The Wolf In His Bones

If Brooklyn nightlife had a slogan, it would be: mind your business and dance like your GPA isn’t suffering. So when my close friend Evan dragged me to a rooftop party, I didn’t argue too much. “You need a life, babe,” he’d said, flipping his curls. I rolled my eyes, but whatever. Journalism school was draining, and I needed a break. The rooftop was already packed — neon lights, sweaty bodies, cheap perfume, good music. Evan disappeared instantly, yelling something about a “man built like a refrigerator door.” Left alone, I found my rhythm on the dance floor, hips moving, curls bouncing. I didn’t come to flirt. I came to forget the three deadlines I pretended didn’t exist. Then someone bumped into me — a blonde girl with ocean-blue eyes and the kind of smile that convinced you she’d get you into trouble just for fun. “Sorry!” she laughed, grabbing my hand. “It’s fine,” I smirked. “I’m Yelena.” “Lila.” She smiled “ this party is fire” Before I could respond, two guys joined her. Normal-looking university boys, cute jackets, messy hair, definitely not American by their accents. “This is Alexei,” Yelena said, pointing to the dark-haired one. “And Dmitri.” Dmitri saluted dramatically. “Hi.” I raised a brow. “Where you guys from?” I shouted. “Ukraine,” Alexei answered, smooth and casual. We danced together, Yelena shouting jokes over the music, Dmitri spinning her around, Alexei giving me a shy half-smile. They were fun — loud, foreign, chaotic. One-night friends and foreigners at most. What an interesting night. For ten minutes, I forgot everything. Just enjoying the night. It’s been so long I didn’t take time for me that this night just came at the right time. Until the gunshot. A single crack split through the music. Then a second. The DJ cut the track instantly. People screamed, running toward the stairs, knocking drinks over. My stomach dropped. I can be bold sometimes but gunshots? That’ll make anyone’s soul jump out. Yelens’s face went pale. “They found us—” she muttered. Before I could ask who they were, Alexei grabbed both of them. “We need to go. NOW.” They ran. I didn’t even get a chance to process before a hand clamped around my arm. I spun around, ready to curse someone out — and found myself staring up at a wall of muscle in all-black. Not party security. Not police. Something worse. One man pointed at me. “She was with the Ukrainians. Take her.” “Excuse me?” I snapped—then punched him straight in the jaw. He barely flinched. Another guy lunged; I ducked and kicked him hard enough to make him grunt. “Get OFF me!” I yelled. A third man grabbed me around the waist and lifted me off the ground like I was a shopping bag. Oh, absolutely NOT. I thrashed, elbowed, scratched, kicked. Someone cursed in Spanish or Italian, whatever. “This girl’s insane!” He then screamed. “Then stop touching me!” I shouted. But they didn’t. They dragged me down the emergency stairs while I fought like I was being paid for it. My heartbeat roared in my ears, adrenaline burning through my veins. “You’ve got the wrong person!” I yelled. No one answered. Outside, a black van waited. No plates. Dark windows. Kidnapping aesthetic, 10/10 execution. I screamed for help, but chaos filled the street — students running, alarms going off. A hand slapped over my mouth. “Quiet.” I bit him. Hard. He swore and shoved me toward the van. They pushed me inside and slammed the door. My chest tightened but I forced myself to stay calm. Panic wouldn’t help me now. As the van sped off, I tried memorizing street turns, but they drove too fast. Shadows blurred past the windows. My breathing steadied — because if there’s one thing life taught me, it’s that fear doesn’t fix anything. I glared at them. “You’re making a mistake.” Silence. Cold, heavy silence. Then one of them reached for me again — and pulled a bag over my head. My pulse spiked. “HEY—!” A hand shoved me back. “Stay still.” I kicked the van wall. “f**k you!” No response. Only the engine rumbling. Only my heartbeat pounding in my ears. Only the reality sinking in like ice: They thought I was part of that Ukrainian group. I wasn’t going home tonight. I wasn’t getting answers. I wasn’t getting a second chance to run. Fine. Let them think I’m helpless under this bag. Because the moment it comes off? Someone’s going to regret taking me. Deeply. And it won’t be me