WOUNDED HEART

CHAPTER 5

From the outside, Indigo Quill Publishing was a beacon of elegance and power. Its glass towers touched the sky like ambitions reaching for the stars. The lobby, with its Italian marble floors and golden-hued lighting, buzzed with creativity and corporate chatter. Smiles came easy. Laughter echoed during lunch hours. It was a place where dreams came to life… and sometimes quietly died.

Behind all the success stories and published bestsellers, however, Meera had started to notice something was very, very wrong.

She had told herself this was just about a forgotten planner. But she knew that was a lie.

The truth? She couldn’t stop thinking about Anaya.

Ever since her friend had suddenly "resigned," nothing made sense. Anaya—punctual, passionate, always full of ideas—didn’t just vanish.

She was gone.

No warning. No goodbye.

Meera had called her. Texted. No reply.

Panic twisted in her gut. She went to Anaya’s apartment. It was a modest two-bedroom flat. They had once cooked Maggi together in that kitchen during a weekend project.

But that day, there was a thick lock on the door. Curtains shut. Mail untouched.

Her number was unreachable. Zero update on i********: Her w******p status said "last seen 4 days ago."

Meera had gone to check twice now. She remembered the hollow sound of knocking on the wooden door and the silence that replied.

Something was wrong.

Back at Indigo Quill, Meera had tried to talk to HR. “Hey, just wondering—what happened with Anaya?”

A shrug. “Personal reasons.”

“But she was in the middle of three ongoing projects—”

“People come and go. It’s just business.”

No concern. No interest. No one asked questions. Not even her closest teammates.

It wasn’t just Anaya.

Simran, from design—gone last month. Fatima, from the editorial—“resigned” a week ago. Tanya, who once screamed at her manager in the cafeteria—disappeared two days later.

Gone. Gone. Gone.

Girls left. Always girls.

And no one cared.

Except Meera.

And then something happened that deepened her suspicion.

Late afternoon. She’d stepped out for her usual coffee—a five-minute ritual she clung to more out of routine than need.

When she returned, a plain brown envelope was tucked under her keyboard. No stamps. No labels. No markings.

Her pulse quickened.

Hands unsteady, she opened it.

Inside: a single photograph. Grainy. Black and white. Clearly from a security camera.

Anaya.

She was standing just outside the building’s back entrance. Time-stamped: 08:42 PM.

The night she “resigned.”

Anaya was mid-step, glancing over her shoulder. She looked... scared. Alone.

Meera still remembers that day so clearly. She told Anaya to head home, but Anaya just laughed and said she had a ton of work left and would be late anyway. She kept telling Meera, “It’s fine, just go!” So Meera did. She didn’t think much of it — they both stayed back late all the time. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary… at least, it didn’t feel like it then.

Meera flipped that envelope over with trembling fingers.

On the back, in harsh ink, someone had written three words:

“Ask no more.”

Her heart thundered against her ribs.

She stuffed the photo into her folder, fingers clammy. The edges of her thoughts frayed with fear, but a thread of resolve held fast.

She had to know.

The more she thought about it, the more the doubt grew inside her, festering like a wound that wouldn’t heal. She lay awake at night staring at the ceiling, replaying conversations, scanning texts, trying to piece together some pattern.

Could it be a coincidence? Was it just burnout, bad bosses, or career changes?

Or was it something else? Something darker?

The more she tried to dismiss the thought, the more persistent it became: What if Anaya didn’t leave?

What if she was taken?

Was it possible Anaya was still inside Indigo Quill somewhere—hidden, trapped, or worse?

The idea sounded insane even to her own ears, but something deep in her gut screamed otherwise. That ancient, animal instinct—the one you can't explain, only obey.

Meera didn’t have a plan. She didn’t have proof. Just dread. And a terrible sense of guilt.

So she made a decision.

She would go back to Indigo Quill. Not as an employee following routine. But as a friend chasing the last thread of a missing soul.

That night, Meera did something reckless.

