The engine sputters to a stop, the van rocking slightly as it settles. My wrists ache, raw skin chafed by the damn chains. I can’t tell how long I’ve been in here. Hours? Days? It all blurs. I lost the sun sometime ago. Maybe I lost it years ago.

I hear boots, heavy and impatient. The door screeches open behind me, a rush of cold night air flooding in. I flinch, more out of instinct than fear. No—fear is instinct now.

The chains rattle as someone climbs in. No words, just rough hands grabbing my arm. My shoulders scream as I’m hauled toward the edge. The metal floor scrapes against my knees. Every touch burns like a brand.

Fingers tug at the cloth over my eyes. Light floods in, sharp and merciless. I hiss between my teeth, blinking rapidly. A figure stands ahead, blurred in shadow, another door opening in the distance.

“She bites,” says the voice beside me. Same handler as before. Cold. Detached. “Back up.”

Then—without warning—I’m shoved.

My body flies forward, weightless for a heartbeat before slamming against the floor inside. My shoulder hits first, then my hip, then knees dragging across rough wood. The impact knocks the air out of me. I taste blood. The door slams shut behind me like a gunshot.

Silence.

It’s always like this. Thrown. Bruised. Handed off like garbage that still has a few good uses left.

I don’t scream. I don’t cry. I just breathe. In. Out. Rage curled tight in my chest like a second heart.

They think this is control. They think I’ll break. But they don’t know what I’ve already survived. They don’t know what I’ve already lost.

Let them try to touch me. Let them come close. I swear, I will paint this floor red before I let them hurt me again.

I press my lips together, jaw tight. I don’t make a sound.

If this is my end, then let it be on my terms. Not theirs.

I didn’t mean to fall asleep.

Not here. Not in the open. Not where they could find me.

My body isn’t cooperating anymore. Too cold. Too empty. I haven’t eaten in… days? My stomach stopped growling. That’s always a bad sign. The ache is gone, replaced by a numbness that spreads into my spine, my ribs, my fingertips. My blood feels like it's stopped trying.

I can hear footsteps, soft ones. Close. I don’t lift my head. I can’t. I don’t even know if I care.

They’ll finish it this time.

A puddle under me is warm, sticky. I don’t know if it’s mine. I’m not sure I care about that either. My ears twitch at a sound—fabric shifting. Breathing. Close.

Please don’t touch me.

Not again.

Not now.

If it’s them, just… just let it be quick.

Let it be over.

The window wasn’t locked.

Most of them are. But this one—open. Almost like an invitation.

I didn’t think. I moved.

My feet are blistered, raw from running barefoot across the concrete. The collar still burns from where it shocked me two nights ago. I don’t know how far I made it, but I ran until I couldn’t see the city gates anymore. I ran until I vomited, until I crawled, until the world blurred.

The house smelled empty. Still. Dusty.

I slipped inside. Quiet. So quiet. My knees buckled as soon as I crossed the threshold. Hardwood floors. Cool against my skin. For a moment, I just breathe. Shallow. Careful.

I haven’t felt safe in years. I don’t feel safe now. But… I don’t feel watched.

I curl against the corner, behind an old sofa. Hide my eyes. Tuck my legs in tight.

I’ll leave before dawn. Just a few hours. Just…

My eyes slip closed.

Just a little rest. Just a little quiet before it starts again.

He deserved to die.

He deserved it.

He had me cornered. He said things. His breath reeked of rot and wine and entitlement. He reached for my waist. He told me I’d scream like the others.

I warned him. I told him to stop.

He didn’t.

There’s blood under my nails. His throat opened up like a paper seam. I didn’t think—I just moved. My chains are stained. The floorboards slick beneath my knees.

I should be running.

But I’m not.

I’m still here. Curled into myself, sobbing so hard I can’t breathe. My ribs hurt. My throat burns. I can’t stop shaking.

I’m not crying because I killed him.

I’m crying because I’m still alive.

Because I don’t know what happens now.

Because someone saw me.

Please... don't touch me. I can’t go back. I won’t go back.

They said don’t look up.

Keep your head down. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t snarl. Don’t speak.

I broke all those rules already.

Now I sit, legs folded beneath me, inside a crate made of glass and steel. Shackled. Bleeding slightly. A collar humming at my throat—just enough voltage to remind me it’s there.

The lights are bright. Too bright. Designed to show off skin and body and shape. The auctioneers don’t hide what this is. They don’t have to.

I was “discounted” due to aggression. That’s what the card says in front of my crate.

AGGRESSIVE. UNBROKEN. HIGH MAINTENANCE. FINAL SALE.

I didn’t fight when they wheeled me out.

I’m saving that for later.

Someone’s going to buy me. Again.

Maybe they already have.

Let them. I’m not afraid of death.

But if they lay a hand on me—

I’ll show them what unbroken means.

The engine sputtered to a stop, the van rocking slightly as it settled. In the dark cargo hold, Syrra’s wrists ached, her scarred skin rubbed raw against the heavy iron chains.

Heavy boots crunched on the gravel outside. The doors screeched open, flooding the space with cold night air. Syrra flinched, her tall, black-furred rabbit ears flattening instantly against her dark green hair at the dreaded sound of squeaking leather gloves.

She was hauled to her feet, not even allowed to stand, and dragged all the way to what she assumed was a door. She heard a doorbell, a door open, and then...

“She bites,” the handler’s voice echoed coldly. “Back up.”

Without warning, she was bodily thrown into the home. She hit the wooden floor of the new room hard, her shoulder and hip taking the brunt of the impact, the air leaving her lungs in a rush. The heavy door slammed shut behind her.

Her scarred hands, one noticeably missing its index finger, flew to her face and tore the blindfold away. The sudden rush of light made her squint.

Syrra didn't freeze, and she didn't cry. Survival instinct took over instantly. She scrambled backward, the white sarashi binding her torso scraping against the floorboards until her back hit the solid safety of a wall. She wedged herself into the darkest corner of the room, pulling her knees tightly to her chest to make herself as small a target as possible.

Her long ears swiveled frantically like radar dishes, tracking every micro-sound in the deafening silence. Her narrowed gray eyes darted rapidly around the space. She deliberately avoided making eye contact with the figure standing in the room with her; instead, she mapped the exits and cataloged the environment.

Her uninjured hand curled into a tight, white-knuckled fist. She stayed perfectly silent in the shadows, her chest heaving with shallow breaths, waiting for the stranger to make a move.