Chapter 1
PENELOPE
City of Albania, 2026
The Albanian wind cut through me like a blade sharpened by cruelty.
It slipped beneath the thin scraps of fabric clinging to my body, finding skin, bone, memory—everything.
I stood in line with six other women in the courtyard, my bare feet numb against the cracked concrete, my breath fogging faintly in the cold air.
The walls around us rose impossibly high, ancient stone reinforced with steel and crowned with coils of razor wire that gleamed dully beneath a sky forever threatening rain.
There was no horizon here. No escape. Just stone, wire, and the constant reminder that the world had ended at these walls.
We were dressed to humiliate, not to cover.
A ragged robe hung loosely from my waist, the knot worn thin from repeated use, offering only the barest illusion of modesty.
Another strip of cloth crossed my chest, rough and stiff with old stains, doing nothing to hide the chill or the fact that my body no longer belonged to me.
The fabric smelled of sweat, mildew, and despair—layers of women before me who had stood in this same place, stripped of dignity piece by piece.
I kept my shoulders straight anyway. It was the only thing they hadn’t managed to take yet.
A shadow fell across us.
Our so-called master stepped into view, his boots heavy against the concrete, each step deliberate.
He was massive, built like a butcher rather than a man, with a face carved by scars that spoke of violence worn proudly.
His eyes were flat and glacial, the kind that didn’t flicker with curiosity or lust—only ownership.
In his hand, he held a long braided whip, thick and darkened with age. He cracked it once against the ground, the sound echoing off the stone walls like a gunshot.
One of the women beside me flinched. I didn’t.
That earned me a slow, considering look.
“Eyes forward,” he said, his voice thick with an accent sharpened by contempt. “You are not here to think.”
None of us answered. Silence was safer.
To them, we weren’t women. We were inventory—numbered, catalogued, replaceable.
In this rotten corner of Europe, hidden beneath layers of legitimate business and political protection, slavery hadn’t disappeared. It had simply evolved.
We were the currency of a modern empire built on blood, drugs, and human bodies traded in silence.
I had learned that quickly.
Each woman in this line carried her own version of ruin.
Some had been dragged screaming into vans on city streets.
Others had followed lovers or employers across borders, chasing promises that dissolved the moment the doors locked behind them.
I had been careful once. Smart. That hadn’t saved me. Nothing did.