Page 8 of Rescuing Ember

“I’m Ember. I saw them grab you on the street. I tried to help, but…” I trail off, the recognition of my failure settling in my chest. I know better than this. Playing hero always comes at a cost. It’s a lesson I learned far too young.

“Oh God, oh God, they’re going to kill us, aren’t they?” Aria’s breath comes in sharp gasps.

“No.” I infuse as much certainty into that single word as I can muster. “We’re going to get out of this, but you need to breathe, okay? In through your nose, out through your mouth. Try not to catch their attention.”

She tries to follow my instructions. I demonstrate, exaggerating my breathing. Gradually, her gasps slow.

“Good,” I murmur. “That’s good. Just keep breathing.”

“Ain’t that sweet. The street rat is trying to comfort the princess.” A scoff from the front of the van twists my guts. In those few words, he encapsulates the sum total of my existence.

Ice floods my veins. Whoever said words can’t hurt never lived my life. His words cut deep, joining a lifetime of degradation and disgust.

The van takes a sharp turn, tires squealing. Aria and I slide across the metal floor, colliding with the wall. She yelps in pain.

“Shut her up,” a second voice growls. “Or I will.”

The threat hangs in the air, sharp as a blade.

“It’s okay.” I press closer to Aria, trying to shield her with my body. “Just focus on me. Tell me about yourself. Where are you from?”

“New—New York. Upper East Side.” Aria’s voice quivers.

A world away from my upbringing.

“What do you like to do?” I press, desperate to keep her focused on anything other than our current situation.

“I-I play piano. And I volunteer at an animal shelter.” A ghost of a smile flickers across her face. “There’s this three-legged pit bull named Moxie. She’s my favorite.”

The van slams into a pothole, sending a sharp jolt through my body. Pain flares in my ribs, making me gasp. Aria winces beside me, her whimper cutting through the silence. The rough ride turns every bump into agony, and our bruised bodies rattle against the cold metal floor. Our brief moment of calm is gone, replaced by the relentless ache of every jarring hit.

“Hey,” I say quickly. “Tell me more about Moxie. What’s she like?”

As Aria talks, her voice fades into the background, overtaken by the drone of the engine and the steady hum of tires. I’m trying to figure it out—trying to piece together where we are, but it’s useless. No windows. No landmarks. Just the dim interior of this van and the ache in my body.

We hit another bump, and my head spins with the disorientation. A left turn earlier, I think—maybe? Then, straight for what feels like forever. Now, a sharp right. It’s all a blur, like trying to solve a puzzle with pieces missing, my mind foggy from being knocked out.

Could we be heading north toward the bridges? South? I don’t know. It’s like grasping at smoke. Every second that passes, the city slips further from my understanding.

A phone rings, shrill and jarring.

“Yeah?” the gruffer voice answers. A pause. “No, no problems. Yeah, we got her, picked up a stray… The rich princess and some street rat who tried to play hero.”

My jaw clenches at yet another insult, but I force myself to stay still, listening intently.

The guy in the passenger seat grunts into his phone. “Nah, they’re secured. Headed to the drop point now. ETA—about an hour.”

An hour. Sixty minutes to figure out a way out of this mess.

The call ends with a click. “Boss wants us to pick up the pace. No stops.”

The van swerves, picking up speed, and the road underneath shifts—bumpier, rougher. The hum of the tires dulls, and the air feels heavier. I know this sound. I know this route.

“Better not hit any traffic near the Meatpacking District,” the driver mutters. “You know how it gets this time of day.”

My stomach twists. Of course. The Meatpacking District. I know it all too well. I used to haunt those streets, hiding out in abandoned warehouses, stealing what I could just to survive.

That place was my prison and my sanctuary for too many years until I finally clawed my way out. Now, I barely scrape by, paying rent for a shitty little apartment in another part of town—better than the warehouses but still a far cry from freedom.

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