Present

Moonlight filtered through the grimy trailer windows, casting weak, silvery beams over the cluttered clearing. Oliver crouched lower, peering through the tangled branches of a freshly sprouted bush. His breath was steady, but his pulse pounded in his ears. Leah hadn't told them the whole truth—he was sure of it.

The man standing outside the trailer wasn't just tall and heavy. He was a fucking giant.

From Oliver's vantage point, the man had to be at least six foot three, with a belly so massive it strained against his dirty brown shirt. The guy was easily two hundred and fifty pounds, maybe more. His broad shoulders sloped forward, and even from this distance, Oliver could hear the lazy tune he was whistling.

Then, movement. A shadow peeled away from their hiding spot, slipping through the underbrush. Oliver barely had time to register it before he realized—Mark had left him.

His best friend was already charging forward, baseball bat in hand.

"Mark—" Oliver barely got the name out before the bat whistled through the air.

A sickening crack followed as the wooden bat collided with the back of the man's bald head. The whistling stopped. The guy went down like a felled tree, crumpling onto the moss-covered ground with a heavy thud.

"What the fuck?!" Oliver hissed, breaking into a sprint as he reached the clearing. "You should've waited for me, Mark."

"It's done." Mark nudged the unmoving body with his foot, gripping the bat loosely in his left hand.

"Did you kill him?" Oliver demanded, crouching beside the man.

Mark shrugged. "I don't know."

Oliver exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his dark hair. "Let's just find the girl."

Mark trailed after him, still holding the bat, but before Oliver could take another step, Leah appeared in front of him—her translucent form flickering like a mirage. He sucked in a sharp breath, coming to an abrupt halt.

Mark, who had been glancing over his shoulder at the unconscious man, walked straight into Oliver's back.

"Oli, what the fuck?" Mark muttered, but Oliver wasn't listening.

Leah's voice cut through the night, urgent and forceful. "You need to get the keys from that guy!" she shouted.

Oliver's brows knit together. "Keys?"

"They handcuffed her to the bathtub." Leah pointed to the heap of unconscious flesh on the ground. "He put the keys in his pants."

Mark made a face. "What keys?"

"Apparently," Oliver muttered, "we need to get the keys from his pocket—"

"I'm not touching him," Mark cut in, raising a hand as if Oliver had suggested he eat raw sewage. "I'm all for the rescue, Oli, but the guy's dick is out. I don't wanna touch it by accident."

Oliver shot him a sharp look. "Are you a fucking child, Mark?"

Mark's lips pressed into a tight line. "No. Just a guy with boundaries."

Oliver huffed and turned back to Diesel's prone form. The man lay on his right side, legs slightly spread, hands curled near his stomach. His eyes were closed, and no obvious wounds marred his skin—just the ugly sight of his half-zipped pants and the unfortunate peek of flesh beneath them.

Oliver grimaced. This was not the hero moment he had envisioned. Breathing through his mouth, he bent down, forcing himself to focus. His fingers brushed against the fabric of Diesel's pants, searching. His hand slipped into the pocket, and cold metal met his fingertips.

He clenched the keys in his fist, pulling them free without incident. No accidental dick contact. Success.

The metal jingled softly, and Mark let out a quiet snicker. "Nice work, man. Real professional."

Oliver shot him a glare before tossing the keys into his jeans pocket. With ease, men turned toward the trailer. The two men moved quickly, slipping inside. The second they crossed the threshold, the stench hit them—stale tobacco, cheap beer, and something sour lurking beneath it all.

Oliver's stomach twisted.

The cramped interior was cluttered with mismatched furniture, and heaps of dirty clothes littering the stained carpet. The small living space merged into the kitchen, where an overflowing ashtray sat on the counter beside an open bag of chips. The television buzzed from the far wall, the flickering screen cutting to a loud, obnoxious commercial.

Leah appeared again, urgency in her spectral form. She hovered near a door on the right side of the trailer, her eyes wide with desperation.

"She's in here!" she said, pointing toward the closed door.

Oliver nudged Mark's shoulder, tilting his chin toward it. Without hesitation, they moved. The handle turned easily beneath Oliver's grip. Too easily. The moment the door swung open, their expressions shifted from determination to horror.

Lily.

She was really there, shackled to the bathtub leg, unconscious. Her body was limp, her dark hair a tangled mess, partially obscuring her face. One strand clung to her chapped lips. Her wrists and ankles were marred with raw, red and blue lacerations—bruises and cuts blooming across her pale skin.

But the worst part—her shirt was ruffled up, exposing her bottom half. Oliver's throat closed. His hands clenched into fists. A white-hot rage burned through his chest, clawing at his ribs.

