressing my back to the wall, and force myself to breathe. In. Out. Focus.

It helps. Not much, but enough.

I must have drifted off, because when I wake, the faint light from under the door is gone. Total darkness now, thick and quiet.

"Max… please come for me," I whisper, my voice barely audible in the silence.

I grope blindly on the shelf and find a pair of stiff, folded overalls. I tuck them under my head, curling up on the cold floor. I hate how vulnerable this feels, but I need to rest. I need my strength.

If I’m going to survive this, I need to be smart. I need to be ready.

I wake to noise outside. Machinery hums in the distance. A low horn echoes—once, twice. A boat? No, a ship maybe. The blast is louder this time. There are people out there. That's good. That means hope.

Footsteps sound in the hall.

Shit.

I scramble, tossing the overalls back on the shelf, covering the tools I’d pulled out earlier. Then I curl back into the corner of the room, trying to look half-asleep and harmless.

The door slams open. Mark.

My heart pounds, but I stay still.

"Oi, b***h. You hear me? Get the f**k up!" he growls, storming toward me.

He grabs a fistful of my hair, jerking me up until I’m kneeling. My scalp screams, but I don’t flinch. I lift my chin and stare him dead in the eyes.

"You think you’re something, huh?" he sneers, breath foul and face twisted. "You’re nothing. And soon, you’ll be my f*****g toy."

I don’t look away.

He doesn’t like that.

The punch lands like a brick, slamming into my cheek and sending me sprawling to the floor. Before I can recover, his boot crashes into my stomach—once, twice, again. The pain rips through me, white-hot and crushing. I curl in on myself, breath gone, ribs screaming.

But I still don’t cry.

I get back to my knees.

Every breath is a battle. My ribs ache, and fire spreads across my stomach. I clutch the worst of it with one hand and force myself upright, locking eyes with the bastard still standing in front of me.

"What do you want from me?" I rasp, barely holding steady.

Mark smirks like this is all some sick joke. "I'm just a distributor. Someone places an order, I deliver." He laughs.

"So you kidnap and hit girls for money?" I growl.

"No, baby. I kidnap girls for money. I hit you for getting me arrested. When I know you wanted it." He grins wide, sadistic. "Don’t worry, girl. You’ll get my d**k soon enough."

He throws a stale sandwich on the floor and turns to leave. “Here’s your breakfast.”

“f**k you!” I scream at the closed door. His laugh echoes down the hall, lingering like poison in the air.

I collapse back down, gasping, gathering myself slowly. Crawling to the crate, I pull the overalls off the shelf again and dip the cuff into the water bottle, wiping the blood and sweat from my face.

Then—

"Raine, breathe."

My heart leaps. I spin around, eyes wide.

"Who's there?"

"I’m sorry, Raine. I’m here."

The voice is soft, feminine—somewhere between a whisper and a sigh.

I shuffle back into the corner, pressing myself against the wall, scanning the shadows. “Who are you?” I whisper.

"I’m weak, but I’m here. Focus on your pain—breathe through it. Move it out of your body." Her voice strains, like it takes everything in her to speak.

“Who are you?” I ask again, voice cracking.

Nothing.

Silence.

"Hello? Where are you? Can you help me?" My voice breaks. But there’s no reply.

My head drops back against the wall with a soft thud. Jesus. Maybe he did hit me harder than I thought. Or maybe—

I exhale shakily.

I felt her.

I close my eyes and breathe deep, focusing the way she told me. She may be weak, but she’s real.

Shyla is real.

I must’ve passed out again. My eyes flutter open to the dim light filtering under the door. I scan the small room for anything I might’ve missed earlier, but it’s the echo of that voice—her voice—that lingers in my mind.

“Focus on the pain and get it out.”

Well, what the hell do I have to lose?

I draw in a shallow breath, wincing. My stomach screams in protest—raw, burning. I close my eyes and lock onto the pain, centering every thought on it. It’s a bastard of a sensation, but I focus, determined.

I picture the pain as a fireball—blazing, angry—sitting in my core. I imagine it rolling to the side, drawn out by my breath. Slowly. Carefully. Like I’m guiding it with my will.

Sweat beads on my skin. My ribs throb. My jaw clenches as I force the burning ball of pain to move, to shift. I picture it seeping out through my skin—melting away into the cold air.

Tears spill down my cheeks. It hurts like hell... but then—

It eases.

The burn softens. The sharp ache dulls to a throb.

I gasp, shuddering, and breathe deep again.

One breath. Then another.

It worked.

Not completely. Not magic. But something inside me listened—and responded.

I lean my head back against the wall, exhausted but steadier. Eyes closed, I breathe again.

You’re here, Shyla. Aren’t you?

Max, please come find me, I whisper to no one, hugging my arms around my ribs.

It has to be close to lunchtime by now. Mark called that slop he threw at me breakfast, which means I’ve been here at least a night—maybe two. Maybe more. I don’t even know anymore. Everything is a blur of pain, nausea, and fear.

A random memory flashes—sharp, unexpected.

