Chapter 5 Breaking Free from the Cage

Late that night, something unexpected happened—a chance to escape.

Shouting and hurried footsteps echoed through the hallway. All the guards on duty were called away. Then silence.

Her heart raced. She struggled off the bed, dragging her injured leg, and inched toward the door. She pushed gently. The lock was open.

The hallway was dim, a green exit sign glowing at the far end.

She gritted her teeth and moved forward. Her injured leg scraped across the floor, each step sending sharp pain through her bones. She got closer and closer to the exit. Her hand was about to touch the door when she stepped on something slippery. Her body pitched forward, and she hit the ground hard.

She bit her lip hard to keep from crying out. She tried to get up, but her legs had no strength. She managed to lift her upper body, then collapsed back down.

Then came a low growl from deep in the hallway.

Her body went cold. A wolf. She turned her head slowly. The iron door at the corner had been left open. Inside was pitch black. Claws scraped against the floor.

The three wolves Benjamin kept padded out. They lowered their bodies, growling. The lead wolf twitched its nose, caught the strong scent of blood on her, and its pupils contracted.

"No." She shrank back, her spine pressing against the wall. "Stay back."

The wolves didn't wait. The lead wolf lunged, its fangs sinking into her still-intact leg.

"Ahhh—"

The pain tore a scream from her throat. She felt teeth pierce skin and flesh, scrape against bone with a grinding sound. She kicked at the wolf's head with her other leg, but it only bit down harder, shaking its head and ripping.

The other two wolves pounced. One bit her arm, the other her shoulder. The three beasts trapped her, biting freely, dragging her across the floor. Blood splattered the white walls and floor, and her face.

The pain ate at her consciousness. She wanted to call for help, but she knew no one would come.

Just as she reached the edge of despair, a sharp whistle rang out.

The three wolves released her and backed away, crouching low, licking blood from their mouths, their glowing green eyes still fixed on her.

She lay in a pool of blood, too weak to lift a hand. A pair of leather shoes came into view. She struggled to raise her head and saw Benjamin.

He was neatly dressed, his hair perfectly styled, looking down at her. In his clean clothes, he seemed to exist in a different world from the blood-soaked wreck at his feet.

"Trying to escape?" His tone was flat, mocking. "You thought you could get away?"

She opened her mouth. It was full of blood. She coughed, and more blood ran from the corner of her mouth.

Benjamin crouched down, grabbed her chin, and forced her to look up. Light spread out behind him, half his face in shadow.

For a moment, she caught something in his eyes—a flicker of emotion breaking through. A spark of hope lit in her chest.

"Benjamin... please... let me go." Her voice was weak, broken.

His fingers tightened, grinding her jaw.

"Let you go?" he laughed softly. "Amelia, the matching results are confirmed. Once her body is ready, they'll take your heart and transplant it into her."

She lay in the blood, looking at his cold face.

"Benjamin... that was your child. You killed your own flesh and blood."

His face didn't change.

"That wasn't my child," he said, as if stating a fact. "You saw the paternity test. The child was Andrew's."

"The report was fake." She used her last bit of strength to shout. "The child was yours. You killed your own son."

Benjamin looked at her quietly.

"Are you done?"

He turned his back to her. "Rest and heal. If you try to escape again, I won't call off the wolves next time."

He walked away, the three wolves following. The empty hallway swallowed them. Only she remained, lying on the cold floor, covered in wounds torn by beasts.

One cloudy afternoon, she refused the blood draw for the first time.

The nurse walked in with a syringe. Amelia pulled her hands under the covers and curled up.

"I won't do it," she said, her voice hoarse but firm.

The nurse glanced at her and left.

Moments later, the door opened again. Along with the nurse came two orderlies—a man and a woman, both heavy-built.

"Mr. Moore said if you refuse, we'll use force."

The two came forward, dragged her from the bed, and pressed her shoulders to the floor. She struggled, but her broken body had no strength.

The nurse wheeled over a cart loaded with instruments. When Amelia saw what was on it, her stomach turned.

"What are you going to do?" Her voice shook.

The nurse pulled on medical gloves, calm and composed, as if doing routine work.

"Mr. Moore thinks your body isn't clean enough. To ensure the quality of the blood we supply to Ms. Martinez, we need to thoroughly clean and disinfect the parts of you that have been touched by outsiders."

"Those rumors are all lies. I've never been with anyone else. The child was his. From beginning to end, he was the only one."

No one listened. They tied her hands and feet to the bed frame and spread her legs. When the cold instruments touched her skin, she couldn't stop shaking. Humiliation and nausea swept through her.

She closed her eyes, but she couldn't block out the sounds. Her stomach churned, but it was empty—nothing to throw up.

"Don't touch me... please, don't touch me."

Tears fell silently, soaking her ears and hair. She stared at the fluorescent light overhead until her eyes burned.

She didn't know how long it lasted. Finally, the movements stopped.

The nurse packed up the instruments one by one and removed her gloves. The orderlies untied the ropes and threw her back onto the bed like useless trash. Then they left, and the door locked again.

She lay alone, soaked in cold sweat. The strong smell of disinfectant seeped into her skin and refused to fade.

In the days that followed, she became a walking corpse. Blood was drawn twice a week, two hundred milliliters each time. She watched the dark red blood flow through the tube into the bag.

Benjamin came every week. He stood in the doorway, watching the entire process, his expression indifferent, as if supervising a routine task. Sometimes he lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around his blurred features.

Once, halfway through the draw, she passed out. When she woke, the draw was still going—the old bag replaced with a new one.

She stared at the vial. A pint a week. She'd be tapped dry before the transplant.

Benjamin still stood in the doorway, his cigarette already burned out.

"Eat more. Your blood production is too poor. You can't even handle this much."

Then he turned and left. The door closed behind him.

Her condition worsened day by day. After each draw, she had to stay in bed for days to recover.

Dizziness struck often. When she stood, her vision went black, and a sharp ringing echoed in her ears.

Her hands shook so badly she couldn't hold a bowl. Oatmeal spilled onto the bedding, but she had no energy to clean it. She just watched the porridge seep slowly into the fabric.

She grew thinner. Repeated punctures made her veins stiff and fragile. Nurses often had to probe several times before they found a spot.

The needle tip moved through skin and flesh. Sharp pain covered her in cold sweat. But she no longer made a sound. Crying and resisting were pointless. No one was coming to save her.

That evening, Violet came to the hospital room.