Chapter 3
1630 Words
Aria’s POV
Pain.
A dull, gnawing ache at the base of my skull pulsed in time with my heartbeat. That was my first sensation.
The second—cold. Icy and all-consuming, wrapping around my limbs like a second skin. The chill seeped into my bones, making them feel brittle and foreign. My fingers twitched before my eyes even opened.
When they did, I was met with a ceiling I didn’t recognize.
Gray. Stark. Sterile.
No windows. No familiar cracks in the paint. No posters, no warmth. Just silence.
And then I heard a clink.
The sound cut through the air like a blade and my eyes quickly darted downward.
Chains.
Thick, gleaming metal bound my wrists and ankles. Not tightly. But tightly enough. The cuffs were padded, almost mockingly gentle, as if designed to imply restraint without leaving marks. Like a sick kind of mercy.
I moved again—another clink—and nausea curled in my gut.
I was chained. Caged.
Panic surged like a tidal wave, crashing into every nerve ending. I scrambled to sit up, muscles screaming in protest, but I had to see—had to know where I was. What kind of hell did I wake up in?
The room was bare. A mattress, thin and stained. A metal toilet bolted to the wall. And ahead of me—a towering sheet of glass. Or was it a mirror?
A one-way mirror.
My stomach twisted. Someone could be watching me.
Someone probably was.
A dry sob rattled my chest as I hugged my knees to my chest, my breathing shallow and quick. I pressed a trembling hand to the throbbing spot on my neck. Beneath the pain, something sharp flickered. A memory.
The bookstore. The quiet. The soft shuffle of feet behind me.
The door locks.
The men. Unsmiling. Methodical.
Then—nothing. Black.
Tears welled up unbidden as my whole body shook.
What is this?
Pimps? A trafficking ring? A rich sadist with too much money and not enough morality?
Was I going to die here?
And worse—would anyone even notice?
I wasn’t important. I wasn’t missed. No best friend to rally a search. No family to fight for me. My mom passed away last year, from a silent heart attack in her sleep. And my father… Gone before I turned eleven, like smoke after a fire. No explanation. No goodbye.
Just a hole.
I’d survived a life of forgettable days. I hadn’t expected to end up in a nightmare like this.
But maybe I should have.
I looked down at myself—only a thin cotton camisole and underwear. No shoes. No dignity.
My body shook harder, shame joining the panic.
Then I heard another click. The sound was subtle, but in the silence, it was deafening. My entire body was locked up.
The door creaked open. Metal on metal. Groaning like it, too, I hated what was coming.
A shadow spilled at first, stretching across the floor toward me.
Then he stepped into the room.
And my world narrowed.
He was tall. Easily over six feet. Built like a predator—lean, dangerous, effortless in his movement. He wore tailored black slacks, a fitted shirt the color of midnight, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms inked in dark tattoos.
But his face—
It was the eyes.
Ice blue. So pale they almost looked silver under the harsh lights. Flat. Emotionless.
He didn’t see me.
He dissected me.
His gaze dragged across my form with clinical disinterest, but it lingered just long enough to make my stomach twist. Like he was cataloging weaknesses. Taking inventory.
I shrank back instinctively, dragging the chains with me, the links scraping against the floor.
My back hit the wall. Cold concrete. No escape... At least not for me.
He didn’t speak, he just stood there. Watching.
Seconds stretched into a quiet kind of torture.
My voice was small. “P-please… I don’t… I don’t know why I’m here.”
Nothing.
He didn’t blink. Didn’t twitch.
I hated how silent he was. Hated the way he just looked at me, like I was something beneath glass—a curiosity. Something to be poked. Prodded. Ripped open.
“I work at a bookstore. That’s all. I swear, I don’t know what this is about,” I added, trying everything possible to get him to talk.
Still, he didn't speak.
I then began to cry as intense fear settled even more in my body. They were not loud sobs. Just silent tears streaming down my cheeks.
“I don’t have any family. No one’s going to come for me. If this is about money, I don’t have any. If it’s about my father, I haven’t seen him in years. I don’t—”
He took a step forward.
