The Secret Society

“No! You can’t do this to me! Let go!” I screamed, my voice tearing through the empty street as I kicked and thrashed against the two men who had grabbed me. They were strong, too strong, and my frantic struggling only seemed to amuse them as they dragged me toward the van parked nearby.

It was late, darker than I liked, but I had been careful. I’d taken every precaution—called my flatmate to let her know I was on my way, keys wedged between my knuckles, earphones in but no music playing, ready to hear everything around me. I even crossed the street a few times, just in case anyone was following me. But it wasn’t enough. They still grabbed me, these two hulking figures who came out of nowhere and were now forcing me into the back of a van, their grip bruising and relentless.

Terror shot through me as I realized they were winning. My heels dug into the pavement, my body twisting and jerking, but it didn’t matter. The cold metal of the van’s interior was the last thing I felt before the door slammed shut behind me, sealing me into the darkness.

I gasped for breath, panic clawing at my chest, tears burning in my eyes as I pounded on the door, my fists aching from the effort. But it was pointless. The van lurched forward, throwing me off balance, and I tumbled into a heap on the hard floor.

Think, I told myself. You need to think. Crying wasn’t going to help. Fighting hadn’t worked either. So I forced myself to stop, to breathe, and look around. The van was a nightmare—a tight, suffocating space filled with strangers in various states of consciousness. Men, unconscious and slumped over each other, and women, tied up, their eyes wide with fear and defeat.

I swallowed hard, my throat tight as I scanned the van for anything—anything that might help me escape. But it was bare. No tools, no window to climb out of, no miracle escape route. My mind raced, trying to piece together what had just happened. Who were they? Why me?

The faces of the men who grabbed me flashed in my mind, but they were shadows, faceless and indistinct. I couldn’t remember any details about them, except their size—massive, overpowering. But there was one thing, one image that stood out.

Her.

The woman.

She had been there, watching as they took me. A tall woman with shoulder-length red hair, standing calmly at the edge of the scene, like she was overseeing the whole thing. There was something chilling about her, something that made my blood run cold in a way the men hadn’t.

The next thing I know, I’m strapped to a cold metal bed, my wrists and ankles bound tightly to the frame. My heart pounds in my chest as I frantically look around, but the room is like something out of a nightmare. Shelves line the walls, filled with strange vials of glowing liquids, bubbling inside glass tubes that twist and turn like something out of a mad scientist’s lab. The air is thick with the sterile, metallic scent of chemicals, and I feel a chill run down my spine.

"Ah, you’re awake. Good," a voice breaks through the fog of my fear. I turn my head and see him—a man in a white lab coat, the kind you see on TV shows, but there’s something off about him. His glasses are askew, his hair wild, and in his hand is a needle, long and gleaming, filled with something bright and unnatural.

Panic surges through me, and I pull against the restraints. "What are you doing? Please, don’t hurt me!" My voice cracks with desperation, but he doesn’t even flinch. He’s not listening. He’s too focused on the syringe, carefully filling it with whatever liquid he’s concocted in his lab of horrors.

The door creaks open, and my heart sinks further. The woman with the red hair—the one who had watched me get thrown into the van like it was nothing—walks in, her presence instantly commanding the room.

"Ah, good. You’re already working on W46," she says, her voice cold and detached, like she’s talking about a project, not a person. Not me.

The doctor doesn’t look at her, but his lips curl into a twisted grin. "It will be our best," he says, his voice tinged with pride, like this is some sort of accomplishment. "I’ve fine-tuned everything perfectly for her."

Her eyes flicker with something dark as she steps closer, crossing her arms with a smirk. "Prove it to me," she demands.

My heart races, terror flooding every part of me. I thrash against the restraints, screaming, pleading for them to stop. But my cries go unheard, ignored as if they’re nothing more than background noise.

The doctor approaches me, syringe in hand, his grin widening as he looms over me. His face is calm, almost serene, in the most chilling way possible. "Don’t worry, dear," the redhead coos from the corner of the room. "In a few minutes, you won’t remember a thing from your past life."

Her words hit me like a slap, the weight of them sinking in. My past life? What do they mean? My mind spins, frantically trying to grasp onto anything familiar, but all I can think of is the dark van, the streets, my friends... everything slipping away, like sand through my fingers.

The needle inches closer to my skin, and I scream, raw and hoarse, knowing that whatever is about to happen will change me forever.

I wake up in a bed that feels soft beneath me, but something about it feels off—unfamiliar in a way that I can't quite place. Everything around me is blindingly white, the sterile brightness of the room making my head spin. My dark hair spills across the pillow, standing out like an ink stain against the backdrop of nothingness. The room is eerily silent, and the unease settles in my chest like a weight, but I can't pinpoint why.

Before I have a chance to really question where I am, a voice pierces the silence. "Get out of bed."

Without a thought, I obey. My body moves automatically, rising from the comfort of the bed and standing at attention. I feel the strange pull in my limbs as though I’m acting on someone else’s orders, not my own. A man stands beside me, and though his face is unfamiliar, I follow as he guides me through a maze of white hallways. Each turn feels the same, indistinguishable from the last, until we arrive at a door that looks like all the others, yet I know this is our destination.

Inside, a woman with striking red hair sits beside a doctor, their attention snapping to me the moment I enter. The woman’s lips curve into a satisfied smile, and the doctor’s face lights up with a gleam that makes my stomach churn.

"There she is! Our gem!" The doctor’s voice is filled with pride, his eyes glinting as if he’s gazing at a priceless artifact, something he’s created with meticulous care. It’s unsettling, the way he fawns over me, but I don’t move, don’t speak. I simply stand there, waiting.

The woman’s eyes sweep over me, cold and calculating. "W46, go stand by the window," she orders, her tone sharp, authoritative.

Before I can even process her words, my feet are already moving, carrying me to the window. I don’t think—I just do. My legs, my arms, everything obeys her command without question. I stare out the window, but I don't see anything outside. My reflection is the only thing staring back at me: wide eyes, empty, and obedient.

"W46, kneel at my feet."

The words hit my ears, and again, my body moves before my mind catches up. I drop to my knees in front of her, my head bowed, hands resting on my thighs as though this is where I’m meant to be. Her boots are inches from my face, polished and pristine.

I don’t understand. Why am I doing this?

But no answers come to me, only silence.

The woman’s smile widens, and there’s a spark of triumph in her eyes. "This is amazing," she says, her voice laced with satisfaction. "You outdid yourself with this one!" She looks over at the doctor, her approval clear.

The doctor beams, practically glowing under her praise. "She’s everything we hoped for. Beautiful, obedient, and still untouched. What more could a master possibly want?"

Their words swirl around me, confusing and distant. Master? The word rattles in my brain, clashing with the fog that seems to be clouding everything. What are they talking about? Why can’t I make sense of any of this?

My body remains still, kneeling at the feet of the woman with the red hair, but inside, something stirs. Something small, like a whisper at the back of my mind. A memory, perhaps? Or maybe just a flicker of doubt, a spark of resistance buried beneath layers of blank obedience.

But it’s quickly snuffed out as the woman’s voice rings out again, commanding and final. "Stand up, W46."

I rise instantly, my limbs moving with mechanical precision.

She leans back, crossing her legs, her smile never fading. "Perfect. Absolutely perfect."

But even as she praises me, a knot of unease tightens in my chest. Something is wrong. I can feel it in my bones. I just don’t know what it is.