For a moment, I couldn’t speak. My mouth opened, closed. Words refused to form, caught somewhere between disbelief and terror.
“You mean...” My voice finally broke through, thin and unsteady. “The Albanian family that took me... they’re captured?”
“Yes.” He took one measured step closer. “All of them.”
Another step.
“Eighty-nine men and women tied to the operation. Every leader. Every enforcer. Every buyer who paid to use women like property.”
Each word landed like a hammer.
“They’re bound inside,” he finished. “Waiting.”
I stared at him, my vision tunneling. “You’re going to...?”
“Burn it all,” he said quietly. “The buildings. The records. Them.” His gaze never wavered. “No one walks away.”
Something cracked inside me then—something brittle and frozen that had held for over a year. I felt it splinter, slow and painful, sending heat through my chest.
“I want you to see them first,” he continued, softer now. “Before the end. Look them in the eye. Let them see you unbroken.”
My throat closed. I nodded—small, shaky, but real.
He crossed the remaining distance and took my hand. His grip was warm. Steady. Solid enough to anchor me in my own body.
“When we go inside,” he said quietly, leaning closer so only I could hear, “don’t cry. Don’t show weakness.” His thumb pressed gently into my palm, grounding. “They thrive on it. They want to believe they left you shattered forever—that you’ll carry their filth in your nightmares for the rest of your life.”
My breath hitched.
“Instead,” he went on, voice low and lethal, “look at them. Tell them they’re paying for every inhumane thing they did. Tell them they’ll die slowly—watching the fire take their empire before it takes them.”
Tears burned behind my eyes, hot and insistent. I nodded again, harder this time, forcing the emotion down where it belonged.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pristine white handkerchief, pressing it into my palm. The fabric was soft, absurdly clean. I dabbed at the corners of my eyes, willing the tears back. A small, ugly sniffle escaped before I could stop it.
I wiped my nose. Took a shuddering breath.
“I think I’m ready,” I whispered.
He studied me for a long moment—searching for cracks, for hesitation, for fear that might still own me.
Then, unexpectedly, he leaned in and kissed me.
Soft. Brief. Right on the lips through the thin fabric of the niqab.
The tenderness stole my breath. It didn’t belong here—among concrete and wire and death—but it grounded me all the same.
He pulled back and took my hand again.
We walked toward the building together, hand in hand. His grip never loosened. Each step felt heavier than the last as the doors loomed larger, the smell growing stronger—damp concrete, old blood, despair baked into the walls.
My legs shook. My pulse roared.
But I kept walking.
The anteroom was stark to the point of cruelty.
Pure white walls. A white marble floor polished to a sterile sheen. White ceiling panels humming softly, their fluorescent lights buzzing just loud enough to burrow into my skull.