I whimpered, flinching.
Another step.
The smell hit me first—not cologne, but something colder. Clean, sharp, and metallic. Like steel and smoke and something far more primal. Something is wrong.
He crouched down in front of me and I pressed my back harder against the wall, hoping to somehow disappear into the wall.
Then his hand reached out.
I squeezed my eyes shut, a strangled noise escaping me. “Please,” I whispered. “Don’t…”
His fingers wrapped around my chin.
Cold. Firm. Too calm.
“Open your eyes.”
The voice slid through me like smoke. Low. Smooth. Dangerous. It didn’t need to be loud. It carried. Every syllable was precise, measured like a scalpel.
I shook my head, eyes still shut tight.
His grip tightened—just slightly.
“Now.”
I opened them finally.
He was close now. Too close. I could see the faint scar slicing cleanly through one brow, as if someone had tried to mark him once—and failed. His skin was smooth, impossibly smooth. His lips slightly parted, like he was studying the way I breathed.
My chest shook as my tears spilled even more freely.
“W–what are you going to do to me?” I stammered, each word breaking apart on my tongue.
He tilted his head, watching me like I was a lab rat that had just said something interesting.
"Kill me?" The words felt like lead in my mouth.
“And why would I do that?” he murmured.
I blinked, caught off guard. “I don’t… I don’t know.” Was that not the reason why I was here?
A faint smirk tugged at his lips. “Why would I kill something I just bought?”
The words slapped me.
Bought.
No.
I blinked, heart seizing in my chest. “W-what?”
His lips moved. Not a smile. A flicker. A twitch. Like he was amused by my confusion. “You heard me.”
“You’re lying,” I whispered. “No one buys—people don’t—”
“They do.”
Flat. Unmoved. True.
He rose to his full height, and I shrank again. Because of his height, he easily towered over me, making my anxiety spike.
“And your price wasn’t very high,” he added offhandedly.
It took everything in me not to vomit.
“No. I didn’t—I didn’t sell myself. I didn’t agree with this.”
He turned his head slightly. “Your father did.”
“My—” I choked. “My father’s gone. He left years ago. I haven’t seen him since I was a kid.”
“He didn’t think so.”
The mirror behind him caught his reflection—but his eyes never left me.
“Please.” I hated how I sounded. Small. Broken. “Please let me go. I won’t tell anyone. I swear.”
He stared. “You think this is about secrecy?”
A low hum of amusement undercut the words. Dry. Unforgiving.
My body trembled. “Why me?” I asked, desperate. “Why me?”
“Wrong question,” he murmured.
He turned his back to me, facing the glass again. His posture was relaxed, hands in his pockets like that was all routine. Expected.
He was probably the leader around here, but where exactly am I?
“What’s your name?”
“Aria,” I told him.
He nodded once. “Aria. You’re here now. That’s what matters.”
My throat closed. “What are you going to do to me?”
Silence.
He didn’t answer.
He just stood there, soaking in my panic like it fed something deep inside him. Like he wanted me afraid. Wanted to see it. Feel it.
Then he turned, walking toward the door.
“Wait,” I whispered, panic surging in my chest. Because for one stupid moment, I actually don't want him to leave me alone. “Don’t leave me here. Please—”
He paused. Just for a second.
Then, he said, “We’ll see.”
The door opened and two men entered. They were both dressed in black, faces blank. One was carrying a key ring.
I screamed, scrambling back as far as the chains would let me.
“No! Don’t touch me!”
But they didn’t strike. They didn’t drag me screaming across the floor.
Instead, they knelt. Unlocked the chains from the wall mounts, keeping the cuffs on my wrists and ankles locked in place.
“Wait! Please—where are you taking me? Don’t—don’t—”
One of them gripped my arm. His fingers were gloved.
I thrashed. Bit. Kicked. I scraped his forearm with my nails until I drew blood. But it didn't matter.
They were stone.
My frantic eyes locked on the man in the doorway who was still watching me.
Those ice-pale eyes drilled into me, cold and curious and hungry.
Then—
Darkness. Again.
- Writer
