CHAPTER 5
RUBY P.O.V.
I clawed my way back to consciousness, the world tilting and blurring like an out-of-focus film.
The first thing that hit me was the cold.
It was a deep, rhythmic ache settling directly into my bones, radiating from the poured concrete floor beneath my cheek.
My head throbbed in a violent, syncopated rhythm with my pulse, and the injection site on my neck burned with a localized, stinging heat that made my skin crawl.
The sedatives were still swimming through my bloodstream, dragging me down like a weighted blanket, but my brain was already screaming for situational awareness.
I tried to clench my fist, commanding my body to move, but my fingers were entirely numb.
They scratched weakly against the rough concrete like a dying insect on its back.
"Focus, Ruby," I muttered, the words scraping out of a throat drier than sandpaper. "Focus."
The smell of stale air and heavy industrial bleach flooded my nostrils, masking whatever natural rot was underneath. A distant HVAC system hummed, a low vibration I felt in my teeth, and the gritty texture of dust coated my tongue.
"Where... where am I?" I whispered to nobody.
The last thing I remembered was my apartment.
The fight. The massive enforcers tearing my place apart.
And Desmond. The absolute cowardice in my brother’s eyes as he backed away and let them take me.
The realization hit me like a physical blow to the sternum.
He sold me. My own fucking flesh and blood traded my life to clear his gambling debts.
"Desmond, you bastard." The words tasted like battery acid.
My eyes finally tracked the room, desperately trying to lock onto a familiar shape.
It was a tomb of gray. Four walls of poured concrete, a ceiling entirely too high to reach, and a single, rusted floor drain in the center of the slope.
No windows. No furniture. Just a heavy steel door with a sliding meal slot that looked like a snarling metal mouth.
This wasn’t a police station. They hadn’t arrested me.
I dragged my heavy, uncooperative body toward the wall, using the vertical surface to help myself sit up.
My spine scraped against the cold stone, the friction pulling at my favorite thrifted t-shirt.
"This isn't a police station," I breathed, my heart rate finally starting to spike.
I forced my eyes to adjust to the flickering of a dim LED light overhead.
The damp chill seeped through my clothes.
I tasted copper in the back of my mouth from where I’d bitten my cheek during the fight.
I stared at the heavy deadbolt on the door.
This wasn't just some basement in a crack house.
The sheer scale of the concrete, the heavy infrastructure, the motorized hum behind the walls—this was specialized.
It was a facility built to keep people inside.
"Think," I told myself, pressing the heels of my hands into my eye sockets. "What did they call it? The Ring?"
Before I could unravel the thought, the heavy deadbolt shrieked.
The sound was like a dying animal, metal grinding on metal.
Two men in black tactical gear stepped inside.
They wore thick balaclavas that reduced their faces to two sets of indifferent, dead eyes.
They didn't look at me like I was a woman.
They didn't even look at me like I was an enemy.
They looked at me like I was a mislaid package that needed sorting.
One handler checked his watch with a clinical, bored flick of the wrist, while the other stood perfectly still by the door, his hands folded loosely in front of his tactical vest.
"Who are you?" I demanded, my voice cracking but loud.
They didn't blink.
"Say something!" I pushed myself up an inch higher against the wall. The silence coming off them was more terrifying than if they’d started screaming. It meant they had a protocol. They did this every day. "Where is my brother?"
The squeak of their rubber soles on the concrete was the only answer I got. The heavy thud of the door hitting the wall echoed. They smelled like gun oil and brand new nylon. Without a single word, they closed the distance.
They didn't wait for me to stand. They hauled me up by my armpits in one synchronized, brutal motion.
My feet dragged uselessly for the first few steps, my knees locked and uncooperative from the drugs.
They marched me out of the cell and into a hallway that looked like a hospital wing designed by a sadist. It was all white tile and fluorescent glare that immediately blinded my dilated pupils.
"Get your hands off me!" I thrashed, trying to wrench my shoulder out of the taller guy's grip.
Nothing. His fingers felt like a steel vice. I tried to dig my heels in, to plant my boots and stop our momentum, but the tiles were slick with some industrial cleaning agent. I slid like I was on black ice, my ankles buckling.
