The wagon shuddered to a halt, the jolt throwing Marcus against the wall. His shoulder hit wood with a dull thud, sending a fresh spike of pain through his cramped muscles.

He'd lost track of time in the suffocating black. Hours? Days?

The air inside had turned thick, laced with the sour reek of unwashed bodies and despair.

Thomas's breathing had grown shallower, a wet rattle that echoed like a countdown.

Marcus blinked against the sudden glare as the doors swung open.

Moonlight filtered through, pale and mocking.

They weren't in the wilderness anymore. Stone walls loomed on either side, the back alley of some godforsaken town.

The smell hit him. Stale beer, rotting garbage, and something metallic, like blood scrubbed from cobbles.

"Out, you lot! Now" a bandit barked, cracking a whip against the ramp.

The sound snapped through the night air.

Marcus hauled himself up, his legs pins and needles.

He reached for Thomas, slinging the man's arm over his shoulder.

Thomas groaned, his weight sagging like a sack of wet grain.

Elara shuffled behind them, her steps mechanical, eyes fixed on the floor.

The little girl followed last, silent as a shadow.

They stumbled down the ramp into the chill.

The bandit leader... Scarface, Marcus had dubbed him in his mind, strode ahead, knocking on a reinforced door set into the wall.

It creaked open, spilling warm lamplight and the murmur of voices.

Two guards lounged inside, armored in mismatched leather, tankards in hand.

One belched, wiping foam from his beard. "Well, if it ain't old Razor. Back with another haul?"

Scarface or rather...Razor grinned, clapping the guard on the shoulder like they were sharing a pint at a tavern.

"Fresh batch, lads. Picked 'em clean off the northern road. Got laborers, a couple pretties, even a kid for the pits."

The guards laughed, a guttural rumble that made Marcus's skin crawl.

"Pits are always hungry for fresh meat," the second guard said, peering at the group.

His eyes skimmed over Elara, lingering too long. "Boss will be pleased. Last shipment was light, plague took half."

"World's full of strays," Razor chuckled. "Plenty more where these came from."

The guards waved them through, still snickering about "prime cuts" and "bargain prices." Marcus bit down on his tongue, tasting blood.

In his old life, he would have called this a negotiation breakdown.

Here, it was just business. People reduced to inventory.

They were herded down a narrow corridor, torches sputtering in iron brackets.

The walls wept moisture, the air heavy with mildew and faint screams from deeper in.

Cells lined the passage, iron-barred holes carved into stone.

Most were empty, but shadows stirred in a few, there were hollow-eyed figures who didn't even look up.

"Split them up," Razor ordered his men. "Strong ones to the labor pens. Women separate."

Marcus tensed, gripping Thomas tighter. But the bandits shoved them.

They put him, Thomas, Elara, and the girl into one cell together.

Luck? Or just laziness? The door clanged shut, the lock turning with finality.

The cell was a pit. Straw matted the floor, crusted with old filth.

A single bucket in the corner for necessities. No windows, just the dim flicker from the hall torch.

Thomas collapsed against the wall, his face ashen, sweat beading despite the cold.

Elara sank down beside him, her hands hovering over his chest like she wanted to fix him but couldn't remember how.

The girl claimed a corner, folding her legs neatly, her white dress somehow still pristine amid the grime.

She watched Marcus again, those black eyes unblinking. No fear. No questions. Just... waiting.

Marcus slid down the bars, his back scraping iron.

'Congratulations, Coach,' he thought bitterly. 'You've upgraded from cage to dungeon. Next stop: motivational seminar in the mines.'

Footsteps echoed down the hall. Heavy, deliberate.

A new figure emerged. A man in fine silk robes, rings glinting on fat fingers.

The Slave Merchant. His face was round, almost jolly, with a shrewd smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Razor straightened, bowing slightly. "Master Voss. Fresh stock, as promised."

Voss nodded, that smile widening like a crack in porcelain. "Razor, my reliable hound. Let's see what you've fetched this time."

He strolled along the cells, peering in like a shopper at a market stall. Murmurs of approval. "Strong back on that one... delicate features here... ah, a child. Versatile."

He paused at their cell, eyes sweeping over them.

"Fine products. The couple? Pity, the man seems too damaged, but she could fetch a premium in the pleasure houses.

