It's Dangerous Out There

Aria's POV

Years ago

It was a Saturday night. The bar pulsed with noise—shouting, laughter, the thumping beat of music that rattled your bones.

Strobe lights cut across the room like blades, and the air was thick with the mingling scents of perfume, cigarette smoke, and alcohol. It choked me, made it hard to breathe.

Before coming here, I'd downed a handful of hangover pills, praying I could hold my liquor long enough to sell more drinks tonight.

That was how I made a living—selling alcohol on commission. The more I sold, the more I earned.

But in places like this, business was rarely just business. Lately, the men didn't want to pay for the drinks—they wanted to see us drink them. They weren't buying alcohol. They were buying control. Amusement.

And we, the salesgirls, were just part of the entertainment.

I knew that. And I still did it. Because I had to.

But tonight, I'd gone too far.

The alcohol hit me hard. One second, I was trying to make another sale; the next, my vision blurred, and the floor tilted beneath me.

I stumbled toward the restroom, barely making it to the toilet before I dropped to my knees and vomited violently.

My stomach twisted like someone had their hand wrapped around it, squeezing. Nothing came up except bitter bile.

I collapsed on the cold tile floor, forehead pressed against it, my body shaking uncontrollably. Toilets flushed all around me—mine, someone else's, I couldn't tell anymore.

I don't know how long I stayed there before I managed to move. Slowly, painfully, I pushed myself up, one hand braced against the wall. My legs trembled under me, barely able to support my weight. My head felt like it was packed with cotton. The buzzing in my ears was constant.

Voices filtered through the haze. I couldn't make out the words, just the rhythm—people searching for someone. Calling out. Laughing.

I staggered forward, still hugging the wall. My stomach burned, and every step sent nausea clawing up my throat. I didn't care what they were saying. I just wanted to get out.

And then—everything spun.

Without warning, someone grabbed me from behind and hoisted me into the air. I let out a strangled gasp, but no sound came.

I was slung over someone's shoulder like a rag doll, my stomach pressed hard against them, making my nausea flare.

"She's not one of ours," a voice said hesitantly.

"So what?" a woman sneered. "She's blackout drunk. Won't remember A DAMN THING tomorrow."

Panic snapped through me like lightning.

In bars like this, it wasn't unheard of for drunk girls to go missing—too far gone to scream, too weak to fight.

Everyone's heard the stories.

Doesn't matter the city, the country, the continent—there's always someone lurking, waiting to drag a girl away the moment she lets her guard down.

God… don't tell me tonight I became that story.

The thought slammed into me like ice water.

My buzz snapped in half.

Panic surged in its place.

I tried to move, to fight, but my limbs felt like they'd been filled with cement. My arms wouldn't cooperate, and my legs—useless. I couldn't even lift my head.

I was being carried—thrown over someone's shoulder like a sack of flour. His shoulder dug into my stomach, jostling me with every step. The pressure made the nausea worse, bile rising in my throat.

I wanted to scream.

I wanted to run.

But all I could do was hang there, limp and helpless, the world spinning sideways as they dragged me into the dark.

The mattress dipped beneath me, the world spinning as I tried to push myself up. My knees gave out beneath me, and I slumped to the floor, hitting the ground hard.

I heard a click—the door shutting.

I bit down on the tip of my tongue until I tasted blood. The sharp, metallic tang jolted me a little more awake. I couldn't let this happen. I had to get out.

My back was drenched in cold sweat, my clothes sticky and clinging to me. I forced myself to stand, grabbing the edge of the bed for support.

Then I heard footsteps. The door opened again.

I froze.

A man stepped inside—bare-chested, his skin glistening like he'd just come out of the shower. Water dripped from his hair onto his broad shoulders. His eyes landed on me.

And in that moment, everything stopped.

He looked at me with disgust. Cold, raw, unmistakable disgust.

I must've looked like hell—smeared makeup, tangled hair, clothes clinging to me, neckline too low, skirt too short. Pathetic.

He walked over and grabbed a towel from the couch, tossed it at me without a word.

"Get out," he said flatly.

I flinched, catching the towel instinctively. Before I could say anything, he disappeared into the bathroom and slammed the door shut.

I wanted to leave. God, I wanted to run.

But I couldn't. My legs wouldn't move. I was like a puppet with its strings cut. Trembling, I clutched the armrest of the couch and pulled myself up again.

One step. Pain flared through my knee as I slipped and hit the ground. I barely managed to catch myself.

I couldn't go out there—not like this. Not into the chaos of the bar. Not when I couldn't stand straight.

I looked around the room—foreign, unfamiliar, but at least it was closed off from the outside. Whoever this man was… he hadn't touched me. He didn't look like the type to take advantage.

He looked like he wanted nothing more than to be left alone.

Maybe that was the safest place I could be right now.

I dragged myself to the table, picked up a glass of ice water, and downed it in one go. The cold shocked my senses, made me shiver violently—but it helped. Just a little.

I heard the bathroom door open behind me. The man stepped out, now dressed, his towel gone. I turned and hesitated before walking toward him.

I raised a hand and knocked lightly on the doorframe.

He saw me and immediately scowled.

"I told you to leave."

"I know…" My voice trembled. "Please, sir. Just let me stay here for a bit. It's dangerous out there…"

He yanked his arm away from me.

"Not my problem," he snapped.

He threw his damp clothes aside, marched to the door, and flung it open. "Three minutes. If you're still here, you'll regret it."

I tried to beg again, but the words stuck in my throat. My knees buckled beneath me, and I crumpled to the floor.

I barely registered the sound of him cursing, or the slam of the door as he shut it again. My vision blurred, my body burning and freezing at once.

I think he said something. But I couldn't make sense of it. My mind was slipping, drifting...

And then I felt arms scoop me up.

He threw me back onto the bed.

And then—nothing.

Darkness swallowed me whole.