WARNING:Violence, abduction, forced captivity, psychological tension, sexualized situations (implied), dark themes.
Quinn's heart pounded so hard against her chest, the wind slicing through her as she ran through the crowd of drunken people under the dim, dark light. Her breath was shortening, and she knew she would soon collapse, but determination fuelled her—after leaving home, she would never allow herself to be imprisoned and punished for a crime she didn't commit, not by the lunatic chasing her!
The door was in sight ahead, and hope lent her strength.
Quinn squeezed through the crowd, which had no idea why two burly men were searching among them.
Her hand shot out, reaching for the curtain that separated the world inside from the world outside—only for her hair to be yanked harshly.
"Come here, you little ghost!" growled the man wearing a masquerade mask.
Pain shot through Quinn's scalp.
Her whole body went rigid with shock.
Quinn twisted and flailed, trying to break free, but another man—his partner—was already closing in.
"Let go of me!" she screamed, struggling wildly, but he scooped her up effortlessly, lifting her effortlessly onto his shoulder.
The sudden lift made her stomach lurch, and she kicked and thrashed, slamming her fists and heels against his back, clawing at his arms, desperate to slip free. Every instinct screamed to run, to escape, and she tried to throw herself to the ground, knowing she might get hurt.
"Come on, we've got five minutes," the man in the masquerade mask said, leading her behind the crowd, which laughed and carried on as if they hadn't seen a thing—or perhaps hadn't even cared to look in the first place.
Quinn continued to fight with everything she had. As she twisted and slipped, the man tightened his grip, and pain shot through her shoulders and arms. He forced her to stay put, making her struggle even harder.
There was still a chance. There must be!
With a burst of desperation, Quinn drove her knee up into his chest, then pushed with all her strength, trying to wrench herself from his hold.
"This little bitch!" the man in the masquerade mask yelled.
Her plan worked—for a moment.
Quinn stumbled forward, lungs burning, heart hammering, and managed to crawl away a few steps. But it wasn't enough.
The two men quickly closed in, and before she could truly escape, they caught her, pinning her arms with brutal force.
Pain radiated through her shoulders and ribs as they locked her in their grip.
"You better wish someone buys you out of here, little ghost!" the man in the masquerade mask spat, as he and his partner dragged Quinn backstage.
Going through the crowd once again, there, a beautiful woman in an almost-naked dress performed for the crowd, who threw money, screamed, and indulged in the lavish secret life of theirs in the brothel.
Quinn bit her lip as they neared the backstage. She dumped all her weight, refusing to lift a toe to make it harder for them, making every second of the drag as difficult as possible, but the exhaustion from running all day was catching up fast.
Four more girls were in the same state as her, locked arm-in-arm with the two men. Most of them had brown hair, were tall, and had such tender, angelic faces, with tears still streaking down their cheeks. They bit their lips in distress, the only way they could suppress the crushing weight of this unfortunate fate.
There was still a way out, Quinn thought, scanning for an escape.
"Where the hell is the girl?" a voice said from behind, "Let me see her face!"
The man carrying her twisted suddenly. Quinn couldn't keep her balance. A cold hand gripped her chin, tilting her face upward.
Quinn stared into her cold grey eyes as the much older woman in front of her studied her, tilting her face left and right.
"What luck to have a rare one—a Dratynian girl," the woman breathed, her words carrying a faintly toxic fume. "They really do have the brightest hair, don't they, Malcom?"
The guy on Quinn's left nodded. "We'll get a good price for her, madam."
Quinn stared dead into those grey eyes and snapped her chin away from the woman's touch.
Madam laughed. "If not, we've got a place for her here. Let the show begin—shall we, boys?"
The crew moved into position.
The music stopped, and the entire room fell into a dead silence.
Quinn watched the woman as she grabbed the microphone, sweeping her long dress up the stairs and onto the stage, receiving an applause.
"Gentlemen, dearest gentlemen!" she screamed into the mic, "Oh, aren't we all having a lovely night here?"
The cheering erupted, deafening. Quinn's stomach churned at the sound, and the madam's laughter—high, hollow, and chilling—clawed, giving her a goosebump.
"Now, now… aren't we all waiting for this part of the night?" the woman crooned.
The crowd roared back, drunk on the spectacle, slapping tables.
Quinn felt her chest tighten.
"We might have a surprise tonight—one that only a heavy bag of gold could buy," Madam paused, letting the suspense hang. "She is… quite rare to come by in this part of the land."
A murmur of excitement ran through the crowd.
Quinn's breath came faster as the man slowly pushed her up the stairs leading to the stage.
"Don't even think about running," the masquerade man warned.
Her eyes darted to her waist, where the cold cylinder of a dark, lethal weapon rested. One pull of the trigger, and all her hope would vanish.
The other girls were probably facing the same fate. The one directly in front of her now stood tall, wiping her tears and forcing a stiff smile.
"Gentlemen, please welcome tonight's lady!" Madam announced, her voice dripping with sinister glee.
The claps and cheers of the crowd signaled the next move.
The crew pushed each girl onto the stage, Quinn feeling the cold barrel of a pistol pressed into her back, forcing her to step up. And there she was—under the blinding stage lights.
