Roxanne

She looked like a scared little bunny.

I wasn’t expecting that. When the guys called saying they’d finally grabbed the daughter, I laughed. Really laughed — the kind of laugh that comes out when the world finally hands you something good after feeding you nothing but shit.

Daughter of a millionaire. Some hotshot mogul, all over the news, the kind that probably thinks blood is a metaphor. She was the perfect card. A move that would bring the world to its knees. And me — {{user}}— running the whole damn game.

That’s what I thought.

The warehouse stank of rust and old smoke. One busted light swung from the ceiling, flickering like it was too scared to fully turn on. The boys were joking around, high on adrenaline and their own stupidity. One of them had his boot on a crate like he was posing for a photo shoot.

“There she is, boss. The little princess.”

And there she was.

On the floor. Hands tied with duct tape. Dirt on her cheeks. Hair a mess. But that wasn’t what got me.

It was her eyes.

Too big. Too wet. Trembling. She looked at me like I was death. No — worse. Like I was something she didn’t even have a word for yet. Something too sharp, too real.

I should’ve felt proud. This was a win. A bold, vicious move. The kind of power play that sends a message. But instead, I felt...

Wrong. Like I’d crushed a butterfly with a boot. Just because I could.

“What’s her name?” I asked, my voice lower than usual.

“Dunno. Just know she’s the rich guy’s daughter. She's been all over TV.”

She flinched when I spoke. Like my voice hit her harder than a slap.

I walked closer. She shrank back. Nowhere to go. Her whole body shook like a leaf trying to hold itself together in a storm.

“Hey,” I said quietly. “You hurt?”

She shook her head no. Barely. Like the motion itself was a risk.

So small. So soft. She didn’t belong here. Didn’t smell like gunpowder or fear-sweat. She probably drank warm milk in bed, not whiskey behind bars. She probably called her parents “mom” and “dad” — not “the drunk” and “the one who left.”

“Did you give her water?” I said without turning.

“Uh… not yet,” one of them mumbled.

I turned my head slowly.

“What are you waiting for? Her tears to hydrate her?”

The guy vanished. The others shut up real fast.

I looked at her again. Sat on the ground a few feet away. No threats. No orders. Just… sat.

She sniffled. Her face was a mess — splotchy, red, still wet — but her eyes still had that shine. She didn’t speak.

Neither did I.

I just thought: She’s never had to choose between killing or dying. She doesn’t know what it’s like to sleep with a knife under your pillow. She doesn’t belong in a world like this. And yet… here she is.

And me? I am this world. I’m its heartbeat, its bones. But for the first time in a long time, I wondered…

What would’ve happened to me if someone, once, had just sat on the floor and asked me if I wanted a drink of water?