She returned to Indigo Quill Publications.

The building loomed in the quiet night, a glass-and-steel monolith under moonlight. Her scarf was drawn up high over her face, her eyes sharp with unease.

She convinced the sleepy night guard that she left her planner on the third floor. He barely looked up from his phone and let her through. But Meera didn't take the elevator. She walked calmly, turning the corner to the stairwell, glancing over her shoulder before descending into the hidden levels of Indigo Quill.

The hallway to B2 was colder than she remembered.

Basement 2 was marked only with a crooked sign: “B2 – STAFF ONLY”

Her pulse raced.

Slowly, carefully, she pushed it open.

Beyond was a corridor bathed in soft blue lighting, sterile and inhuman. The walls were lined with rooms—some sealed with biometric scanners, others obscured by frosted glass. Through one window, she saw medical monitors and IV bags. This wasn’t a print facility.

This was something else.

Meera kept her steps light. A soft hum filled the space—like machines breathing. She ducked into one of the side rooms, eyes scanning rows of documents and shipment logs. Most files were redacted, with thick black lines hiding any identifiable information. She found invoices, blank delivery notes, and one receipt for “Maintenance: Ventilation - Sub-Level 3”.

Sub-level 3? There’s another basement?

She reached the end of the hallway. There, in the far-right corner, stood a large industrial locker.

There was no keyhole—only a digital panel with a fingerprint scanner and a manual override that required a key.

Frustrated, she tried pulling, pushing, even checking for hidden compartments. Nothing.

Eventually, tired, disappointed, and chilled to the bone, she whispered to herself:

“Maybe I’m wrong… Maybe Anaya really did—”

Click.

Footsteps.

Panic surged through her.

She lunged behind a nearby metal desk stacked with folders and papers, tucking herself into the shadows.

Two men entered the room, dragging something—no, **someone**.

Meera's breath caught in her throat.

It was a girl. Barely seventeen. Naked, bruised, unconscious. Her limbs dangled like a rag doll between them.

The man in the serpent uniform nodded. Meera recognized him. He was the same one who had caught her snooping days ago, telling her to go back to her floor.

The man grunted, “She’s light. This one won’t last more than two sessions.”

The second man laughed darkly. “Doesn’t matter. The buyer only needs clean blood and tight skin.”

Meera’s breath caught in her throat. Her stomach turned violently, and she bit her hand to stop herself from gasping aloud.

The girl cried weakly, too tired to scream.

They stopped right in front of the large locker.

The uniformed man pressed his thumb against the scanner. The panel blinked green. With a mechanical hiss, the locker door slid open—revealing a staircase descending into pitch-black darkness.

No lights. No walls are visible. Just a sickening void.

And the stench.

Rot. Sweat. Decay. Fear.

Meera had never smelled death before, but now… she knew exactly how it smelled.

The girl was tossed over the uniformed man's shoulder like an object. She whimpered. One of her arms hung limply, blood trailing down from her wrist.

The second man lit a flashlight, revealing steel steps covered in stains. Some were fresh. Some… had turned black.

They began descending into the abyss below.

As they disappeared into the locker’s hidden staircase, one of them muttered:

“Seal the door tight. The master will be down in an hour .”

"MASTER"

Meera’s eyes widened. It was real. All of it.

The trafficking. The girls. The cover-ups.

Her legs trembled as tears filled her eyes.

And yet—no one knew.

Meera couldn’t breathe.

She waited. Long after they were gone. Minutes stretched endlessly.

Then she ran.

Ran.

Ran.

She didn’t stop to check the papers again. She didn’t wait to hear if someone followed. She ran past the hallway, and up the stairs, skipping every other step.

Her knees almost buckled on the ground floor. She slammed through the fire exit, burst into the night, and didn’t stop until she was Out of the room. Through the corridor. Past the night guard.

The moment she stepped outside, the city air hit her like a slap. She kept running.

She was out of her breath but she didn't stop.

She ran all the way home.

