Chapter 402:
That was when Rylie made her move. Like a panther in the dark, she slid from the bed without a sound. Every step she took was measured, muscles steady and alert.
She crept to the corner of the room, where an old vent sat rusted shut. It connected to the main air system — a detail she had remembered since day one.
From her hair, she pulled a wire — thin as thread but strong as steel — and slipped it into the cracks of the vent’s seam. One twist of her wrist. A soft click. The cover gave way.
She eased it off and set it aside, revealing a narrow tunnel, just barely wide enough for someone to fit through.
The smell hit her first. A foul mix of mildew, chemicals, and something darker — like rot and panic.
Without hesitation, she crawled in. The space was tight and slick, layers of grime brushing against her arms and face.
Holding her breath, she relied on her keen sense of direction and understanding of the ship’s layout to navigate the suffocating passage. After crawling fifteen feet and turning a corner, she heard quiet sobs. The faint rattle of chains.
Her stomach sank.
She froze in place and pressed herself to the side, inching closer to the sound. She brushed away a thick layer of dust and peered through the gaps of the vent grate.
What she saw below made her eyes darken. Her jaw clenched. A slow, steady fury began to burn in her chest.
Beneath her, the space was slightly larger than the one she stood in. But what she saw below felt like something pulled straight from a waking nightmare. No beds. Just a grimy, freezing floor where more than a dozen small figures huddled close together.
They were all kids. Some barely out of diapers. Others maybe twelve or thirteen. Their clothes hung in rags, their skin bruised and scraped, their faces drawn and hollow.
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Iron shackles wrapped around each ankle, the chains bolted to rings in the wall. They didn’t move much. They just sat there like animals waiting for slaughter.
The weak light hanging overhead gave off a sickly hue, bouncing off their lifeless stares.
Some of them clung to each other, shivering while trying not to cry. A few didn’t react at all, staring blankly at the ceiling like their minds had gone someplace else. In one corner, a little girl who couldn’t have been older than six rocked a younger boy in her arms. He wasn’t moving. She sang a lullaby under her breath, so soft that it barely reached her lips.
The smell hit next. It reeked of filth, blood, and something darker. Something like grief turned physical. Whips lined the walls, dirty and stained. Moldy crumbs littered the ground. An overturned bucket sat in one corner, crusted with who knew what.
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