We’re going to find a way out of here.
She’d been saying it all week. Not because she believed it—but because stopping felt like surrender.
Harper headed toward the stove where a few women sat, hands extended toward the scant heat. The barred windows obscured the view outside, but she’d memorized what she could see when she breathed on the glass to melt the frost. A chain-link fence topped with razor wire, a guard station near the main gate, and trucks parked near what looked like an admin building.
She’d counted eight different guards total, though there might be more she hadn’t seen. They rotated in pairs, changing shifts like clockwork. The younger ones took the cold badly and smoked too close to the door. The older ones conserved movement. Meaner, but less careless.
She repeated the facts in her head so she wouldn’t forget.
“Harper.” Polina’s voice pulled her back. “Someone’s coming.”
Keys jangled, and the door swung open. Two guards entered, dragging a woman between them.
She was young, around twenty. Her blonde hair was matted with blood. They half-carried, half-dragged her across the threshold and dropped her.
“Fresh one for you, Doctor.” A guard with mean eyes grinned. “Boss says she’s still usable.”
The barrack door slammed shut, and the lock clicked.
Harper crouched beside the woman, two fingers to her neck.Strong pulse. Thank God.The woman still wore a cheap cafe uniform under her coat. One silver earring hung from her left ear but the right lobe was torn bare. The gash on her head was shallow, two inches, the edges relatively clean. No skull fracture.
“I need water,” Harper said over her shoulder. “And cloth. Anything clean.”
The women moved immediately. Irina brought a bottle of water while Polina tore a strip from the bottom of her shirt.
“Can you hear me?” Harper kept her voice gentle as she cleaned around the wound. “You’re safe. We’re going to help you.”
The woman’s eyes opened. She tried to speak but choked on her words.
“Don’t talk yet.” Harper pressed the damp cloth against the gash, applying pressure to stop the bleeding. “Just breathe. You’re okay.”
“They—” The woman’s voice was hoarse. Russian from the eastern regions. “They said…”
“I know.” Harper kept pressure on the wound. “It’s okay.”
The woman’s face crumpled. “I tried to run.”
Harper nodded. “What’s your name?”
“Sasha.”
“Hi Sasha. I’m Harper. I’m a doctor.” She moved the cloth, checked the wound. Still bleeding, but slower. Without proper supplies, infection was a real risk, and without antibiotics, that risk could turn fatal.
“She needs medicine,” Polina said. She’d been watching from nearby, arms wrapped around her waist. “Real medicine.”
Polina was right, but the men outside didn’t give a shit if these women lived or died, as long as they were presentable enough to sell.
Dead women didn’t earn money.
“Polina. Hold this here to stop the bleeding.” Harper stood and crossed to the door. She pounded on it with her fist. “Hey! This woman needs medical attention!”
Nothing, then the scuff of footsteps on frozen ground. The observation slot scraped open, and an eye appeared—the younger guard. “Shut up, Doc-tor.”
“She has a head injury.” Harper met his gaze. “At least give me clean bandages. Antiseptic. Something.”
“Not my problem.”
“She’s no good to you dead.” Harper’s hands curled into fists. “Do you think your boss is going to be happy when you deliver a corpse?”
