Chapter 2 Lana
LANA
My fingers tremble as I smooth my uniform over my knees. The fabric feels identical to what I wear—rough cotton dyed an institutional gray that seems designed to drain color from everything it touches. But the girl’s uniform still holds creases from being folded, still looks stiff and new.
"How long have you been here?" I whisper, the question slipping from my lips before I can stop it.
My chest tightens. Speaking without permission could mean punishment for both of us.
I glance toward the door, listening for footsteps, then look back at her.
The desperation in her wide eyes tugs at something buried deep inside me—some remnant of the person I was before this place stripped me down to nothing.
I wish I knew. I’ve been here longer—so long I can’t even guess at how many weeks or months it’s been. I’ve never been in a room like this, so I don’t know what the next hours hold.
But I know one thing.
"They break you," I finally say, keeping my voice low. "Until you're what they want."
She shudders, wrapping her arms around herself. "I won’t let them."
I almost smile at that. I said the same thing once.
“Is it my fault?” she whispers.
Her voice is so soft I almost miss her words. But even when I register them, I pretend not to hear, because I don’t have an answer to that question.
So instead, we sit in silence until the doorknob turns again.
“Come on. We don’t have all day.” The voice is rough, just like the hands that grab beneath my arms to yank me to stand.
I don’t recognize the two men that enter the small room, but that’s nothing new. They match every other man, right down to the all-black outfit and mask covering their nose and mouth.
“Where are you taking us?” the other girl asks.
I know better than to question them. I should have warned her. I cringe as one of the men slaps her across the face.
“Shut up, whore,” he says. “You’ve been sold.”
The word sold seems to hit her like ice water. I watch her face crumple, watches her stumble backward until her spine meets the concrete wall. The sound echoes through the small space—a hollow thud that seems to reverberate in my own chest.
I’m not ready for this, either. But it’s not a surprise.
All those weeks of training, of learning to kneel perfectly. To keep my eyes downcast unless instructed otherwise. To accept correction without flinching.
They haven’t been breaking me for their own use. They’re preparing me for market.
The rough hands grip my arm again, fingers digging into the soft flesh above my elbow. I don’t resist as they guide me toward the door. My legs feel disconnected from my body, moving without my conscious direction.
Behind me, I can hear the other girl's ragged breathing, the shuffle of bare feet on concrete.
The hallway stretches ahead of us, longer than I remember. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in harsh white angles. The air tastes metallic on my tongue, and I realize I’ve been holding my breath.
I force myself to breathe out slowly through my nose.
Each step forward as they guide me down a hallway feels like walking deeper underwater. The pressure building in my ears, my lungs working harder against the weight of inevitability.
We turn a corner, one I've never seen before. The walls here are different. They’re cleaner, painted a sickly yellow instead of institutional gray. Someone has tried to make this place look less like a prison.
The thought makes my stomach churn.
A heavy door marked with a red exit sign looms ahead. Beyond it, I can hear engines running. Vehicles waiting.
The girl behind me makes a sound—part sob, part whimper. I want to turn around, to offer some comfort, but my neck feels locked in place. Looking back won't help either of us now.
The door swings open, and sunlight hits my face. I squint against the brightness. My eyes water after being used to the darkness and artificial light for so long.
A black van idles at the curb. Unmarked, of course.
I try to see the driver as we approach, but his head is turned away, like he can’t bear to see what he’s picking up.
He must have done this before.
When we reach the van, one of the guards slides open the rear door, revealing a cargo space.
When they shove us in, I realize the space is fitted with metal benches along each side. Beyond that, there isn’t much.
No windows.
No way of escape.
The door slams shut behind us, plunging us into near-darkness. Only thin strips of light filter through small vents near the ceiling.
The engine rumbles beneath us as the van lurches into motion, and I grab the metal bench to steady myself.
The girl slides down onto the floor, her knees drawn up to her chest. In the dim light, her face is a pale oval, eyes wide and reflecting what little illumination there is.
"Where are they taking us?" she whispers.
“I don’t know,” I finally say.
My voice sounds strange to my own ears—flat, emotionless. When did I start to sound like this? I can't remember the cadence of my voice before. Before all this.
The van takes a sharp turn, throwing us against the wall. My shoulder slams into metal, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out. Pain blossoms, spreads like ink in water. I've learned to contain it, to let it wash through me without resistance.
"My name is Celia," she says suddenly, her voice cracking on the second syllable.
The name hangs between us in the stale air. I feel something twist inside my chest. Recognition, maybe, that before all of this I was a person, with a name, even though they took that from me, too.
The van hits another pothole, jarring my teeth.
Celia slides across the floor, her shoulder bumping against my leg. She looks up at me, and I see myself reflected in her desperate eyes. The version of me that fought and screamed and promised herself I wouldn’t break.
It seems like an eternity ago that I made myself that promise. Since then, it’s become clear that it’s one I can’t keep.
“What’s your name?” Celia finally asks, when it’s clear that I’m not going to offer the information.
I swallow hard. “It doesn’t matter. Names, all of that. The only thing that matters is what they tell you.”
My tone is harsh, but she needs to know. I learned it the hard way.
Forget everything that came before. I had a name, before. But now, I’m just a number.
127.
I try not to dwell on the idea that there were 126 girls before me, or what happened to them.
Sometimes I wonder if they blamed themselves, the way I do.