The noble type? Educated, perhaps. Useful for scribes or... entertainment. And the girl... exquisite."

Marcus's stomach twisted.

Voss's gaze on the little girl was appraising, cold as a coin counter's.

"Excellent work," Voss said, turning to Razor. He tossed a heavy pouch that clinked with gold. "Your cut. Keep them coming."

Razor smirked, weighing the pouch. "Always a pleasure."

He sauntered off, his men trailing.

Voss lingered a moment, humming tunelessly. Then he was gone, the hall falling silent.

A whole day dragged by in that hole. Or what felt like a day, time blurred without light.

Guards brought meals twice: a wooden tray shoved through a slot.

Moldy bread, a watery stew that might have been potato once. Barely enough for one, let alone four.

They divided it meticulously.

Marcus portioned it out, his life coach instincts kicking in despite everything.

'Equity in misery,' he sneered inwardly. 'Because that's what I do, fix the unfixable.'

Elara stirred from her stupor, her movements hesitant at first.

She took her share, feeding Thomas spoonfuls with trembling hands.

She was still broken, her eyes dull, but a flicker of purpose returned. Taking care of him. Clinging to that shred.

Thomas worsened. His skin burned with fever, the rattle in his chest deepening to a gurgle. Blood flecked his lips when he coughed.

Marcus remembered trying to call for help earlier, right after they'd been locked in.

Flashback:

He'd banged on the bars, shouting for a healer, water, anything.

The guards had laughed. "You think this is a hospice, pretty boy? You're merchandise. Bought as-is or rot here. No one's paying your medical fees."

One guard, younger, with a face not yet hardened to stone, had hesitated.

Pity? Boredom? He'd slipped a waterskin through the bars.

"Make it last," he'd muttered, glancing away.

Marcus had rationed it, using most to clean Thomas's outer wounds, the splits in his skin from the club, the bruises blooming purple and black.

But he couldn't touch the internals, the shattered ribs grinding with every breath.

Elara watched him work, her expression numb.

She didn't question why a stranger or maybe a noble, by his ruined clothes—would bother.

She just let him, too hollow to protest. Confusion flickered in her eyes once or twice, but it drowned in the void.

'Why indeed?' Marcus thought, wringing out the rag.

'Because back on Earth, I fixed broken hearts with words. Here, all I can do is mop up the mess. The Author must be laughing, that bastard threw me in for comedy, now this is the punchline.'

The girl ate her tiny share without complaint, her eyes fixed on the scene. Observing. Not participating.

It unnerved him more with each passing hour. Kids should cry. Should ask for home. She just... waited.

Footsteps appeared again. Lighter this time. Voices in the hall.

Voss's oily tone, and a woman's, sharp and eager.

Marcus pressed his face to the bars, peering out.

A noble girl swept in, no older than twenty. Fine gown, jewels at her throat. Viscount's daughter, by the crest on her brooch. Her face was pretty, in a porcelain way, but her eyes... they gleamed with something dark.

Voss bowed low. "Lady Elowen. A pleasure. Seeking something specific today?"

"Always," she purred, her voice like silk over a blade. "Something fragile. Something that screams prettily."

She moved along the cells, glancing in with casual disdain. A laborer here, dismissed. A woman there, too old.

She reached theirs.

Her gaze swept over Thomas—dying, useless. Elara—broken, but perhaps mendable. Marcus—noble features, but too old for her tastes.

Then she saw the girl.

The little one's white dress glowed faintly in the torchlight. Her black eyes met Elowen's without flinching.

A smile bloomed on the noble's face, slow and hungry. Perverseness twisted in her eyes—a gleam of sadistic delight, nervous excitement bubbling beneath.

She licked her lips. "This one. How much?"

Marcus felt a chill knife down his spine. A premonition crashed over him—visions of screams, of blood, of a child broken in ways that made Elara's fate seem merciful.

'No,' he thought, dread coiling like a snake. 'Not her. Not like this.'

But the girl just tilted her head, watching Elowen with that same reptilian calm. Waiting.

.

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A/N:

Sorry for late upload and the bad quality, was very busy with preparation for my cousin's wedding.

Will improve it later.

And don't worry the next chapters will be fine

Peace out

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