Chapter 27 (Anna’s POV)

  The afternoon sky crouched low over downtown, clouds the color of rotting bruises pressed against splintered high-rises. I wheeled my overloaded bicycle past overturned taxis and the husks of streetlamps, the loot-bag on my hip thumping like a second heartbeat. Diamond cuff links, a sapphire watch, three neat rolls of twenties—enough treasure to keep Joshua’s building plans marching forward.

  A lone plaza stretched ahead, the same copper-stained stones where Joshua had once flickered into this nightmare world. I slowed, scanning for movement. Wind rattled a tangle of “DON’T WALK” signs. Silence. Safe enough, I told myself, and pushed on.

  Something tapped my skull—light, like a fingertip—followed by a sting in the side of my neck. I slapped at the spot, felt a stubby dart buried under skin. A hiss of compressed air echoed, then the world tilted sideways. The plaza smudged into gray smear; I hit my knees, loot-bag spilling. Darkness slammed the door behind my eyes.

  Heat, first—radiant, reeking of kerosene. Then voices.

  “Look what we’ve got here.”

  “Fresh meat, boys. And she’s loaded.”

  Pain crystallized around my wrists, bound behind a cold steel column. My boots no longer touched the ground—ropes looped high, forcing shoulders to scream. Torchlight flickered, showing the hollow of an underground parking deck. Four shapes ringed a battery lantern: leather-clad Anarchists in brown scarves, scavenged biker gear studded with screw heads.

  My weapons—compound bow, short sword, knife—lay in a tidy pile near their boots. Mohawk, a lean man with rust-red hair, lifted the bow and whistled. “Carbon limbs, tactical cam—classy.”

  A buzz-cut woman pawed through my loot-bag, diamonds scattering through her fingers. “Little goblin’s been busy. And look at all this cash.”

  I swallowed blood-slick spit. “Trade goods. Let me go; you keep half.”

  Laughter peeled off concrete. Mohawk crouched, knife tip tilting my chin. “We keep it all. You, too.” Metal pressed to throat, cold enough to stop breath. “Boss pays best for survivors. And he’s got a real taste for pretty things like you.”

  Rope fibers burned into skin; I tested them, found no slack. My shoulders ached from suspension. I forced stillness—no point chafing wrists raw before a chance emerged. Around me, the garage reeked of damp dust, stale gasoline, and bodies that had worn the same armor for weeks.

  The Anarchists inventoried their prize: nine lots of jewelry, loose cash, eight pearls—my careful haul of two brutal weeks. Each gem felt like a promise slipping through my fingers.

  “Pack up,” Mohawk ordered. “Sun’s dropping. Cart’s topside.” Buzz-cut slung my loot-bag. Another thug—broad shoulders, pox scars on his jaw—tested the rope holding me, gave a satisfied grunt.

  “She’s a feisty one,” he said, running a grimy hand over my thigh. “The boss is gonna love breaking her in.”

  I flinched at his touch, but he just laughed, squeezing harder. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’ll learn to like it.”

  Do not beg. I steadied breathing, catalogued the scene: eight-foot climb behind me to an access ramp choked by overturned sedans; side tunnel barred by welded rebar; a concrete pillar cracked enough to wedge a blade—if I had one. But I had nothing. Survival meant patience now.

  Dusk seeped through ventilation grates as they finished loading crates onto a rust-stained utility dolly. Mohawk clicked off the lantern; gloom thickened. Two of them hauled me upright by the ropes. Pain jarred through arms, but I bit back a sound.

  They looped extra cord around my ankles, leaving a foot’s slack—enough to walk, not run. Buzz-cut shoved me forward. “Move, goblin.”

  We climbed the ramp into open air. Evening painted the sky with bruise-purples; wind dragged burned-plastic stench through shattered avenues. My captors navigated alleys, always two ahead, two behind. My pulse thundered, but I kept cadence, counting steps on cracked asphalt—fifty, then a hundred. Unlikely routes, narrow lanes; they knew how to avoid Empire patrols.

  At a burned-out bus depot they paused, lashing me to a bent signpost while they checked the road. Torchlight accented the ruin: bus husks collapsed like shed skins, seats charred, advertisements melted into psychedelic drips. Graffiti scrawled across metal panels: EAT THE RICH, ANARCHY FOREVER, a crude crown dripping red.

  Mohawk knelt, checked the knots. “If you chew through rope,” he said, “I’ll chew through tendons.” He tapped my knee with the flat of his knife and strode away.

  Buzz-cut remained, leaned against a shattered timetable, cleaning dirt from under her nails with a spike. Her gaze roamed me, appraising. “You’ll fetch more if you keep quiet.”

  I met her stare. “And if I don’t?”

  A thin smile. “Still fetch plenty. Just with fewer teeth. And maybe a few less fingers.” She held up her spike, running it along my arm. “The boss likes his toys to be... compliant.”

  Night deepened; breeze carried distant gunfire. The knot in my gut tightened. Joshua would search, but gate-time flowed differently. Even if he returned tomorrow, hours here stretched long enough for me to vanish behind Anarchist barricades.

  Patience. Watch. Learn their route.

  They marched again, through an underpass ringing with bat wings. At each intersection, Mohawk whistled a coded note; unseen sentries whistled back. Territory lines. Headquarters could not be far.

