Chapter 2

Darkness and the truck’s jolting ride drag me up out of unconsciousness.

The first thing I taste is blood—thick on the back of my tongue, warm, metallic, caught between my teeth.

I don’t open my eyes right away. I wait for strength to come back, and for my thoughts to line up.

My wrists are twisted behind my back. The rope bites deep. Every time the vehicle bumps, my knees slam into something hard beside me.

This isn’t the back seat of that van. This space is emptier, colder, and it reeks of diesel and rust.

My mind snaps the fragments together fast: I tore the fixer’s throat out. The driver stuck me with another needle. Then everything went black.

Now I’m awake in a sealed cargo truck, which means after I went down, they transferred me.

That van was just the bait—meant to lower my guard. The real transport is this one.

I keep my eyes closed and focus on scent. There’s a lot of sweat, sharp with panic. The blood in my mouth isn’t the only blood in here—there’s fresh blood in the compartment too, not much, but recent.

I’m not alone.

Not far from me someone is quietly sucking in air, breathing fast but trying to hide it. Deeper inside there’s broken sobbing, like someone forcing the sound back down. In a corner, someone retches; stomach acid taps against metal, followed by a sleeve wiping messily and a cough choked back.

“Are you crossing the border too?” a man whispers, his accent hard to place.

“I thought it was… work,” a younger voice answers, shaking. “They said they’d get papers done once we arrived. I got in the car and I was out.”

“I was introduced by someone I knew,” another person cuts in, voice low. “He said it was just a ride. Don’t talk on the road, and once you’re past the checkpoints you’re safe. Then I woke up here.”

Different stories, same ending: tricked, drugged, waking up as cargo.

Someone mentions a word, like they heard it secondhand: “Once we get to the warehouse they’ll re-number us… tag us like inventory.”

I force myself not to move yet.

I could break out right now—my strength and speed are more than enough to turn a tight metal box into a slaughterhouse. But if I do that, I’ll lose the only thing I still need: where this route ends.

I’m already wanted for getting involved where I shouldn’t have, but I still can’t ignore this.

And if the compartment turns chaotic, the armed escort will probably start killing people to keep control.

I need to see the destination first. I need a point where I can flip the whole situation.

I open my eyes slowly. There’s almost no light inside, just a thin, gray leak from a small vent near the roof.

But I’m a werewolf. Darkness doesn’t hide much from me.

People are curled on the floor or pressed against the metal walls, hands bound with zip ties or rope.

The rear doors are straight ahead at the far end—double doors. The latch must be outside.

Near the right side by the doors sits a low stool. A man is planted on it, and I can clearly make out the barrel of the gun in his hands.

An armed guard. Riding in the compartment with us.

He doesn’t speak while people whisper. He just taps the gunstock lightly against the floor, like a reminder that there are rules here.

No one dares raise their voice. The murmurs die instantly.

The guard suddenly presses the radio on his chest. Static tears through the silence. He reports casually, “Truck Four. Fifteen live ones. Yeah, fifteen.”

Someone replies on the other end, too muffled to catch.

The guard clicks his tongue and keeps talking. “Stop rushing me. There are more checkpoints tonight. And we’ve got one problem… that dog bit someone. Killed the fixer at the service stop last night. Have rope and a cage ready on your end. Don’t let him go off again.”

“That dog” is me.

I let out a quiet breath in the dark. They don’t really know what I am. To them I’m just cargo that bites.

I lift my head and make my voice sound rough, like I’m only half awake and still weighed down by drugs. “That shot you gave me… it wasn’t light.”

The guard’s gun rises a fraction. He finally focuses on me.

He clearly didn’t expect me to be awake this soon. After a half-second pause he snaps, “You’re still conscious? That dose would drop an elephant.”

I swallow the blood taste off my tongue. “An elephant isn’t worth what I am. And my teeth are worth more than ivory.”

He blinks, then snorts, taking it as some stupid bravado.

“Don’t flatter yourself. Once you hit the warehouse, you get tagged. A number goes on you and that’s what you are. Try anything, we’ll put you on a shock line. You understand?”

I don’t argue. I just keep it moving. “And after that? Where are you selling us?”

He sounds like he wants to scare me. “Not your decision. Not ours either. Depends who pays. Could be mines, could be pits—somewhere you work underground until you die.”

“Once you’re in the warehouse, you behave. Cause trouble and you get handled. You? The biter? You get your own cage.”

As he talks, he points the gun at the floor, punctuating every sentence like it’s non-negotiable.

The radio crackles again. He presses it. “Yeah. Ten minutes out. Keep the lights on. I’m unloading straight away—don’t waste my time.”

Ten minutes.

I lock the number into my head and start mapping the ride: two left turns close together, the second tighter—off a main road into a side lane. Then the pavement turns rougher, the vibration sharper, like an old industrial stretch. Now the speed drops, which means we’re close.

I crush the urge to rip the doors open and tear through him. I lean my back into the wall instead.

The truck slows to a full stop. The engine drops to idle.

Footsteps approach outside. Someone knocks twice on the metal doors—like a signal.

Then the latch slides free. The door opens only a crack.

A blade of bright light cuts into the dark, sweeping across tense faces.

People flinch back. Hands rise to shield eyes.

The guard stands, lowering the gun over us. His voice isn’t loud, but it’s sharp enough for everyone to hear. “Quiet. Out. Line up. Anyone runs, I break your legs first.”

He kicks the nearest person forward, making them stumble. Outside, someone barks impatiently, “Move. Don’t block the door.”

I shift with the group, matching their pace—steady, not too fast, not too slow—making sure I don’t stand out.

Before I step down, I glance through the gap. The harsh light comes from a high floodlamp. The ground is rough concrete. Farther out are stacked dark shapes—containers, maybe. The air smells like diesel.

The warehouse is here.