"I can walk, damn you." I spat, glaring at the side of the handler's masked face.
The sharp squeal of my bare skin rubbing against his tactical gloves made me nauseous.
The sterile, freezing air blasted out of the vents and hit my face, drying the sweat on my forehead.
Through the dizziness, I forced myself to pay attention.
I started counting the doors we passed. One, two, intersection, three. I needed the map.
They shoved me through a set of double doors into the center of a room with a sloped floor leading to a massive drain grate.
Before I could catch my balance, one handler pinned my arms behind my back.
The other didn't reach for handcuffs. He produced a serrated combat knife.
He didn't wave it at me. He didn't threaten me.
He simply reached for my collar, hooked his fingers in the fabric, and began to cut.
"Don't. Please." The words slipped out before my pride could stop them.
The fabric of my shirt parted with a sickening, effortless tear.
The cold steel of the blade brushed against my bare collarbone.
I winced, my breath catching in my throat as he deliberately let the metal drag against my skin—a silent, physical taunt showing exactly how easily he could slide it right up into my carotid artery.
"That's mine," I ground out, watching the ruined fabric fall away.
The rasp of the serrated blade cut through my denim next.
The sound of the metal button popping off my jeans and pinging against the wet tile floor rang out.
Then came the sudden, terrifying exposure to the freezing air.
I was completely naked. I stared straight up at the ceiling, fixing my eyes on a water stain near the fluorescent bulb, desperate to detach.
I tried to be anywhere else but inside this body as it was revealed, assessed, and discarded by two men who clearly didn't give a fuck.
Before my brain could even process the nakedness, a deafening mechanical roar kicked on. A high-pressure hose was aimed directly at my chest.
The water was ice-cold. It hit me like a liquid punch, instantly stealing all the air from my lungs.
I gasped, my entire body recoiling, arching backward to escape it, but the handler behind me held my arms fast. They kept me pinned under the freezing deluge, literally hosing me down like a piece of heavy machinery.
"Stop! I can't breathe!" I choked out, a mouthful of freezing water hitting the back of my throat.
The spray battered my skin. I was shivering so violently my teeth clicked together like a telegraph machine. "Jesus... please..."
The roar of the water echoing off the tiles was deafening.
The stinging needles of the cold turned my skin a mottled purple.
I watched my clothes swirl toward the massive drain grate, spiraling down into the dark.
This wasn't about hygiene. This was about stripping the 'Ruby' away. This was about making me small.
The water stopped as abruptly as it began. The sudden silence was jarring. I stood there, dripping, my chest heaving, waiting for a towel. They didn't offer one.
Instead, the handler with the knife grabbed a long-handled, stiff-bristled brush—the exact kind you’d use to scrub grime off a garage floor.
He dipped it into a bucket of industrial soap and began to scour my arms and back.
It was agonizing. The rigid bristles scratched my wet skin raw.
He dragged it up and down my spine, treating me with the exact same care and pressure one would give a dirty engine block.
"You're hurting me," I hissed through my chattering teeth.
He didn't pause. He just flipped the brush to scrub down my thighs.
I looked down, watching the bright red welts rising on my pale skin.
The smell of the industrial soap stung my eyes, harsh and chemical.
A puddle of gray, soapy water pooled at my bare feet.
I focused on the geometric pattern of the white tiles.
Just stare at the squares. Don't scream.
If I survived this, I could survive anything.
Don't let them see you cry. Don't give them a single fucking tear.
"Am I just a thing to you?" I asked, my voice deadly flat despite the shivering.
The handler ignored me. He tossed the brush into the corner. It clattered loudly against the wall. The other handler stepped forward and dropped a single garment at my feet.
It was a sheer, white silk slip.
It was so thin it was practically a veil. It looked like the kind of lingerie a bride would wear on her wedding night, completely useless for anything other than being looked at. In this concrete slaughterhouse, it wasn't clothing. It was a brand. It offered absolutely zero warmth and zero modesty.
I stared down at the wet floor, my bruised, scraped fingers trembling as I reached down and picked up the silk.
"I'm not wearing this," I said.