Damaged Love

The gentle breeze of California swept through Elara’s dark curls as she pushed through the bustling crowd, one hand tightly gripping a lukewarm cup of coffee, the other clutched around her camera. She maneuvered through the human traffic with determination, her steps quick and focused. Today’s mission was serious—she was headed for a stakeout at a local college campus where a string of brutal murders had left the town on edge. Her boss had given her an ultimatum: Don’t come back unless you have something worthy of this week’s headline. As she adjusted the camera strap on her shoulder, her bag vibrated wildly. Her phone was ringing again. s**t, she muttered under her breath, fumbling with the zipper. In her struggle, the lid on her coffee loosened and the dark liquid spilled down the front of her shirt. Frustrated, she veered off the main road and took a right turn toward her boyfriend’s apartment—it was just a block away from the school. She needed to change, gather herself, and then head back to the stakeout. The phone kept ringing. She finally managed to answer it, pressing the phone to her ear. “Hey, bestie!” came Victoria’s cheerful voice. Elara rolled her eyes slightly at the term. The label bestie never really sat well with her. Victoria was more of a distant companion these days. Born into wealth and privilege, she had never worked a day in her life. Her days were filled with exotic vacations, influencer deals, and luxury brand promotions. Elara had often tuned in to Victoria’s i********: Lives where she raved about designer bags, expensive shoes, or her latest brand endorsement. The identity of her boyfriend was supposedly a mystery, but she frequently posted pictures that revealed too much—a selfie in his car, lounging in his T-shirt, or glimpses of his house. For someone who claimed to be keeping him secret until the engagement, Victoria wasn’t exactly careful. “You’re not at the office,” Victoria said, more a statement than a question. “I’m on a stakeout,” Elara replied. “On my way to Adam’s apartment to change.” “Oh... uhmm, you’ll fill me in later.” Victoria’s voice was light, distracted. Elara knew she wouldn’t ask again—Victoria was too busy with her curated life. “Anyway, I wanted to ask if you’d come on a trip with me. I’ll give you four days to think about it. It’s this weekend. Consider it a vacation—we haven’t seen each other in forever! Anyway, I gotta go. I have a modeling session. Talk later. Kiss kiss!” The call ended just as abruptly as it started. Elara groaned. Coffee still soaked her shirt, and now her annoyance had reached its peak. Victoria always assumed Elara had the time for her impulsive plans. This so-called little trip would probably include private jets and lavish parties. Nothing was little in Victoria’s world. Finally reaching Adam’s apartment—her boyfriend and a lecturer at the college—she paused. She had forgotten to call ahead. It had been months, maybe even a year, since she last visited his place. They usually met at hers—more convenient, closer to her office. She pulled out a spare key from her pocket. She had thought she lost it until it turned up under her bed while searching for her portfolio days ago. Unlocking the door, she stepped inside and closed it quietly behind her. The apartment smelled the same—clean, faintly musky, familiar. She dropped her bag and camera on the couch and made her way to the bedroom, unbuttoning her shirt as she walked. Inside his wardrobe, she grabbed a soft sweatshirt and slipped it on. Before leaving, something compelled her to take a quick look around. It had been so long. She paused in front of a tall bookshelf against the bedroom wall. It hadn’t been there before. Curious, she skimmed through the books, pulling out one or two. Something felt… off. She gave the shelf a slight push—and to her shock, it budged. Behind it, a narrow gap revealed a hidden room. Darkness oozed from within. She turned on her phone’s flashlight, her steps cautious as she entered. The stench hit her instantly—foul, heavy, metallic. She gagged, covering her nose. As she moved further in, her foot brushed something soft and cold. She looked down, directing her light. A scream tore from her throat. It was a severed hand—small, delicate, unmistakably female. Terror gripped her chest. She stumbled back, gasping for air. Her stomach churned violently and she vomited, knees shaking beneath her. Adam. The man she had been dating. The man she trusted. He’s the killer. The realization slammed into her. Her vision blurred, her breath hitched. Every muscle in her body screamed for her to run, but her instincts as a journalist kicked in. She had to document this. Still trembling, she picked up her camera and began filming. Her hands shook as she captured every horrific detail—the bloodstains, the chains, the horror. Then she heard it. A noise—metal clinking—from the left side of the room. Turning, her light caught movement. Cages. Inside them, five girls—barely conscious, chained. Two of them were banging weakly against the bars, desperate. One girl sat limp, her energy gone. The others were bruised, sobbing. Elara’s camera slipped from her grasp and hit the ground. “Oh my God,” she whispered. She raised her phone and recorded again, sending a quick clip to her boss. “Did he do this to you?” she asked, voice cracking. “Do you know where the key is?” She frantically searched the room, but the girls only whimpered, their eyes wide with fear. “I’ll be back—I promise,” she whispered, stepping away to search Adam’s bedroom. Just as she turned, a heavy blow struck her from behind. Pain exploded through her skull. Her world spun. Everything went black.