Her heart was racing. Her lungs burned. She didn’t even realize she was crying. And finally allowed herself to whisper:

“They’re keeping girls… underground…”

Inside her apartment, Meera locked the doors. Drew all the curtains. Turned off the lights and she collapsed to the floor, trembling. Her body shook violently, and her hands refused to steady. The image of that girl—so fragile, so utterly helpless—was burned into her mind.

She screamed.

Wailed.

She punched the ground until her knuckles ached until the pain in her skin matched the storm in her chest.

Her throat constricted like it was closing in on itself.

No air. No release. Just tight, hot pressure behind her eyes.

Tears poured, not in gentle streaks, but in choking sobs that racked through her chest, cruel and relentless. Each cry clawed its way out of her like it had teeth. Like grief itself had decided to punish her body.

She gasped, coughing on her breath, unable to stop.

She wanted to throw up. She wanted to disappear.

Her mind shut down, a static haze of disbelief and horror.

The weight of what she had seen pressed down on her chest like a slab of stone. No amount of air could fill her lungs enough.

And the worst part?

She now knew the truth.

There were girls. Trapped. Abused.

Taken.

Anaya hadn’t walked away.

She hadn’t resigned.

She was stolen.

And Meera had left her behind.

The guilt was sharper than any knife. It split her wide open.

She curled into herself on the cold floor, her cries now nothing more than hoarse, broken breaths.

There was no comfort. No clarity. Just the awful, gut-deep certainty that something monstrous was happening below the surface of everything she thought was safe.

And she was the only one who knew.

That night, she didn’t sleep. She sat curled up in her bed, wrapped in a blanket that didn’t seem to warm her, her hands still trembling. The image of that girl—naked, bruised, disposable—burned itself behind her eyelids every time she blinked.

Even blinking felt dangerous. What if she missed something?

The shadows in her apartment seemed to stretch. Every creak of wood, every groan of pipes, made her flinch.

Her mind wouldn’t stop spinning.

Questions circled her like vultures, sharp-beaked and relentless.

What was beneath the basement?

What kind of place needed IV bags, frosted-glass rooms, and biometric locks?

Who was the Master?

And worse—what if Anaya had made it behind that steel door and never come back out?

What if her laugh, her voice, her fire had already been swallowed by that darkness?

Meera buried her face in her hands. Panic chewed at the edges of her sanity. She wasn’t built for this. She was a writer, not a fighter. Not a hero.

And yet—no one else was looking. No one else cared.

She had no choice.

Then—

Knock.

Her breath froze in her lungs.

She sat up straight, heart thundering. Slowly, she turned toward the front door.

Another knock. Louder. Heavier.

She glanced at the time.

3:41 a.m.

No one should be here.

She stood. Every step toward the door felt like walking into a grave.

She didn’t turn on the lights.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

She peered through the peephole.

Empty hallway.

Then—

A whisper.

Low. Right behind the door.

Like breath against wood.

“Stop.”

Her body locked up.

A soft rustle below. Something slid under the door.

Silence.

Nothing more.

Meera stared for several minutes, too afraid to move.

Finally, she bent down and picked it up.

It was a photograph.

Her.

Taken from a distance. Through her apartment window. Just hours ago. She was sitting on the ground, crying.

She hadn’t even noticed the shutter click.

On the back of the photo, scrawled in smeared black ink:

“You're next.

Run while you still can.”

The room tilted. Her stomach lurched.

She dropped the photo and stumbled back, slamming into the wall. She couldn’t scream. Couldn’t breathe.

Her phone buzzed violently on the bedside table.

Unknown Number.

No message. Just a live video feed.

She tapped it with a shaking thumb.

The screen flickered.

And then showed a live view of her hallway.

From outside her door.

Someone was standing there.

Watching.

Breathing.

Waiting.

The video ended abruptly. The screen went black.

Meera stood in the dark, her pulse ragged, her skin clammy.

She wasn’t paranoid anymore.

She was being watched.

Hunted.

Warned.

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