Page 75 of Rescuing Rebel

Hank’s voice breaks the silence, his tone flat and grim. “Look at this.” He holds up a medical chart with photographs, his hand trembling. “These records detail extensive surgeries. Faces, fingerprints, dental records… All altered.”

It’s the photographs that chill me to the bone. Photographs of girls and women, before and after surgery, their faces altered and identities erased.

The room grows colder as I take in the full scope of the operation. Not only are they trafficking humans, but they’re turning them into untraceable ghosts.

“What else is going on here?” Walt’s face is ashen as he examines the instruments. “These aren’t just regular surgical tools.”

“They’re not just trafficking them; they’re changing them. Making them disappear completely. Erasing them from existence,” I state the obvious and shake my head, the pieces coming together in a horrifying puzzle.

A shiver runs down my spine as the magnitude of the situation hits me.

The room spins, and I grip the edge of a table to steady myself. This is bigger and more insidious than we ever thought.

Hank, voice filled with urgency, says, “We have to stop this.”

I nod, feeling the weight of our discovery. This isn’t just a mission anymore. It’s a crusade, a fight for the very soul of humanity.

But our grim discoveries don’t end there.

We stumble upon another room adjacent to the OR, which stops us dead in our tracks. It’s filled with small, empty, sterile basins, each meticulously cleaned and arranged in a neat row.

“What are these?” Walt asks, his voice catching. Stamped imprints on each basin offer an answer. There’s a heart, a liver, kidneys—one left, one right.

I can’t find the words to answer. My mind reels, trying to make sense of what we’re seeing, but the truth is too horrifying to comprehend.

Hank’s face is a mask of revulsion. He’s thinking the same thing as me. The implications are too terrible to put into words.

We leave the room, the door closing with a soft, ominous click, but the image of those basins lingers, haunting our every step.

The deeper we explore, the more monstrous the truth becomes. The shadows hold more grotesque and terrifying secrets than we ever imagined, and the nightmare has just begun.

Those empty basins will haunt me.

And then, as if in answer to our unspoken fears, agonized screams pierce the air. My blood runs cold, and bile rises in the back of my throat.

The three of us creep down a dingy hallway, searching for the origin of the terrified cries.

We pause outside a room with its door ajar. My heart pounds in my chest, every instinct screaming to rush in to protect and defend. I push on the door, just enough to peer through the narrow gap. Bile rises in my throat at what’s within.

Kaufman stalks between rows of blank-eyed girls, holding a long whip in his hand. He’s a predator among his prey. The women bear evidence of the abuse designed to break them; their clothes, torn and filthy, hang loosely from emaciated frames.

Faces smeared with grime, they bear masks of despair, but it’s their eyes that haunt me most. Hollow, defeated, robbed of all humanity, their gazes are filled with unimaginable terror.

They cower at his approach, some trembling with fear, others frozen in a submission borne from endless terror. They kneel on the cold, hard floor. Knees bruised and bloody, hands clasped tightly in a futile attempt to ward off the blows that inevitably come.

A few of the women clutch at the remnants of dresses, garments once colorful and bright but now reduced to tatters. Their hair hangs limp and matted, tangled with sweat and pain. The air is thick with the stench of hopelessness, a tangible cloud that hangs heavy over the room.

Kaufman moves with the certainty of his power over these women, and his lips twist as he surveys his handiwork. Each step is a calculated assault, each word a weapon wielded with cruel precision. He pauses before a petite brunette, her eyes wide and filled with a terror that cuts me to the core.

“Pathetic,” he sneers, his voice dripping with contempt. “You call yourself worthy? You are nothing. Less than nothing.”

Her response is a feeble attempt to defend herself, but her plea for mercy only fuels his rage. With a swift, brutal movement, he backhands her to the floor. She crumples like a broken doll, her sobs echoing through the room.

My vision reddens, and rage builds within me, a fury that threatens to consume all reason. Every fiber of my being screams to intervene, to end this monstrous display. To act now, however, would be to risk everything.

The room falls into silence. The only sound is the ragged breathing of the women and the relentless ticking of a clock on the wall. Time seems to stand still as Kaufman continues his slow, methodical assault on their dignity, stripping them of their humanity, their very souls.

My eyes pan across the room, sweeping past the rows of terrified women, and then my blood runs cold.

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