When he was done, Zayn leaned against the cold metal wall, his breath ragged.
The men's bodies lay beside him, twisted and bloodied, their breaths shallow. They were still alive—for now—but death was close, waiting to claim them.
The women huddled together in a corner, their wide eyes fixed on him, terrified they might be next.
"Don't worry, I won't hurt you as long as you don't do anything stupid," he warned.
They might be women, but that didn't mean he was safe—one of them could still try to stab him in the back.
"We won't... Please, we don't even know those men," a woman in her thirties spoke up with a trembling voice.
She wore a black T-shirt that clung tightly to her chest and denim shorts, her legs a canvas for tattoos.
A nose piercing glinted in the light, oddly complementing her short black hair, which faded into vibrant purple at the tips.
"So, why are we all here? Any guesses?" he asked, steering the conversation toward something that could help him connect with them on a deeper level.
It wasn't because he intended to woo them—he still had his standards. Rather, he wanted to show them his capabilities, so they would be less inclined to try anything against him.
And right now, the only common ground they shared was the fact that their lives were in the hands of their abductors.
They hesitated, their fear evident, so he began weaving lies.
"Don't worry. If you tell me what you know, I can help. You saw what I did, right? I'm well-trained to handle this kind of thing."
They glanced at the soon-to-be-dead men sprawled on the cold metal flooring. His words suddenly were far more credible.
The woman with black and purple hair stepped forward, nervously scratching at her arms and legs.
"They're a syndicate called Black Venom," she admitted, her voice shaky. "I know because... I buy my drugs from them."
"Black Venom?" The name didn't ring any bells. He narrowed his eyes, studying her. "And what drugs are we talking about?"
"It's a drug called Dark Cross, it's the most popular drug right now ," she replied,
Zayn raised his eyebrows. Back in his vigilante days, he had made it a point to familiarize himself with the names of drugs.
He had extensively researched them—their side effects, the usual telltale signs, and how they destroyed lives. This one, however, was new to him.
"And how exactly did you end up here?"
"I…" She hesitated, glancing at the other women before continuing.
"We're prostitutes who also sideline as drug dealers. But things went wrong—we got addicted to the stuff ourselves and ended up drowning in debt."
His expression twisted with disgust—not because they sold their bodies; that, at least, was an honest way to earn money.
What sickened him was that they sold poison, the very thing that destroys lives.
Still, he forced himself to calm down. Scolding them wouldn't solve anything. He had to adapt—especially since it seemed he would be stuck in this container with them for an extended period.
While lost in thought, he felt a sudden vibration beneath his feet.
A loud clang echoed from the ceiling, followed by the rattling of chains. Moments later, the entire container lurched, the unmistakable sensation of being lifted taking hold.
'Shit, they're loading us onto a ship,'
"Do you have any idea where they're taking us?" he asked again. They worked for the syndicate—surely, she must have heard some rumors.
She hesitated, looking unsure.
After a moment, she gave in, realizing what might happen to her if she refused to cooperate.
"I think they're taking us to some island in the Pacific Ocean," she answered softly.
"Pacific Ocean? That's a long way," he frowned.
He glanced around, his eyes scanning the container for anything useful.
Spotting a crate in the corner, he walked over before prying it open. Inside, he found a stash of water bottles and canned goods.
He noticed another crate nearby and decided to open it as well.
Inside, he found an assortment of supplies: bandages, garbage bags, a portable plastic urinal, medicines, toothpaste, toothbrushes, and even disinfectant.
It was clear—whoever had kidnapped them wanted to keep them alive, at least for now.
Next, he turned to the women. Unlike him, who had nothing, they still had their bags with them.
"Anyone have a phone?"
They all shook their heads.
'I know it,' he had half-expected as much.
"Open up your bags," he said firmly. "I need to see what we can use."
They followed his instructions instinctively. Without meaning to, he had become their leader—the brutal act of killing all the other men had sealed that role for him.
One by one, he checked the bags meticulously, sorting and organizing everything he deemed useful
He made a mental note of it, knowing he could use them later if necessary.
Next, he turned his attention back to the crates.
"Unload all the food and water," he instructed.
They hesitated at first but eventually began stacking the supplies in an orderly manner under his watchful eye.
"Listen up. Those dead bodies are going to start smelling bad if we don't do something, and that could make us sick. So, help me move that crate to the corner. We'll put them in garbage bags first, then lock them inside the crate."
His instructions made their stomachs churn, but they followed his orders without protest.
When they were done bagging the bodies and sealing them in the crate, he instructed them to clean the blood off the metal floor using their unused clothes.
Most of them chose to change first, using their dirty clothes to mop up the mess.
As they undressed right there in the confined space, Zayn felt a pang of awkwardness.
He was still a man, after all. To respect their privacy—or at least what was left of it—he turned his back to them, focusing on organizing the supplies instead.
Counting the bottles of water and the number of women, along with himself, he did a quick calculation.
He carefully rationed the supplies in his head, ensuring they could last at least four weeks if they were careful.
'I need to survive this. I can't die here,' he muttered to himself, his jaw tightening.
Survival wasn't just a goal—it was the only option.