Chapter 15 #3
These victims shouldn't have been here in the first place.
It was made to break them. The room opens up in front of me, bigger than anything we saw above, with a higher ceiling and harsher lighting.
It feels sterile, somehow, as if it's drained of any real feeling.
The stations, lined up in perfect order, create a cold, symmetrical expanse.
Each one has equipment that shines in the fluorescent light, too polished and well-kept for something that isn't meant to heal. Monitors show idle readouts that flash. Numbers that are for bodies.
One whole wall is lined with industrial pumps, and their parts cycle in a low, rhythmic hum that is steady, mechanical, and impossible to ignore.
The sound goes through the room, through my head, and through my chest, until it feels like it's in sync with my pulse in a way that makes me want to rip the machines out of the walls to make it stop.
There are restraint harnesses hanging next to the tables. And then I look at something that doesn't belong to the machines, the steel, or the building itself. Clothes.
Women's clothing items were displayed in neat rows, the gaps between them almost excessive, as if they were merely stock rather than personal possessions. The variety of sizes and styles hinted at a multitude of possibilities. The tactile quality of the fabrics confirmed their humanity.
Color is avoided. Lives turned into things. Soren's curse cuts through behind me, low and vicious, the kind that doesn't need to be loud to be heavy.
Leif's voice comes next, but it's quieter. There's something in it that I've never heard before, something that isn't quite right with him. "This is…," he says, "It's a factory for processing."
The words settle into the room like a sentence. "A trafficking front," Detective Ramirez says from somewhere to my left, his voice tight and his professional demeanor stretched thin. "High-end. On a large scale.”
Rurik walks toward a row of cabinets and yanks one open so hard that it hits the stop. There are dozens of binders on the shelves inside, and each one is marked, numbered, and sorted with such care that it makes me sick.
"This operation is huge," he says, opening one up and showing me pages full of records that I don't need to read to understand.
None of it is important. Because something else has already pushed me forward. At the far end of the room, something small catches the light behind one of the tables. It's so small compared to everything else that it shouldn't even be there.
But it does. It pulls. And all of a sudden, the space between us seems impossible.
I move toward it, but it doesn't feel like walking.
It feels like I'm pushing my way through water, through resistance that slows everything down except my heartbeat, which gets louder and faster with each step and drowns out everything else.
My ears are ringing. My sight gets smaller. That single point holds the utmost significance in the world. My hands are already shaking by the time I get to the table.
It's just a wrist band. I pick it up carefully. My fingers shake as I turn it just enough to see what's left of the ink, which is smudged but still there and still readable.
Claire B. ,TEMP ID The air leaves my lungs all at once, violently and without control, as if something inside me just gives up. I can't breathe for a second. Can't think.
As I bring the bracelet up and press it hard against my forehead, my vision gets blurry.
It's like I can close the distance between us just by touching it, like I can anchor her to me with something she wore or touched. “I’m close,” I say, my voice breaking despite my efforts to maintain composure. "Baby... I'm so close..."
The words barely leave my mouth before a noise cuts through the room. Faint. Muffled. A woman. My head snaps up so fast that it pulls sharply down my neck, but I don't feel it, not really, not compared to how everything else falls into place around that one, fragile sound.
The room around me goes quiet. Captain Holt's voice cuts in, sharp and urgent, and he turns to the far end of the building with his weapon already raised. "Sound came from room two."
I’m already in motion. "ERIK! STOP!" Bjorn's voice breaks behind me, and it's louder than anything I've heard from him in years. But I can't. Not when that sound, possibly her sound, is still ringing in my ears and breaking down all the walls I have left.
I hit the doors at the far end of the room so hard that the impact shakes my whole body. Pain shoots through my shoulder as I slam into them again and again, my hands searching for a weak spot, a way to force them open.
"OPEN IT! " The roar comes out of me, raw and breaking at the edges. "Open it! She's down there!" I push my shoulder into the metal again, not caring how it hurts my bones, muscles, and everything else; people grab me to hold me back.
