Page 27 of Rescuing Ember

The men nod, receiving their orders without question. Then, as silently as they appeared, they melt back into the shadows. The warehouse seems to swallow them whole, leaving no trace of their presence.

But I know where they’re hidden.

It’s a trap.

They’re expecting someone.

Someone they’re prepared to meet with overwhelming force.

But who?

The cops?

Seems unlikely—these guys are way too professional for a simple police raid to rattle them. A rival gang, maybe? Or—could it be a rescue attempt?

That seems the most likely. The spark of hope that flares in my chest is almost painful. I squash it ruthlessly. Hope is dangerous in a place like this. It makes you vulnerable, and I can’t afford to be vulnerable. Not now.

But a rescue for who?

Not me. Nobody cares about me.

Aria, for sure. Perhaps even Daniel. They’re both kids of wealthy men.

Still, I can’t help but file away every detail. The positioning of the hidden men, the weak points in their setup. If there is a chance, I need to be ready to take it.

Good thing I know every secret space. Where to run. Where to hide. How far to jump. How high to climb. I know which beams will hold and which will not.

I take stock of our situation for the hundredth time. Chain-link cells, padlocked. Armed guards at every exit. My lockpicking skills are decent—you don’t survive on the streets without picking up a few tricks, but they’re useless without tools. And even if we could get out of the cells, then what?

We’re outnumbered, outgunned, and in Aria’s case, barely functioning.

Daniel’s barely a step above that. He took a beating during his kidnapping and is nursing torn muscles and contusions.

The hopelessness of it all threatens to overwhelm me, but then I think of all the times I’ve been counted out before. Foster homes that said I’d never amount to anything. Streets that should have broken me but only made me harder.

Stronger, like metal tempered by flame. Each close call, each desperate act of survival, left its mark. The trash can fires I set behind the group home kept the older boys away on cold nights—they were too busy trying to catch the “mysterious arsonist” to bother hunting the younger kids.

I’m still here.

Still fighting.

Not dead yet.

A memory flashes—striking matches in the back of Mrs. Henderson’s foster home, the small flames dancing as footsteps approached my closet hiding spot. The fire alarm’s shriek gave me enough time to slip away before her “special friend” could find me.

Fire has always been my protector when I needed an escape.

My mind races, weighing options. This might be our only chance if something’s about to go down. A distraction, a moment of chaos, could be the opening we need. I can slip past the guards. Or, at least, I know where to hide until they give up looking for me.

But Aria… I glance at her huddled form. She’s dead weight, lost in her mind. Could I leave her behind? Save myself?

The thought makes my stomach churn. Self-loathing rises like bile in my throat. My biggest fault is despite being a street rat, I never learned to look out for number one.

That’s not me.

Never was.

Even after that night when the rats tried to eat me, I still gave them my crumbs. I still gave them fresh water… As fresh as anything could be.

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