chapter 3

Chapter 3

Noah

I opened my eyes slowly, but the light felt like needles stabbing into my brain. A sharp, rhythmic pain throbbed in my head, making everything around me feel heavy and distorted.

I didn't move at first.

I realized I was still lying on the exact same spot on the living room floor where I had fallen the night before. I was still wearing my school clothes, now wrinkled and stained. My school bag lay just a few feet away, its strap twisted, looking like a piece of trash someone had forgotten to pick up.

As my vision cleared, I saw the glint of broken glass. The shards from the bottle were scattered all over the floor, some of them resting dangerously close to my face.

The memory came back in a terrifying rush.

My own father had actually done it. He had swung that bottle with enough hate to break it against my skull. I touched the side of my head and felt the dried, crusty blood matted in my hair.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart, and pushed myself up. Pain shot through my entire body with even the smallest movement. My ribs felt like they were being squeezed in a vise, and my head spun so fast I thought I might get sick.

As I sat there, trying to stop the world from shaking, I noticed blurry figures standing across the room. There were two or three men I didn't recognize. They were tall and wore dark, expensive-looking clothes that didn't belong in our dirty, cramped apartment.

They were standing near my father.

For the first time in my life, I saw my father looking small. He wasn't the giant who filled the house with his screaming and his heavy footsteps. He looked tiny and pathetic. He was begging them, his voice shaking and high-pitched in a way I had never heard before.

It was a sound of pure terror.

I forced myself to stand up. My legs were weak, and I had to lean against the wall to keep from falling. I stumbled a few steps toward the group, my voice sounding scratchy and thin.

"What is going on here?" I asked.

My father didn't answer. He wouldn't even look at me. He kept his eyes fixed on the dirty carpet, his hands trembling at his sides.

One of the men turned his head. He had a hard, clean-shaven face and eyes that looked like they were made of stone. He stared straight at me for a second before turning back to my father.

"You can be free from the debt if you give us something valuable," the man said calmly. His voice was smooth, which somehow made him even scarier.

Anger rose inside me like a hot wave, cutting through my fear and physical pain. These men were in our home, threatening us, and my father was just standing there letting it happen. I stepped forward, losing my balance for a second before grabbing the man by his jacket collar.

"What do you mean by that?" I demanded. My voice shook with a mix of rage and confusion. "Who are you? What debt?"

The man didn't look angry. He didn't even look surprised. He only smiled, a slow, mocking pull of his lips that made my skin crawl.

Before I could say another word or demand another answer, my father moved. He grabbed my arm and pulled me away roughly.

Before I could regain my footing, he swung his hand and slapped me hard across the face.

The sound of the impact echoed through the room. I fell back to the ground, my head hitting the floor again. The pain from the night before mixed with this new sting, making my eyes water.

"Don't cause more problems for me!" my father shouted. His voice wasn't brave; it was full of a desperate kind of fear.

He didn't check to see if I was okay. Instead, he dropped to his knees in front of the men. He looked like a broken man.

"Please..." he whispered, his head bowed. "I'll do anything. Just let me be."

The man in the suit smirked. He leaned down and whispered something directly into my father's ear.

I stayed on the floor, breathing hard, my chest aching. I watched them, trying to make sense of the hushed words, but the room was spinning again.

My father looked at me then. It was a long, cold look. He didn't look at me like a son or even like a person. He looked at me like a piece of furniture he was tired of owning.

Then, he turned back to the men.

After what felt like forever, he gave a small, slow nod. He was agreeing to whatever they had whispered.

Before I could even process what that nod meant, the men moved. They reached down and grabbed me by my arms, lifting me off the floor as if I weighed nothing at all.

Panic finally exploded in my chest.

I fought back with every bit of strength I had left. I pushed against their solid arms and tried to twist my body free, but they were much stronger than me.

"Let me go!" I shouted, the sound cracking in the quiet room. "Father! Help me!"

I looked desperately at my father, hoping for some spark of regret or a sudden moment of bravery.

He stood there, perfectly still. He didn't say a single word. He wouldn't even meet my eyes. He just turned his face away, staring at the wall until I was no longer in his sight.

They dragged me out of the apartment. I felt my shoes scuffing against the hallway floor as they pulled me toward the stairs. We reached the street, where a sleek black car was waiting with the engine idling.

I kept struggling, kicking at their shins and shouting, "What are you doing? Stop! Someone help!"

But the street was empty, and the men were fast. They pushed me into the back seat easily. As I tried to scramble toward the opposite door to climb back out, one of them caught me and pulled me back roughly.

I felt a sudden, sharp sting in my neck. It was quick, like a bee sting.

"Quiet now," a voice said.

Almost immediately, my head felt heavy. The streetlights outside the window began to blur into long streaks of light. The world turned fuzzy, and then everything went black.

When I finally woke up, the first thing I noticed was that I couldn't move my arms. My hands were tied tightly behind my back, the rope digging into my wrists.

I tried to look around, but a thick, heavy bag covered my head. I couldn't see anything but the dark weave of the fabric. I could hear the muffled sound of a car engine. It was slowing down, the vibrations through the floor shifting as the car came to a complete stop.

The car door opened, and the cold air hit my legs. Rough hands grabbed my shoulders and dragged me out. I stumbled, my feet scraping against the ground as they forced me to walk.

"Where are you taking me?" I asked. My voice was muffled by the bag, sounding small and terrified even to my own ears.

No one answered me. The only sound was the heavy thud of their boots on the ground.

They led me inside a building. The air changed; it felt cooler and much larger. They forced me down until I was kneeling on a cold, hard floor. My knees hurt from the impact.

Then, without warning, someone pulled the bag off my head.

I blinked several times, my eyes stinging as they tried to adjust to the light. The room was massive and dimly lit by a few high-end lamps. It felt expensive and cold.

As my eyes finally cleared, I saw a man standing right in front of me.

He was shirtless. His skin was bronze and covered in intricate tattoos that ran across his broad chest and down his muscular arms.

He didn't look like the men from the apartment. He looked powerful, like something dangerous that had been invited inside. He stood there with a glass in his hand, taking a slow, calm drink while he stared down at me.

I looked up at his face.

He had a strong, cold presence that seemed to make the very air in the room feel heavier and harder to breathe. I stared at him, and for a second, I didn't know what to feel.

Fear was there, twisting in my stomach, but there was also something else. It was a strange, confusing pull—something I couldn't understand or even find a name for. It made my heart race for a reason that had nothing to do with being kidnapped.

He kept looking at me without speaking. He didn't say a word, but his eyes were dark and intense, watching me as if he were trying to read every secret hidden in my soul.