Chapter 1 The Blindfold

The moment consciousness returned, I knew something was wrong.

A suffocating darkness swallowed my vision, thick and absolute, and for one horrifying second I thought I had lost my sight. My chest rose sharply as panic punched through me, but when I tried to blink the darkness away, all I felt was rough fabric scraping against my eyelids. A blindfold. Someone had tightly wrapped a cloth around my eyes, pressing painfully against my temples until sweat began trickling from my forehead down to my cheeks.

My breathing turned uneven.

I stayed motionless, forcing myself to listen.

There were sounds everywhere. Loud music pounded from somewhere beyond the walls, so heavy that the vibrations seemed to crawl beneath my skin. Between the beats came bursts of laughter, the clinking of glasses, muffled voices, and occasional whistles that sounded as if some kind of celebration was happening nearby. Yet despite the lively noise, the room around me felt nothing but hostile. The air smelled foul, a mixture of cigarette smoke, strong alcohol, and something damp that had long been trapped in closed corners. It was cold enough to make my bare arms shiver.

Bare arms?

My brows knitted, but before I could process that detail, a dull ache throbbed at the back of my neck. I inhaled sharply and tried to move, only to realize my body felt stiff, as though I had been sitting in one position for hours.

Memory came back in jagged flashes.

I had just clocked out of the bar after my shift. I remembered stepping outside with my bag hanging over my shoulder, already planning how many hours of sleep I could still steal before class. Then a car had stopped beside me. Black. The door swung open. Hands reached out. I had no time to scream before someone yanked me inside.

There had been too many of them.

I remembered kicking, biting, and cursing until something hard struck my neck.

After that, nothing.

A dry laugh nearly escaped my lips, but it died before it could form.

"Well done, Ruchee," I muttered bitterly to myself. "Kidnapped on a weekday. Very productive."

Humor had always been my emergency exit whenever life cornered me, but this time even sarcasm tasted shaky.

I swallowed hard and tried to think.

Why would anyone abduct me?

If they wanted money, then they were doomed to disappointment. My wallet usually held enough to buy instant noodles and exactly one emotional breakdown.

If they wanted beauty, then I sincerely questioned their standards.

If they wanted my body... I grimaced.

No. I refused to finish that thought.

The only valuable thing I owned was my overworked brain, and unless kidnappers had suddenly developed an interest in unpaid tuition and academic stress, I could not imagine why I was here.

Slowly, I tested my limbs.

My hands were free.

My feet too.

Only my eyes had been restrained.

That single discovery poured a thread of courage into my veins. Whoever brought me here either underestimated me or thought I was too weak to fight back.

Either way, they were stupid.

I raised both hands and fumbled behind my head until my fingers found the knot. It took several tries because of how badly my hands trembled, but eventually the cloth loosened and slid down into my lap.

I blinked repeatedly against the sudden light.

The room around me came into focus little by little, and the first thing I noticed was the color. Gray walls, black floor, dark furniture, dim chandelier. Whoever designed this place clearly had a personal feud with brightness.

Across from me stood a large steel door. Beside it was a circular glass table, polished enough to reflect the weak light above. Other than that, the room was empty, stripped of anything comforting.

No windows.

No decorations.

No softness.

Just enough space to keep someone waiting.

A prison disguised as luxury.

I pushed myself to stand, but my knees almost gave out beneath me. I steadied myself against the wall, breathing slowly until the dizziness passed. Only then did I become aware of the strange coldness brushing against my skin. My fingers instinctively moved to my shoulders, and the moment they touched thin lace, every nerve in my body froze.

I looked down.

For several seconds, I simply stared.

Black lingerie.

That was all I was wearing.

A piece of lace clung shamelessly to my body, exposing far too much skin and barely covering me down to my upper thighs. It looked expensive, indecent, and deeply insulting.

My face burned.

Then anger came.

A furious, scorching heat that rushed from my chest to my fingertips.

Someone had changed my clothes while I was unconscious.

Someone had touched me.

I clenched the blindfold so tightly in my hand that my nails dug into my palm. "Whoever did this," I hissed through gritted teeth, "I swear I will personally escort them to hell."

Pacing helped me breathe, so I began moving around the room despite the weakness in my legs. My mind was racing too fast, jumping from fear to rage to confusion and back again. Every possibility I considered only made things worse.

Had I been trafficked?

Was this ransom?

Black market?

Organ sale?

The ridiculousness of my own thoughts would have been laughable if I were not standing half-naked in a room that smelled like criminal decisions.

I stopped pacing when the image of my younger sister flashed into my mind.

My stomach dropped.

She would be waiting for me.

By now she was probably calling my phone, messaging me, checking the time every few minutes with that worried crease between her brows. I had promised her I would go straight home after work. I always went straight home.

I pressed a hand over my mouth.

No. I could not disappear like this.

She had no one else.

I had no one else.

The steel door stood only a few steps away, and desperation shoved me forward. I was about to try the handle when it suddenly opened on its own.

The burst of music from outside hit me like a slap.

It was deafening now, joined by cheers, whistles, and the shrill screech of a microphone.

Two men entered.

Both were tall, broad, and built like they had never lost a fistfight in their lives. They wore black shirts that stretched over tattooed arms, and on each visible patch of skin was the same design, a serpent winding itself around a sword.

Subtle. Very subtle.

The man with a scar across his cheek looked at me first, and his eyebrows lifted. "So you're finally awake."

I folded my arms over myself, more for dignity than modesty. "Judging by the lingerie, I assumed this was a hotel package."

The other man snorted, though he quickly covered it with a cough.

Scar Cheek shot him a glare before returning his attention to me. "Save the jokes and come with us."

"With you?" I repeated, glancing from one tattooed giant to the other. "That invitation lacks details. Is there food? Compensation? A written apology?"

The second man clearly had less patience. He stepped forward and caught my shoulder.

"Move."

I jerked away from his grip. "Touch me again and you lose the hand."

His jaw tightened, but before he could respond, Scar Cheek barked sharply, "Careful!"

The warning was immediate enough that Tattooed Giant released me as though my skin had turned electric.

Scar Cheek lowered his voice, though his eyes flickered nervously. "The boss said no marks. If she gets injured, we're the ones getting buried."

Silence settled for a heartbeat.

I stared at them.

There it was.

Fear.

Not in me.

In them.

These men, who looked capable of snapping necks for recreation, were terrified of someone else.

Boss.

The word settled heavily in my chest.

I lifted my chin, refusing to let them see the panic creeping up my spine. "Since both of you seem dedicated to being mysterious, maybe answer one simple question. Why am I here?"

Neither man spoke.

Scar Cheek merely stepped aside and gestured toward the open doorway.

From outside, a man's amplified voice rang above the music.

"Prepare the next item."

My pulse stopped.

Item?

The two men avoided my gaze.

And in that instant, a sick certainty crawled through me.

I was not here as a guest.

I was not even here as a hostage.

I was something else entirely.

Something being presented.

Something being sold.