Erika

I crawled into the narrow pipe without knowing where it would lead. The darkness inside was absolute, devouring every flicker of hope, but strangely, it didn't scare me. Fear had long since become my shadow; this void meant only silence.

Minutes stretched into hours in that suffocating tunnel. My chest heaved as the stale, dusty air scraped my throat raw. Sweat dripped down my temple, soaking into the grime that clung to my skin. The metallic pipe pressed hard against my bruised forearms with every crawl forward, and my hands, raw and numb, trembled each time they dragged across the cold surface.

The silence inside was unbearable-broken only by the rasp of my shallow breathing and the occasional hollow clang echoing through the pipe. My lungs screamed for relief; short breaths kept me conscious, but each inhale filled me with dust until my chest ached.

Finally-light.

A faint glimmer seeped in through a crack, weak but undeniable. My pulse quickened. I shifted toward it like a moth, my knife scraping against the bolts of a ventilation cover. My hands shook, my fingers slick with sweat, but desperation lent me strength. After several grueling attempts, the bolts loosened enough to push the cover aside.

I crawled out and lowered myself carefully, blinking as my eyes adjusted to the dimness of a cluttered room. The air smelled faintly of bleach and detergent-it was nothing but a cleaning cabinet. Shelves sagged beneath sprays, detergents, and rags. Yet one thing pulled my attention immediately: the window.

It was large, almost inviting. My body staggered toward it without thought, until curiosity forced me to look through.

And then my legs gave way beneath me.

I wasn't anywhere near the ground. The view beyond that glass belonged to the sky itself-an endless expanse of clouds, speckled with birds gliding past at my level. The world below was invisible, hidden beneath a haze that stretched forever downward. From this dizzying height, the heavens felt closer than the earth itself.

The realization rattled me to my bones. My hands gripped the windowsill for support, trembling. A single scream, I thought, would reach God's ears directly from this altitude.

For a moment, despair whispered, jump, escape it all. But I shook my head violently, dragging myself back into focus. No. Jumping was not an option. I needed to get out-alive.

Tearing my gaze from the abyss beyond the window, I searched the room again, forcing my mind onto survival.

That's when I noticed it: a counter filled with several unmistakable brown glass bottles. One label immediately froze me in place- Chloroform.

My brows furrowed. I knew the name, had heard of it being used in cleaning mixtures, diluted and harmless in small doses. Still, driven by instinct, I picked up the bottle and scanned it closely. My breath caught. This wasn't diluted. This was pure. Real and dangerous.

My chest thudded with adrenaline. I grabbed a rag, poured some of the liquid onto it until it soaked through, and clenched the damp cloth tight in my trembling fist. A weapon. Crude, but effective.

Pressing my ear to the door, I listened. Silence. Slowly, I crept into the hallway beyond.

The corridor was narrow, faintly lit by grand chandeliers at intermittent points, their golden glow bouncing eerily off polished marble. My footsteps, however soft, echoed far too loudly. I forced my body into silence as I pressed on, my heart hammering inside my ribcage.

Then I stepped out into the open terrace.

It was breathtaking. A sprawling expanse, not like any terrace I'd seen, but more like a ballroom stripped of furniture. Ornate pillars rose high, supporting detailed arches. The floor-polished stone-gleamed under the faint moonlight filtering in. The air here was cooler, sharper, cutting deep into my lungs.

And across this majestic stage stood a man.

Broad-shouldered, rigid, dressed in a black uniform that reeked of discipline and power. A bodyguard, no doubt.

Target acquired.

I pressed myself against the shelter of a pillar, sucking in a breath, steadying my nerves. Every muscle ached from crawling, every bruise screamed. But I couldn't afford to falter now.

Carefully, silently, I advanced.

The man didn't notice-his attention fixed elsewhere, his posture taut but distracted. Inch by inch, I slipped behind him until I was close enough to strike. My training guided me. My body moved before my mind caught up-my legs coiled around his waist, arms snapping around his thick neck in one fluid motion.