  A final turn opened onto an old garment-district loading bay. Cargo doors gaped, their overhead signage char-black but still legible: MEYER & SON TEXTILES. Generator light bled from inside, orange and desperate.

  Stacks of pallets formed ramparts; razor wire coiled across doorway edges. Two sentries with pump-shotguns waved us through. The interior stank of grease fires, sweat, and dust-clogged fabric. Sewing tables had been pushed back to form crude stalls. Anarchists haggled over ammo belts, meth tablets, and tattered comic books. In a corner, a cage of chain-link held half a dozen living captives—wild-eyed, rope-burned.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  My escort shoved me toward the cage. A lanky guard unlocked the hasp. Buzz-cut pressed my loot-bag to her chest like a child hugging candy. “Boss’ll weigh it once the auction’s done. And then he’ll weigh you.”

  Iron door clanged. Inside, the cage smelled of urine and fear. A teenage boy with dried blood on his cheek whispered, “Please—are you with the Empire?” I shook my head. His shoulders sagged.

  Outside the mesh, Mohawk raised a fist, silencing the floor. “Fresh take,” he announced. “Pearls, jewels, and prime labor. Boss at first light. And he’s got a special eye for pretty things.”

  Laughter rippled. Someone cranked a portable radio; out belched discordant punk, masking distant screams echoing through the mill floors.

  I pressed back against cold chain-link. Wrist ropes burned, but adrenaline kept pain distant. My mind flicked to Joshua’s face—the worry lines at the corners of his eyes, the way he ran numbers under his breath. I pictured his hammer resting by the copper door, the hundred-pound buggy of supplies waiting for my return.

  Patience, I told myself. Bide time. There would be another opening, another slip—maybe during the shift change, maybe when they moved us to “auction.” For now, I memorized guard pacing, noted loose bolts in cage anchor plates, watched which keys hung from which belts.

  Overhead, fluorescent tubes flickered, whining in failing ballasts. Dust motes drifted like ash. The Anarchists exhaled a collective stink of cheap liquor and stale adrenaline, mocking one another in snarling camaraderie. Mohawk and Buzz-cut vanished through an office door—taking my bow, my sword, my pearls with them.

  But they had not taken my resolve. Tomorrow they would learn that a goblin robbed of her hoard fights twice as hard to win it back. And I would not go down without a fight. Not while I still had breath in my lungs and fire in my veins. Not while there was still a chance to escape the clutches of these monsters and find my way back to Joshua.

  As the night wore on, the sounds of the Anarchists grew louder, more raucous. They drank and laughed, their voices echoing through the cavernous space. I could hear the occasional scream from the other captives, the sound of flesh meeting flesh as they were beaten into submission. The air grew thick with the smell of sweat and blood, and I knew that I was in for a long, brutal night.

  But I would not give in to fear. I would not let them break me. I would bide my time, wait for the right moment, and then I would strike. I would fight with every ounce of strength I had, and I would not stop until I was free.

  As I lay there, bound and helpless, I thought of Joshua. I thought of his strong arms, his gentle touch, and the way he looked at me with such love and devotion. I knew that he would come for me, that he would never give up hope. And I knew that I had to be strong, for both of us. I had to survive, no matter what it took.

  The night wore on, and the sounds of the Anarchists began to fade. One by one, they stumbled off to find a place to sleep, leaving only a few sentries to keep watch. I listened to their snores, their muttered dreams, and I knew that this was my chance.

  Slowly, carefully, I began to work at the ropes binding my wrists. The fibers were rough and coarse, and they bit into my skin as I twisted and turned, trying to find a weak spot. But I did not give up. I could not give up.

  After what felt like hours, I finally felt the rope begin to give way. With a final, desperate tug, I pulled my hands free, wincing as blood rushed back into my fingers. I quickly untied the ropes around my ankles, my heart pounding in my chest.

  I looked around, taking stock of my surroundings. The sentries were slumped over, their weapons within reach. I knew that I had to act fast, before they woke up and realized that I was gone.

  I crept forward, my eyes locked on the nearest sentry. He was a burly man, his breath coming in loud, ragged snores. I reached out, my hand shaking as I wrapped it around the handle of his shotgun. I could feel the cold metal against my palm, and I knew that this was my chance.

  But as I lifted the weapon, I heard a noise behind me. I turned, my heart leaping into my throat, and saw one of the other Anarchists standing there, a wicked grin on his face.

  “Going somewhere, pretty thing?” he sneered, taking a step closer.

  I raised the shotgun, my fingers trembling as I tried to remember how to aim. But before I could pull the trigger, he lunged at me, his hands wrapping around my throat.

  I struggled, kicking and screaming, but he was too strong. He pinned me to the ground, his weight pressing down on me as he leaned in close, his breath hot and foul on my face.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” he growled, his hands roaming over my body. “Not until the boss has had his fill of you, then you will make a tasty little meal for the boys.”

  I could feel the tears streaming down my face as I fought to free myself, but it was no use. He was too strong, too powerful. And as I lay there, helpless and terrified, I knew that I was truly and utterly at his mercy.

  But even as the darkness began to claim me, I refused to give in to despair. I refused to let them break me, to let them take away my dignity and my strength. I would fight, with every ounce of my being, until my very last breath.