The first thing Bianca noticed was the smell metallic and musty, like blood mixed with damp concrete. Her head pounded with a slow, dull throb that made it hard to tell which way was up. She blinked. Everything blurred and then doubled.

She tried to sit up. Bad idea. Her shoulder screamed, and something scratched her cheek. Burlap. She was in a sack or something like one. Panic hit her chest like a punch.

Where the hell was she?

Last thing she remembered, she was locking her door. The street had gone quiet in that weird way Hell does sometimes like it’s holding its breath. Then… nothing. Just a blank spot where time should’ve been. She must’ve been grabbed. Drugged? Knocked out? Whatever it was, it’d been quick.

She shifted again. Tried to move her legs. Nothing. Ropes. Her ankles, her wrists tied tight with something rough. Her skin burned where it rubbed.

This wasn’t just a scare tactic. This was planned. Real.

She thrashed, breathing hard inside the sack. The rough fabric scraped her skin. Her injured shoulder flared so bad she nearly blacked out again. When the panic ebbed, all she could do was lay there, gasping, trying to think past the pain.

The second try went a little better. She stayed still, let her fingers explore the material binding her. Thick rope. She felt along the seam of the burlap, digging with her nails. Nothing. Wait no, there. A thread. Barely holding on.

She worked at it slowly, pretending it was a piece of clay or a stubborn canvas staple—something that needed finesse, not force. The thread finally gave. She tore a hole big enough to breathe through, then peeked out.

Dark.

Maybe the inside of a van? A storage unit? It smelled like rust and sweat and something sharp bleach, maybe. Her stomach turned.

Her shoulder burned, but she had to move.

She wriggled out through the hole and dropped to the floor with a thud that knocked the air from her lungs. Whatever vehicle this was, it was bare bones. Metal walls. No windows. No sound but the occasional drip of something in the distance.

She crawled through the dark, fingers trailing the edges of the walls until she found a seam. A panel. It shifted under her weight. Loose.

She grabbed a broken bit of metal lying nearby maybe from shelving and jammed it in. The squeal of it scraping echoed through the space. It felt too loud. Too risky. But she didn’t stop.

The panel popped.

Behind it? Night air. Real air.

She dragged herself through, blinking against a thin beam of city light. An alley. Wet. Empty. The distant sound of traffic buzzed like music to her ears. She was out. Not safe, but out.

She ran.

Or tried to. Her legs barely worked. She kept moving anyway, leaning on whatever walls and dumpsters she could find. No plan. No idea where she was. Just putting one foot in front of the other.

Eventually, she stumbled out toward a main road.

A cab rolled by. Slowed when the driver saw her.

He didn’t say anything. Just opened the door. She climbed in, shaking, her voice gone. It didn’t matter.

He drove. She didn’t even remember telling him where to go. Next thing she knew, she was at the hospital, under bright lights, surrounded by people who asked too many questions with not enough patience.

They patched her up. Stared at her like she was part of some Halloween joke gone sideways. But they didn’t laugh.

They saw the bruises. The cuts. The look in her eyes.

She wasn’t crazy.

Someone took her.