He jerked violently, surprise etched in every muscle, but before he could retaliate, I pressed the chloroform-soaked rag over his mouth and nose.

The struggle began immediately. His fists slammed against my arms, his body twisting with brute force. Every second felt endless; my arms burned, pain shooting through them. I thought my strength might give out. I was no match for his size, no soldier, just a skinny girl locked in the grip of survival.

But resilience, desperation, and Allen's voice in my memory kept me going.

Slowly, his resistance waned. His frantic thrashing dulled into sluggish movements... until, at last, he slumped against me, unconscious.

My body sagged with exhaustion. Dragging him back toward the cleaning cabinet was torture. His weight nearly toppled me, but inch by inch, I managed to conceal him inside.

Rummaging through his uniform with shaky hands, my fingers struck gold. A gun.

I froze, staring at it. Heavy. Real. For the first time, power sat tangibly in my hand. My pulse thundered with both fear and wild triumph as I clutched it.

Armed now, I pushed back toward the terrace.

But another man was there.

He stood casually, his back to me, speaking-or perhaps dialing-on his phone. My lungs constricted. I ducked behind the same pillar, keeping my presence masked. He called out for his missing subordinate, voice edged with suspicion. My heart rattled in my chest. Did he sense something?

Luck intervened. He turned, distracted, walking toward the elevator. The second his gaze diverted, I ran. My legs nearly collapsed beneath me, but instinct pushed me forward.

I wedged myself between the elevator doors just before they closed, stumbling inside-only to find him there.

Trapped together.

My vision blurred from adrenaline. I raised the gun with shaking hands, pressing the cold barrel against his head. "Take me out of here! Now! You're going to be my cover!" My voice cracked, fear lacing my command.

He turned to face me.

And I faltered.

The man was no ordinary stranger. Handsome didn't even cover it. His presence was magnetic. His clothes whispered wealth, his cologne oozed luxury. His skin flawless, jawline razor-sharp, eyes hazel-green and piercing like a predator. My breath caught as power radiated from him in waves-like a king in human form.

But I tightened my grip. I couldn't afford weakness.

He didn't flinch.

Instead, his eyes scanned me, slowly, deliberately, until they stopped at my neck. At the collar. His lips curved into a smirk.

Mocking. Knowing.

Rage shot through me, and I flicked off the gun's safety. Yet he didn't move. No fear. Not even indifference-just control.

And then, in a blink, he struck.

A sharp movement, too fast to react to. The gun was suddenly gone from my hand, wrenched away, the barrel pressed now against my forehead. My eyes widened, disbelief numbing me.

"You're a bad slave," he whispered, voice dark and velvet-smooth, brushing the weapon across my jawline. "Disobedient... untrained."

The words dripped with twisted amusement. His tilted head, his calm menace-it was clear. He was a monster who wore elegance like a crown.

"YOU BITCH!"

The scream shattered the moment. I whipped my head to find its source. Vincent stormed toward us, fury in every stride, six men trailing behind him like shadows. His face was contorted in rage; I had never seen death glare so close.

But then-he froze.

His steps faltered, his bravado evaporating in an instant as his eyes landed on the man gripping me.

Panic. Terror. He was pale, trembling as if standing before the devil himself.

"Ma...ma...mas...master," Vincent stammered, words tripping from his lips. "I...I've come t-to reclaim my slave."

The "master" didn't even look at him. His gaze pinned me instead-cold, merciless.

"Take her," he commanded flatly.

The words seared my ears. Anger flared through me, hotter than fear. I didn't know who this man was, but in that moment, I hated him more than Vincent.

Vincent bowed instantly, deferential and afraid. He approached me with shaking hands before his rage returned. He grabbed my hair viciously, yanking my head back, and began to drag me from the elevator.

And I realized the truth.

This man-this so-called "master"-was far more terrifying than Vincent could ever hope to be.

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