Chapter 2 THE CAGE

Alina's head felt like it was splitting open, her body heavy and unresponsive. She blinked several times, trying to make sense of the blurry shapes around her. The last thing she remembered was the sharp blow to the back of her head, the overwhelming darkness that had swallowed her whole. But now, she was awake-sort of.

Her eyes fluttered open, and the first thing that struck her was the cold. It wasn't the usual chill of a drafty room; it was sterile, almost suffocating. The air had a sharp, antiseptic smell, like a hospital room-but colder, more unnatural. Her surroundings came into focus slowly.

She was lying on a narrow bed, the mattress thin, uncomfortable. The bedspread was crisp and white, too bright for the grim feeling that settled in her chest. Her body was dressed in a loose, silk robe, the kind she might have worn at a spa, but it felt wrong. The softness of the fabric was the only comforting thing in this stark, oppressive place, and even that made her skin crawl.

Where am I?

She pushed herself up slowly, feeling a wave of nausea hit her. The room around her was windowless, illuminated by a harsh, artificial light overhead. The walls were pale, almost clinical in their emptiness. The floor was smooth and cold, made of something that resembled polished stone, making the soft shuffle of her bare feet feel unnaturally loud.

As her head cleared, she took a deep breath, trying to center herself. Panic surged in her chest like a wave about to break. Her mind was still clouded with confusion, but the deeper, more primal part of her brain understood-she was no longer at home. She wasn't even sure where home was anymore.

"Papa..." she whispered, her voice cracking as the reality set in. He was gone. She didn't know why, or how, but she was certain of one thing-this was connected to him.

As she stood up, the silence of the room felt stifling. But then-footsteps.

Alina spun around, her pulse quickening. The door on the opposite wall opened slowly, revealing a figure standing in the threshold. It was a man, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in black, his face partially obscured by a mask. He didn't speak. He simply stepped aside to reveal something that made her blood run cold.

Other women.

The room wasn't just hers. It was a holding cell. A cage.

Her eyes darted over the scene as the other girls-some of them no older than her-sat on their own beds, their gazes dull, empty. Some were trembling, clutching the sheets to their chests like it might offer some protection. Others stared blankly ahead, as if already lost to whatever horrors they'd been subjected to.

Alina's breath hitched in her throat. She wanted to scream, but the words wouldn't come. The overwhelming weight of it all crashed over her. This wasn't just some dark alley or an ordinary kidnapping. It was something far worse.

As she tried to collect herself, the masked man spoke.

"Move along," he said in a low, mechanical voice, his tone leaving no room for disobedience. "You're being processed."

Alina's eyes widened at the word. Processed. The air seemed to go still around her as her mind tried to grasp what that meant. Was she being sold? Was this some sort of sick auction? Her stomach twisted violently at the thought, but the dread that filled her didn't let her escape from the reality.

Her hands were still shaking.

"Processed?" she whispered, almost to herself.

The man ignored her, stepping forward and placing a hand on her shoulder. He pushed her toward the center of the room where a small table stood, scattered with a few tools she didn't recognize. It looked like a station where business was done. Cold, impersonal, with a faint smell of disinfectant lingering in the air.

The door opened again, and another man walked in, this one older, with a clipboard in his hands. His presence was even more unnerving. The way he looked at her, as though she were nothing more than a piece of livestock, made her skin crawl. His eyes were cold, detached. He glanced briefly at the other girls, who kept their heads down, but then his full attention focused on Alina.

He stepped closer. Alina instinctively backed away, but the masked man's hand on her arm stopped her, forcing her to remain where she was.

The man with the clipboard didn't speak right away. Instead, he began inspecting her as though she were a product at a market. His cold fingers grazed her skin, his eyes scanning her body in a way that made her feel exposed, violated.

His eyes flicked to her face, checking her expression.

"Pupils are dilated," he muttered to himself, jotting something down on his clipboard. His fingers moved to her wrist, pressing down with more force than necessary.

"Skin tone is healthy. Blood pressure is normal."

He moved with clinical detachment, running his hands over her arms, her shoulders, her neck, as though he were cataloging her for someone else. His gaze lingered on her a moment longer than she was comfortable with, and Alina felt her skin burn with shame and fear. She couldn't understand how she could feel so small, so insignificant, under his touch.

This isn't real. This can't be happening.

She wanted to fight back, to scream, to do something to make it stop, but her body wouldn't obey her. It was like she was already being erased, piece by piece, until there was nothing left of who she was.

"You're in good condition," the man remarked, almost disinterested. "Perfect for the auction."

Alina's breath caught in her throat. Auction. The word hit her like a punch to the gut. She struggled against the tightening grip on her arm, but it was useless. She felt like she was suffocating in the cold, clinical air.

"Where am I?" she finally demanded, her voice a hoarse whisper.

The man glanced at her briefly, his eyes narrowing in something like amusement. "You're next on the list."

The words rang in her ears, louder than anything else. Next. She was being prepared for whatever came next in this horrific place.

Her heart slammed against her chest as panic surged up, making her dizzy.

I'm not supposed to be here. I have to get out. I have to find a way out.

But the room, the sterile walls, the cold eyes watching her-it all closed in, leaving her with nothing but the crushing certainty that whatever happened next, there was no going back.