The crowd whistled.
Coins and jewels rained down, some landing at her bare feet.
Squinting against the brightness, Quinn scanned the stage.
"Now, now," Madam's voice rang out, sharp and commanding. "We shall not let time slip away. The night is no longer young, and we want you—the winner—to taste what you will soon own!"
Another roar from the crowd echoed in Quinn's ear.
Quinn glanced to her side. Madam now stood beside the tallest, honey-colored skin and long, wavy brown hair girl who is trembling. She stared at the floor, her dress stained red, her hands marked with wounds.
"A widow, from the north part of town… still so young," Madam cooed, running a hand over the girl's tear-streaked face and slowly tilting it for the crowd to see. The girl looked far too young for a widow. "Shall the bidding begin?"
"300 jules!"
"350 jules!"
"400 jules!"
The numbers climbed steadily.
Quinn's breath quickened as the reality of the girl's fate sank in.
"1,200 jules."
"Any more bidding?"
"2,500 jules?"
The girl continued to cry.
Quinn bit her lip and glanced at the other two girls—one forced a creepy, fragile smile to hide the sorrow in her eyes, while the other trembled, her leg shaking. The stage was tightly surrounded by Madam's loyal crew, leaving no way out.
"3,000 jules, going once!" Madam intoned, slowly gripping the girl's hand and nudging her forward. "3,000 jules, going twice…"
The room fell into a tense, suffocating silence.
"3,000…" Madam paused. Quinn's gaze locked on the bidder standing confidently at the front of the stage, sign in his hand. "…well, congratulations, Mr. Mayerson! She is yours!"
The applause roared as the man leapt onto the stage, gripping the girl's hand, taking her off the stage, as quick as he can walk with those short legs.
Quinn shifted her weight on her feet—and froze. The barrel of a gun was now aimed squarely at her.
"Now, now," Madam purred, moving deliberately toward her. "Look what we have here."
Quinn's chest rose sharply as a cold hand pressed onto her shoulder, slowly caressing, sending shivers down her spine.
"Pale… light hair… icy eyes… oh, she's a fighter, this one," Madam murmured, tilting Quinn's face from side to side. Quinn struggled, trying to resist.
"1,000 jules," called a voice from the back of the crowd.
"Oh my, why the rush, gentlemen?" Madam cooed, circling her.
"1,500 jules," another voice shouted, louder this time.
"Is anyone interested in going for 3,000 jules—for the Dratynian girl?"
"3,500 jules!"
Quinn bit her lip. Her toes curled. Her fingers clenched the hem of her torn shirt.
"4,500 jules!"
What if this was it?After all the running, all the fighting…
"5,500 jules!"
Maybe this was the end.
"7,500 jules!"
She should've died long ago.
"8,000 jules!"
The number rang out like it is her death sentence.
The price kept climbing. Quinn forced herself to hold back tears, her chest tight as Madam screamed in excitement, demanding more bidders.
"30,000 jules!" a man with a monocle called out, older than her late father.
Quinn's throat went dry.
She swallowed hard, stunned by the price of her life.
Strangely, the crowd fell silent after that bidding.
Madam froze, wide-eyed, stuttering into her microphone. "A-A-Anyone… want to bid against—"
"50,000 jules, and I'm paying her now, Ethel."
Quinn's heart seized.
Madam froze, her voice caught in her throat.
The rest of the gentlemen fell silent.
Dressed impeccably, the man lifted his monocle, cleaned it slowly, and spoke with unnerving calm: "Please… bring her to your game room, Ethel. My master doesn't like to wait that much."
Game room? Quinn's mind raced. Confusion and fear tangled in her mind.
What the hell is happening?
The crew returned on stage all of the sudden, lifting her by her arms.
Quinn's face went blank in stunned disbelief, her body almost numb as they carried her behind the stage. She heard Madam coughed into the microphone, attempting to salvage the crowd's energy, forcing laughter and claps back into the room, and so the bidding continue without her.
How long does it takes for someone to die from biting their tongue?
Would they still shot her if she tried to ran?
The path to the game room was dark, lit only by lanterns placed along the floor. In front of this path is the red door, the game room.
The door swung open. Quinn was forced to the ground, stumbling as she tried to stay on her feet, and it slammed shut behind her.
A pair of polished leather shoes appeared in front of her—and then walked away.
Quinn followed, realizing the shoes belonged to the old man who had bid on her.
The old man walked silently, stopping behind a figure seated in a large, luxurious red velvet armchair at the center of the dimly lit room.
Quinn stared at him, the man in the chair.
He was impeccably dressed in a dark, sophisticated suit. His short, bright blonde hair was neatly styled, and his eyes—long, sharp, and possibly grey—fixed on her with a cold precision.
A Noble? in Vandral?
A chessboard lay before him.
A faint, cunning smile tugged at his lips, but his eyes were hard, sharp, and merciless, locking onto Quinn with a look that was equal parts contempt and mockery.
His gloved hand hovered over the chessboard, gripping a queen piece delicately yet deliberately.
"Would you like to play a game with me, Lady Quinn Gray?"