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Pia
I stroll through the manicured garden, the serenity starkly contrasting my turmoil. My phone dings—a message from Cypress pierces the quiet.
Cypress: "Hey, stranger! What the heck is going on? Are you all right?"
Surprised, I quickly type back.
Me: "Cypress! How did you get this number? Yeah, I'm okay, just caught up in…stuff."
Her reply is swift.
Cypress: "I got it from my uncle. I heard you're involved with the Mexican visitor. True?"
Her directness requires honesty.
Me: "It's complicated, but yes. There's a lot to explain."
Cypress: "I'm in Manila. Meet up?"
As we plan to meet, I feel a mix of excitement and nervousness. After finalizing the details, I head inside to change, choosing an outfit that mirrors the new life I've been thrust into yet still feels like me.
Heading downstairs, my newfound resolve hardens when I inform Xavier and Ron, my new bodyguards, of my plans, only to be met with resistance.
I clench my jaw, feeling a surge of defiance rise within me. "I'm meeting my friend," I state tersely, my voice laced with barely contained frustration.
Ron responds calmly and authoritatively, "Miss Pia, we have strict instructions not to let you off the property."
The declaration fuels a rebellious spark in me. "I'm not a prisoner here," I counter sharply, my gaze locking with his, challenging the boundaries they're trying to impose on me. "I will meet my friend with or without your permission."
Their hesitance is palpable, a silent struggle between duty and my understanding of autonomy. Ultimately, my will prevails and they acquiesce, a tacit acknowledgment of my independence.
As I step outside into the circular driveway, moving toward one of the SUVs, the driver hastens to open the door for me, his actions punctuated by a subtle undercurrent of unease.
"Ma'am," he begins, apologizing for the unanticipated departure. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were planning on going somewhere."
I slide into the back seat, the day's heat enveloping me as I wait for the air conditioning to chase away the stifling warmth. "I'm headed to have coffee with a friend," I inform him, giving the location as Ron and Xavier, now resigned to their roles as protectors rather than jailers, take their seats in the vehicle.
Neither speaks, the earlier confrontation hanging between us. Yet, as we drive, triumph blooms within me. I've asserted my independence, a small but significant victory against the constraints of my new life.
As the driver pulls up to the waterfront entrance of the café, my eyes instantly search for Cypress. There she is, unmistakably engrossed in her phone, oblivious to the world around her. A chuckle escapes me at the sight—so quintessentially Cypress.
My gaze is momentarily obstructed by a man standing between us, an inexplicable sense of unease washing over me. I glance back, seeking the familiar presence of Ron and Xavier, but they're nowhere in sight. Panic prickles at the edge of my consciousness.
Turning back towards Cypress, my heart races as I see the man moving in my direction, his intentions unclear. Cypress remains absorbed in her phone, unaware of the unfolding scene.
Just as I'm about to call out to her, a startling coldness envelops me—a hand, swift and unexpected, covers my mouth with a rag, and the world around me starts to blur and dim. My mind races, fear and disbelief colliding in a dizzying spiral.
At that moment, every warning, every whispered tale of caution I've ever heard about the dark underbelly of this world comes crashing down on me. The realization that I am not just a bystander in these shadowed tales, but a direct participant, is terrifying and sobering.
As darkness edges in, my last coherent thought is a silent plea for Marco, for safety, and a desperate hope that this is not where my story ends.
Time becomes a nebulous concept, each moment stretching into eternity. The realization hits with a cold, brutal clarity—I've been abducted. My current predicament, with my hands bound behind me and a gag stifling any attempt at a scream, spells out a dire situation. The bindings on my feet add to my sense of helplessness.
Gingerly, I open my eyes, a sliver at first to assess my surroundings without alerting any potential watchers of my consciousness. My head throbs mercilessly, a side effect of whatever chemical they used to subdue me—a common tactic involving chloroform or a similar agent, known for leaving its victims with pounding headaches and disorientation.
The dimly lit space is cluttered with dirt-covered boxes and the musty smell of neglect. It has the hallmark signs of a warehouse, though my limited view offers nothing in terms of specifics. My immediate visual scan reveals no one in my direct line of sight, but it provides little comfort; someone could easily lurk out of view.
I close my eyes again, feigning unconsciousness while focusing on the ambient sounds. Muffled voices drift in the background, too indistinct to discern helpful information. Time drags on as I strain to gather clues from the conversation snippets, but my efforts yield nothing of value.
