Zayn shivered, every breath tearing through his chest like shards of glass pushing against his ribcage.
The acrid, sour smell of bleach and blood filled his nose, making his stomach churn. He gagged, turning his head in an attempt to escape the stench, but there was no avoiding it.
Cough! Cough! Cough!
His uncle let out a wet, rasping cough that echoed in the cold, suffocating room.
They had been here for days. Their feet were chained, and the only light came from the small, barred window high above.
He hadn't spoken to his uncle in hours. There was nothing left to say.
As he endured the pain, he looked down and saw strands of his black hair on the dirty floor. A side effect of whatever they'd done to him.
Even if he managed to escape, he would die from complications later.
How did it come to this?
He couldn't stop replaying it all in his mind—the choices, the moments that led them here.
Three months ago, he was free—a university student with a future, dreams, and friends.
He was the kind of person who could walk down the street, head held high, proud of the life he was building.
His life was perfectly balanced—his academics were on track, he was social, and he even played quarterback, with some offers from the NFL lining up.
As long as nothing went wrong this year, he could sign a $40 million, six-year contract and leave college early.
That all ended the night a group of syndicates came for him.
They broke into his apartment. At first, he thought it was a prank—until they dragged him out, and shoved a bag over his head.
His uncle, the man who had raised him after his parents' deaths, was already waiting in the back of a black van, looking like he had just been beaten. They barely exchanged a word before the doors slammed shut.
Inside the vehicle, his uncle began to cry, his voice trembling as he confessed what happened. It was about his debt—gambling, they said.
One hundred million dollars, gone—blown on casinos.
But they didn't care who owed the money—blood was blood.
His uncle was lucky that Zayn was currently tied down; otherwise, he would have beaten the life out of him for putting him in this situation. No amount of kindness could forgive such a betrayal.
Hours later, the van came to a stop.
He barely had a moment to collect himself, before they dragged him out again, yanking off the bag over his head to reveal their location.
They were at a dock, the faint smell of salt and oil in the air. He could see the massive bodies of shipping containers stacked high.
"Peredvinsya!" (Move) The guard shouted in Russian
They shoved them forward, barking orders in a language he didn't understand. He tried to look around, to memorize faces or details, anything that might help him later, but the butt of a rifle slammed into his back, sending him sprawling to his knees.
Still, he tried his best to take in his surroundings, noticing that the men were tall and well-built.
The way they spoke reminded him of the tough, intimidating voices often heard from villains in spy movies. He wasn't being judgmental; it was just his honest opinion.
"Peredvin' kusok der'ma " (Move you piece of shit)
He still couldn't make out a single word they were saying, but from the angry glares and the way their lips twisted, he was pretty sure they were cursing him out.
'Assholes,' he snarled, fists clenched. 'I'm the one who should be pissed off right now... You're just lucky you've got guns.'
His teeth ground together in fury, but his defiance only fueled their anger.
With a brutal motion, one of them slammed the butt of an AK-47 into his chest, knocking him to the ground.
Finally, a soldier who looked like he could speak English stepped forward. He grabbed Zayn by the arm, leaning in close to whisper, "Stop resisting, or we'll kill you right here and feed you to the fish."
He wanted to protest, but he knew there was no way out—at least not for now.
"Get in," the guard commanded, pointing at the open container.
Inside, there were others—men and women huddled together, their faces gaunt and bruised. Some cried quietly. Others sat motionless, staring into the dark as if they'd already given up.
He was pushed in next, the door slamming shut behind him with a metallic clang that made his stomach drop.
The sudden darkness was suffocating, with the only light seeping through tiny gaps where the steel hadn't been welded shut and the holes deliberately made for ventilation.
'Fuck!' he cursed inwardly. His uncle had been placed in a different container, leaving him with no way to vent his anger.
He looked around, and one of the people inside turn on a lamp. It was weak, but enough for him to make out everyone.
There were four men and twelve women in the container. But they didn't look like normal —most were thin, some scratched their hands obsessively, and he noticed injection marks on their forearms.
He wasn't blind to it; these people were drug addicts. He was the only one who looked healthy.
Clenching his fists, annoyance rosed up inside him. He hated drugs more than anyone—his parents had been murdered by a group of psychopathic addicts who mug them in a dark alley.
"Hey, do you have any?" a thin-looking woman in cut-off shorts reached for his arm.
He quickly pulled away in disgust.
"Don't talk to me. I'm not like you people!" He turned around, looking for a spot to distance himself from them.
Before he could find any peace, though, he heard a metallic thud.
"Don't act all mighty, you brat!" Four men lunged at him.
He leapt over one of them, kicking another in the process to create some space.
Then, he turned, tackling the closest one and slamming him to the ground.
THUD!
Next, his fists flew, landing a punch on each of them, but it barely slowed them down.
Their eyes were wild, bloodshot, their movements erratic—drug withdrawal had stripped them of any semblance of control.
It wasn't just a fight; it was an all-out brawl, a desperate scramble where nothing was held back.
"You think I'll let you all kill me like you did to my parents?" Zayn spat out, his voice full of rage.
His eyes locked onto a thin metal rod nearby. Grabbing it, he thrust it forward, driving it into one of the men's eyes.
Blood burst out from the wound, splattering across the floor.
The sight sent the other three into a frenzy. Fear flashed across their faces as they scrambled backward.
"Come on, fuckers!" he screamed, slamming the metal rod against the walls, the sound echoing through the container like a bell of death.
"I'm not trapped here with you trash; you're trapped here with me!" he growled.