"Get her."

Leah's voice was sharp, cutting through the thick silence in the cramped bathroom. Neither Oliver nor Mark moved. They stood frozen, staring at the fragile, broken girl chained to the rusted bathtub.

Oliver swallowed hard. "Right." His voice came out rougher than he intended.

Stepping forward, he pushed past the shock gripping his chest and knelt on the damp, mildew-stained bath mat. The air was thick with humidity and the sharp tang of iron—blood, sweat, and filth. Lily let out a weak whimper as he gently brushed her tangled hair away from her face.

"Lily—"

"Don't waste time," Leah snapped. Her transparent form flickered beside him, impatience laced in every syllable. "Just take her and get out of here."

Oliver's gaze darted to her. The urgency in her expression sent a fresh wave of dread rolling through his gut.

"Uncuff her. I'm going outside to check if that bastard is still out."

Before Oliver could respond, Leah vanished, leaving nothing but the faintest ripple in the air.

His hands trembled as he fumbled with the ring of keys. His grip was slick with sweat, the metal cold against his skin. His pulse hammered in his ears. There were too many damn keys. His fingers slid over each one until he found a small, promising shape—just as the whole bundle slipped from his grasp.

The sharp clang of metal against tile echoed in the bathroom. Oliver clenched his jaw.

"Mark," he muttered, not looking up, still reaching for the fallen keys. "Get a blanket or something." Silence. He finally glanced up. Mark was still in the doorway, frozen like a statue, his face pale and his eyes unfocused. "Mark!" Oliver barked.

Mark blinked rapidly. "What?"

"Get a blanket while I unlock her hands."

A beat of hesitation. Then, Mark nodded stiffly and turned on his heel, disappearing down the narrow hall. Oliver exhaled sharply and focused on the cuffs biting into Lily's raw wrists.

He slid the small key into the lock and twisted. A satisfying click followed, and the steel restraints snapped open. Lily mumbled something unintelligible, barely a whisper, her head lolling to the side.

"It's okay now," Oliver murmured, his voice softer.

He didn't wait.

Slipping one arm beneath her neck, he cradled her head against his chest while the other slid beneath her knees. She was featherlight in his arms, her body unnaturally limp. He lifted her with ease, making sure to keep her as steady as possible.

By the time he stepped out of the bathroom, Mark was waiting in the kitchen, a faded gray quilt clutched in his hands.

"Cover her," Oliver instructed.

Mark hesitated, his eyes flicking to Lily's exposed legs. He carefully draped the blanket over her, making sure to shield as much of her as possible.

"Maybe I should carry her," Mark offered, voice uncertain.

Oliver shook his head. "I got her. Just grab your bat." He nodded toward the armchair where Mark had left it.

Mark grabbed the bat without argument, gripping it tightly as Oliver turned toward the trailer door.

Outside, the night was still, but unease coiled in Oliver's gut. Leah was nowhere in sight, but he could feel her presence—like a phantom lingering just beyond the edge of his vision. His stomach twisted, warning him that something was off.

Don't think, just move, he thought, adjusting his hold on Lily, Oliver started toward the path leading to Mark's car. His boots crunched against dead leaves, and Mark's hurried footsteps followed close behind.

"Does Leah look like that?" Mark's voice was low, but it still made Oliver jump.

"What?" Oliver snapped.

"I mean... I know you've described her before, but seeing Lily like this—it's different from how I imagined everything." Mark scratched the back of his head, his blond hair a disheveled mess.

Oliver clenched his jaw. "Not the time for this conversation, Mark."

They pushed through the undergrowth, retracing their steps from earlier. The path felt less daunting now, the fear replaced by urgency.

Then—Oliver stopped.

A chill crawled up his spine. "Wait." Mark halted beside him. Oliver turned to his friend, eyes narrowing. "Did you see the guy lying outside?"

Mark frowned, his grip on the bat tightening. Then, slowly, he shook his head. Their gazes locked. The unspoken realization hit them at the same time.

The silence around them shattered as a gunshot ripped through the trees. "Run!" Mark yelled.

Oliver didn't need to be told twice. His legs propelled him forward, his boots pounding against the mossy forest floor. Another gunshot exploded behind him, the deafening blast sending a jolt of adrenaline through his veins.

He hunched his shoulders, instinctively shielding Lily's fragile body as he ran. His arms tightened around her as she let out a weak, trembling whimper. The car. He just needed to get to the damn car.

Another shot rang out. The sound was closer this time. Oliver risked a glance over his shoulder—just in time to see Mark collapse to the ground.