Page 53 of Prey

I hit the bag harder, trying to drive out the memories. But they keep coming—his hands on my throat, the weight of him between my thighs, the way he’d looked at me without the mask like I was something precious and terrible all at once.

The bag splits open under my knuckles, sand spilling across the gym floor in a steady stream. I step back, chest heaving, and stare at the damage. Rico’s not going to be happy about this.

But the violence worked. For the first time in days, my head feels clear.

I grab my phone from the bench and scroll through the encrypted messages I’ve been collecting. Names, faces, locations—a web of human trafficking that stretches across three states. What started as research into my own captivity has become a hunt.

An obsession.

The first name I found was Kim Chen—Maya’s older brother, as it turns out. Small operation compared to what I glimpsed of Nikolai’s network, but Chen moves maybe fifty girls a year through his massage parlors. Young ones, mostly runaways who won’t be missed.

Just like I wouldn’t have been missed.

I pull up the photos I took outside his Chinatown office yesterday. Chen’s predictable—same route to work every morning, same coffee shop, same parking spot. He thinks money makes him untouchable, but money just makes you visible to people who know how to look.

My phone buzzes with a text from Danny, a street kid I’ve been paying for information.

Found your guy. Meeting tonight at Red Dragon. Back room, 11:00 PM.

Perfect. Chen’s been trying to arrange a new shipment, and tonight I’ll be close enough to document everything. Not just for the police—they’re either bought or overwhelmed. This is for me.

I clean up the sand as best I can and lock the gym behind me. The October air cuts through my tank top, but I welcome the cold. It keeps me sharp.

The walk back to my room takes me through territory I’ve memorized—every alley, every escape route, every place someone could wait in ambush. Years of hiding taught me to be invisible. These past weeks have taught me to be dangerous.

My room’s as I left it: door still locked, thread still wedged in the window frame, no signs of disturbance. But I check anyway, running through the same security routine I always do.

The laptop I bought with fight winnings sits on the small table, screen dark but processing data I’ve been feeding it since I escaped. Chen’s operation, his associates, his patterns—I’ve mapped it all with the same obsessive detail Nikolai probably used on me.

Don’t think about him.

But it’s too late. The thought’s already there, spreading like poison through my system. Does he know what I’m doing? Has he figured out that his captive prey became a hunter?

I hope so. I hope it keeps him awake at night.

The shower water runs brown at first but it clears eventually. I stand under the spray and let it wash away the gym’s sweat while my mind works through tonight’s plan.

Chen’s meeting is about a new route through Detroit. Young girls from broken homes were promised modeling contracts or restaurant jobs. The same lies they’ve probably been telling for decades, refined to perfection.

I towel off and dress in black—jeans, hoodie, boots with rubber soles. The knife goes in my boot, small enough to miss in a casual search but sharp enough to open arteries.

My reflection in the cracked mirror shows someone I barely recognize. The woman who worked overnight at a pharmacy, who jumped at shadows and lived on instant ramen, is gone. What’s left has harder edges, colder eyes.

The Red Dragon sits between a pawn shop and a check-cashing place, neon sign flickering against the darkness. I circle the block twice, noting exits and sight lines, before settling into position across the street.

At 10:47 PM, a black Escalade pulls up. Chen steps out first—short, soft around the middle, expensive suit that screams new money. Two bodyguards follow, scanning the street with the lazy confidence of men who’ve never faced real danger.

They have no idea what real danger looks like.

I wait until they disappear inside, then cross the street. The restaurant’s front entrance leads to a narrow hallway lined with private dining rooms. Chen’s voice carries from the back. Twenty thousand per head, delivery next week.

I press myself against the wall outside their door and activate my phone’s recording app. Every word, every detail. When this is over, Chen’s entire operation will collapse.

But recording isn’t enough anymore. These men deserve more than prison—they deserve to understand what it feels like to be prey.

My hand finds the knife’s handle as Chen’s laughter echoes through the thin walls. Soon, he’ll learn that when people are caged, it changes something in them. And he doesn’t deserve to keep breathing after what he’s done to women like me.

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