Captain Holt grabs the front of my vest and pulls me back hard enough to stop me from moving forward. He pulls me a step away from the door before I can throw myself into it again.
Detective Ramirez is already on the move behind him. He drops to one knee and pulls the breaching kit forward, his hands moving quickly, efficiently, and with skill.
"Listen to me," Captain Holt snaps, and his voice cuts through the noise, the adrenaline, and the thin line I'm hanging onto between control and chaos. "We will open that door."
His fingers clench my face, drawing my focus, forcing me to look at him. "But if you go in alone," he says, his tone firm, each word a deliberate choice, "you're going to die, and we won't get her out. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
My chest is pounding, and my breath is coming in and out like I'm trying to pull air through something solid that won't give.
Every instinct I have is telling me to move faster.
To reach her. But his words hit the mark.
What will happen if I fail? I force my eyes to his and hold them there for one strained heartbeat.
Then my jaw tightens, and every word hurts when it comes out. "Then hurry the hell up."
The deeper we go into the building, the more things change.
The air feels like it gets thicker and heavier against my skin with every step forward.
It's like something in this place has taken away warmth and replaced it with function.
This environment is a place that is meant to take, control, and extract over and over again until there is nothing left but output.
Bjorn raises a hand slightly to signal down the next hallway.
His movements are precise and efficient, and I can feel that same controlled readiness in my bones.
Without thinking, SWAT stacks up behind us, guns drawn, and their formation gets tighter as they get ready to move.
On the left, federal agents sweep and signal that the area is clear.
At the same time, the local police close in behind us, blocking the way we have already taken.
Without me realizing it, my breathing has become shallow, and each breath catches somewhere high in my chest as we move deeper into something that feels less like a structure and more like a part of Hell none of us anticipated.
We hit another door that is locked. This one doesn't fight back. It opens too easily when you push on it, and the latch gives way. That raises red flags more than the reinforced steel did, because nothing in this place should be easy.
The next room is smaller and almost clinical in its simplicity. Steel counters line the walls, and there is only one rolling workstation under harsh overhead light.
I look around once and stop. There is a clipboard on the counter. The document is in a plastic sleeve with a barcode. As I walk toward it, something inside me goes still, and the sounds in the room fade away, as if the world is getting smaller again, whether I want it or not.
I already know. Before I even see it, I understand. I slowly and carefully lift the plastic with my hand, and then I notice it.
NAME: BENNETT, CLAIRE ID: CE-14 STATUS: ACTIVE PRODUCTION UNIT
There are countless other names, with varying statuses. My mind is swimming…there are others here that are suffering. My vision gets clearer and clearer until everything else fades away, and the edges of the room blur as the page in front of me becomes the only thing that matters.
The first line is where you put in the person’s weight.
Before they took them away. My grip gets tighter as I look down.
Every number goes up. Something is twisting hard in my stomach, so hard that I have to change my position to stay upright.
The implications are sinking in, whether I want them to or not.
I feel Rurik step in behind me, his presence close before he suddenly stops.
"Erik..." His voice gets lower and rougher, as if he would rather not finish what he was saying. "Is that what I think it is?"
I can't talk to him. My throat feels like it has sand in it, and every time I try to swallow, it gets stuck halfway down.
I turn the page. Logs of milk production. Claire’s note reads: YIELD WENT UP 87%, RESPONSE: GREAT. PREPARATION FOR PHASE TWO: IN PROCESS. PHYSIOLOGICAL CHANGES: EXPECTED. SEDATION: FOLLOW BOTTLE PROTOCOL.
My hand grips the plastic tightly until it bends and breaks along the edge with a loud snap that echoes in the small space. They turned her into data.
They didn't just take her, they changed her. They transformed her body into a system. Something moves in my peripheral vision. I turn. There is a harness hanging on the wall.
The straps are robust, designed to securely hold and restrain whatever they embrace, regardless of its attempts to escape. The interior lining is deliberately soft, ensuring it won't irritate the skin, allowing for repeated use.
Before I reconsider, my hand rises and my fingers graze the fabric, sensing the contrast between the rigid exterior and the gentle interior.