Naomi’s POV

The warehouse smelled of oil and salt, like an old shipwreck dragged onto land. Rust stained the steel beams overhead. Water dripped somewhere in the shadows with slow, deliberate patience, echoing against concrete walls.

They had moved me again. The van, then a narrow hallway, then stairs. Now I sat in a metal chair bolted to the floor.

My wrists were tied with rough rope, my ankles to the chair legs. The bag was gone, but the dim light was worse, enough to see my captors but not enough to see an exit.

Two men stood guard near a steel door, rifles hanging at their sides. Another leaned...