Into the Lion's Den
The rope finally gave way.
Elena collapsed forward, her wrists bruised and bleeding, but free. The shard of glass clattered to the floor, slick with her blood. Her entire body trembled, soaked in sweat and desperation.
Now or never.
The room was dark and silent. She didn't know how long she had before someone returned, but if they found her unbound, she wouldn't get another chance.
Elena tiptoed to the door, praying it wasn't locked. She gripped the handle, turned it slowly—
Click.
It opened.
Her heart leapt. She slipped into the hallway.
There were two doors to her left, one to the right, and a staircase at the end leading downward. Everything smelled damp, moldy. There were muffled voices coming from below—probably the thugs. She couldn't go that way. She needed another exit. A window. A back door. Anything.
She turned right and entered the nearest room. It looked like an unused office—dusty desks, broken chairs, no phones, no weapons.
The next room was worse—bare except for a broken shelf and an old mattress.
She went to the third door and tried the handle.
"Where do you think you're going?"
The voice froze her blood.
Scarface.
She spun around, only to feel a hard slap crack across her cheek. Her head snapped to the side. The next second, a punch landed in her stomach, knocking the air from her lungs.
Elena collapsed to the floor, gasping, clutching her ribs.
"You really thought you could escape?" he hissed. "You're dumber than you look."
She coughed, curling inward, trying to shield herself. But he grabbed her by the hair and dragged her down the hall like a rag doll. Her skin scraped against the dirty floor, the pain secondary to the terror pounding in her skull.
He threw her back into the room, slamming the door shut behind him.
"You were warned. Keep this up, and next time I won't be so gentle."
Gentle? The word was a mockery.
Elena didn't respond. She just lay there, holding her stomach, her face throbbing where he'd struck her.
Eventually, he returned with others—three women, their expressions hard, eyes cold. They were dressed plainly, but moved with mechanical precision.
"Strip her," Scarface ordered.
The women didn't hesitate. One yanked her up while the others pulled at her clothes.
"Don't touch me!" Elena shouted, struggling.
But they didn't speak. They just worked like they'd done this many times before. They were rough, jerking her arms, pulling off her shirt, yanking her jeans down. Elena tried to fight, but her strength was gone.
They threw a cold towel at her and forced her toward a bucket of water in the corner. She washed herself silently under their cold stares. No privacy. No dignity.
When she was clean, they handed her a silk nightdress. No undergarments. Nothing else.
She stood there, arms crossed tightly over her chest.
One of them stepped forward and smacked her lightly across the face. "Put it on, or we'll put it on for you."
Shaking, Elena obeyed.
Then they grabbed her arms and led her down another hallway.
"This is the one," one of the women muttered.
They stopped outside a thick wooden door.
Elena's heart pounded so hard she thought it would shatter her ribs.
Scarface was waiting. He opened the door, revealing nothing but blackness inside.
She resisted.
They shoved her forward.
The door slammed behind her. She heard the click—locked from the outside.
She was alone.
In the dark.
---
The room was cold and eerily quiet.
Elena stayed still for a long moment, adjusting to the darkness. Her bare feet pressed against the cold floor. Her nightdress clung to her damp skin, offering little comfort.
The only light came from a thin slit near the ceiling—too small to crawl through. No furniture. No sounds. Just the thick, suffocating weight of anticipation.
She tiptoed toward the walls, feeling her way around. She was looking for anything—an escape, a weapon, a miracle.
The window had iron bars. Thick. Impossible to break.
She crouched low, searching the floor. Maybe a sharp tile, a broken object... but there was nothing. The room had been prepared—cleared of any chance for defense.
They want me helpless.
Panic crept in.
She forced herself to breathe slowly.
She wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of seeing her break.
She huddled against the far wall, curling her knees to her chest, her fingers trembling. Her body ached, but her mind refused to shut down. If someone was coming... if this "client" appeared...
She'd fight.
She'd scream.
She'd make enough noise to get attention—even if it meant dying in the process.
Minutes passed.
Then hours.
No one came.
At some point, the tension gave way to exhaustion. Her eyelids grew heavy, the cold wall at her back lulling her into a restless daze. Sleep overtook her—not from comfort, but from collapse.
Curled on the floor, Elena drifted into unconsciousness.
But even sleep could not protect her from the nightmare.