My aunt losing her s**t over me slamming doors. I was thirteen. She was screeching about "respect" while yanking the pins out of the door hinges with a screwdriver, yanking the whole thing off. Said if I couldn’t act right, I didn’t deserve privacy.

Didn’t last long.

Her parade of sleazy boyfriends made sure of that. She had the door back on within a week, especially after the third creep tried brushing past me on purpose in the hallway.

That memory snaps something into place.

Door hinges.

I snap my eyes to the current door. I shuffle closer. My breath hitches.

The hinge pins are on the inside.

Hope flares so bright it makes my eyes sting.

If I can get those pins out—I could remove the door. I could escape.

But then I look down.

The chain. The steel cuff locked around my left wrist, bolted to the wall.

A sob crawls up my throat.

I’m not going anywhere unless I can get out of this damn chain.

I clench my jaw.

Not giving up. Not now. Max is coming—I know he is—but if I can help myself, I will.

Think, Raine. Think.

“Okay, Lacy,” I whisper into the silence, “I need your crazy-ass brain right now.”

I snort, shaking my head. Leave it to me to laugh while chained to a wall.

A ridiculous idea sparks, and I act on it. Hooking my fingers down my shirt, I wriggle off my bra and fish it out through the sleeve. I grab the chisel from the shelf and carefully slice along the seam of one cup, exposing the underwire.

It takes some work, but I finally slide the wire free—thin, flexible metal with just enough give. It’s not much, but it’s something.

I bend it this way and that, testing angles, trying to mimic how a lock pick might work. It’s a long shot—so left field it’s practically orbiting Mars—but it’s all I’ve got.

I will not give up.

Hours pass. I sit on the crate, hunched over the cuff, working the wire. My fingers ache. My back is killing me. The light under the door fades slowly, the sun slipping away like it doesn’t give a damn that I’m still locked in this hellhole.

Click, scrape, nothing.

Then I hear them. Footsteps. Voices. Two this time.

Panic spikes. I scramble to hide the bra and the wire under the shelf. I clutch my stomach, force my face into a grimace, and slump into the corner like I’m too weak to move.

The key rattles in the lock. The door swings open.

“There, see?” Mark’s voice cuts through the quiet like a blade. “Told you the little slut was in here. Enough evidence for you?”

The second figure stays out of view. But the cloying, over-sweet perfume curls through the air like poison. My stomach turns.

Her.

I don’t even need to see her face.

He tosses more water and a sandwich on the floor before slamming the door shut.

“We move tomorrow,” she says sharply. “Be ready. And prepare for the next delivery tonight.”

“Don’t forget what you promised me,” Mark snaps. “Time with her.”

“You’ll get your time,” she replies coldly. “Once we’re in a place that won’t get us caught.”

He growls. “I did my part.”

“You did half your part. Do your job, Mark,” she snaps, “and you’ll be a very rich man. Got it?”

The hallway goes silent again.

They walk off down the hallway, and as soon as the footsteps fade, I reach for the wire again. My hands tremble, tears prickling behind my eyes. But I bite them back.

No. I will not give up. f**k no. I am stronger than this.

I work the wire into the cuff lock with shaking fingers. Minutes feel like hours. I swear under my breath, twist, shift—

Click.

The sound is so soft I almost miss it, but the cuff loosens enough for me to wriggle my wrist free. Pain shoots through the joint, but I don’t care. I’m out.

I snatch the screwdriver from the shelf and head straight for the door hinges. I crouch low and carefully tap the bottom pin upward until it gives. The middle one’s trickier, but I manage. Then I drag the crate over and climb up to get the top hinge. With a soft pop, it comes free in my hand.

It’s working. It’s actually working.

Heart racing, I pull my bra back on and slip into the overalls. They’re rough and smell like bleach, but they’re warm. I shove the screwdriver, chisel, and the bent wire into the oversized pockets and take a steadying breath. Now.

I carefully ease the door forward—just enough to slip through. The hinges creak, but I grit my teeth and make the gap wide enough for my body.

Before stepping through, I grab every cleaning chemical I can reach. I dump one bottle across the floor of the janitor’s closet, soaking it in a mix of sharp, acrid smells. Then I squeeze into the hallway and quietly wedge the door back into place.

I dump more liquid along the hallway floor—to the right—then turn and run left, barefoot and breathless, my heartbeat thundering in my ears.

I hear nothing but the slap of my bare feet on the old wood floor, my breath ragged in the silence. Light spills in faint beams from windows at the end of the hall. I press my back to the wall, moving carefully, every shadow a possible threat. At the end, I peek out.

The city glows in the distance—far away but shining like hope. Between here and there is open, rippling water. A wharf sits closer, the silhouettes of cranes towering like steel giraffes above the harbor. I scan the area. This isn’t just any building—it’s a school, abandoned by the looks of it, but clearly repurposed… probably for exactly what's happening to me now.

My pulse pounds. If I can get outside, I have a chance.

My eyes dart to a metal door just off the corridor. It leads to a stairwell, but it looks ancient and unstable. Cords or wires snake along the wall beside it—maybe old security or a jury-rigged alarm. I don’t have time to guess.

I scan the hallway again and spot a window cracked open.

There. That’s it. That’s my way out.