Page 2 of Until You Break

When I wake, I’mon something cold and hard, the roughness digging into my skin. The air is thick, stale, and every breath feels like swallowing dust. My head throbs, the ache pulsing and when I blink, my vision swims as I try to take in my surroundings.

I’m in an open cell similar to a police holding cell. There’s no bed, but there’s a toilet in the far corner. It’s dark, but I can just make out a single metal door apart from the cell. There’s a tiny grate at the top of the door, just big enough to let in a sliver of light.

Panic claws at my chest as I push myself up, every muscle in my body screaming in protest.

I’ve been taken.

My hand goes instinctively to my pocket, but it’s empty—my phone, my mace, my taser… all gone. They took everything. I squeeze my hands into fists, feeling my nails bite into my palms. My heart pounds, a heavy, frantic beat that drowns out everything else.

I peer into the dim light, squinting at the darkness until I see a row of bars separating my cell from another.

“Hey… are you… are you okay?”

For a second, I don’t respond, the sound so surreal I wonder if I’m imagining it. But then he asks me again, louder this time, and I realize there’s someone else here.

“I… I don’t know.” My voice shakes, a faint quiver I can’t quite suppress. “Where are we?”

He lets out a bitter laugh, the kind that holds no humor. “Hell, if I had to guess. Not exactly the place you book for a vacation.”

I push myself closer to the bars, peering until I can just make out a figure slumped against the wall of his cell, his face obscured by shadows. There’s something about his voice that cuts through the fog in my mind.

“Do you know… why we’re here?” I ask, forcing myself to sound braver than I feel.

He’s silent for a moment, a pause that stretches, heavy and tense. “No. But it doesn’t matter. These people… they don’t care about ‘why.’ They just… take. And they don’t let go.”

The chill in his voice sends a shiver down my spine. I don’t know him, don’t know what he’s been through, but I feel an odd connection to him, a strange comfort in the knowledge that I’m not alone in this nightmare.

“What’s your name?” I ask, trying to focus on anything other than the fear clawing at my throat.

He hesitates, like he’s weighing whether to answer, but then he sighs; a soft, resigned sound. “Dominic.”

“Aria.” I don’t know why I offer it, but somehow, saying my name makes me feel… real, like I’m holding onto a piece of myself they haven’t stolen yet.

The cold concrete presses into my palms as I try to steady myself, my mind still swimming with the aftershocks of whatever just happened. My whole body feels heavy, but I forcemyself to breathe, to keep control. I need to keep it together. I’m trapped, locked in a cell, but at least I’m not alone.

“How long have you been here?” My voice wavers, even though I hate the way it sounds so fragile. I want strength and control, but neither feels within reach.

I watch as he moves forward, sliding closer to the bars that separate us. The scent of pine needles and motor oil envelops me and I turn to finally look at him properly. The light catches his face now, bringing him into focus. He’s young, maybe my age, with dark hair that’s a little too long, a hint of scruff along his jaw, and eyes that glint green in the darkness.

Strong, too, by the looks of him. Muscular. Dressed in a black hoodie and black jeans, there’s something almost haunting in his gaze, like he’s seen too much already.

“A week, give or take,” he says, voice flat, matter-of-fact. “It’s hard to keep track in here. I don’t see the sun, don’t know if it’s day or night half the time. Just snippets of conversations, the masked guys talking about… deliveries. That’s all I know.” He leans his back against the bars, head tilted toward me, studying me like he’s trying to gauge if I can handle what he’s about to say next.

“Deliveries?” I echo, the word slipping out before I can stop it. It sits wrong in my head, twisting into something ugly. “What… what does that mean?”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, fingers threading through the dark strands. “It means they’re waiting for someone to come for us,” he says. “Three girls were in here before you—your age, from what I could tell. They were here one day, gone the next. Just like that. Then you showed up.”

A cold, sick feeling settles in my stomach, twisting tighter with each word he says. Three girls in one week, give or take. I can feel the blood draining from my face, my vision starting to blur as panic surges up, hard and fast. My hand slips around the crossdangling from around my neck and the walls around me seem to close in, squeezing the air from my lungs.

“So… they’re going to…?”

“Hey.” His voice cuts through the spiral. “Look at me.”

I force myself to lift my gaze, finding his eyes through the bars. He’s calm, steady, like he’s done this before, like he knows exactly what to say to keep me from falling apart.

“Breathe,” he says calmly. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. Slow it down.”

I try, but my lungs are barely cooperating, my breaths coming in short, jagged gasps. “I… I can’t—”

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