This is a new book, copyright being All Rights Reserved, I’m a new author and writer.

This is still an ongoing book as I’m not yet finished but I’ll be updating ASAP, I’m an indie author so I mainly publish when it feels appropriate to me, but gathering that I have an audience I’ll try my best to speeded up my pace, please read this list of trigger warnings before proceeding with the book any further:

•Blood play

•Knife play

•BDSM

•Age gap

•Manipulation

•Abuse

•Kidnapping

•Trafficking

•Depression

•Suicide

Please proceed with caution, this is a dark romance book and whilst it has its load of smut, it also has a lot of dark themes. Please take this into consideration, your mental health matters.

•••

...Z O R H A...

My breath got knocked out of my chest.

My knees buckle beneath me.

My eyes threaten to close.

My mouth stinks of blood.

My tongue stained with red.

I wish I’d gotten use to the sound of my own bones breaking inside of my body. Each kick, another reminder of how close I am to death. Apparently I’m not close enough.

I’m not close enough for him to stop hurting me. I haven’t bled enough to stop being kicked, hit, bruised.

It’s pathetic…how weak I am. So much so, that I can’t even defend myself. So much so, that I’m sprawled out onto the floor with blood cloaking my body.

I croak and cough and bleed and cry all at once but only after I slip slowly out of consciousness and admit to a fault that was never mine, do I finally get relieved from my pain.

How ironic; I thought that if a human being got the same pain endured upon them multiple times, everyday or every minute, that they’d eventually feel nothing.

But even nothing is a feeling.

I want all of it to end. I want to find the golden bridge and jump off. I want to drown. I want to suffocate. I want to die.

But my wants were never important. Not in this house, not in this world and never in this universe. And I’ve gotten use to that by now.

One step after the other, my father finally walks away. I’m finally free for atleast a few minutes before the sun rises.

I clutch softly onto my stomach, hoping that if I held tight enough, it would stop bleeding. This would have been the fourth time this week, that I’d had to redo my bandages.

It’s no wonder my ribs never get healed properly.

I whimper softly in pain as I force myself up. Even my arms are tired of carrying my weight.

I slide myself gently toward the side of the kitchen counter. I would’ve made this a cliché by crying, but that’s not an option.

Ever since I was young, I was told by the doctor that I cannot cry. I don’t have enough water in my body. I reckon it’s some sort of disease or condition.

And funny enough, that doctor also told me that crying is a release of pain. So now I suppose I won’t get relieved of my pain.

Not now, not ever.

I sigh softly and take in a few unsteady breaths. My lungs are beginning to fail me. I wouldn’t be surprised if my broken ribs have punctured one of them by now.

The sun is slowly beginning to rise. The curtains are beginning to light up. I haven’t properly slept in 10 consecutive days.

I’ve been more frequently speaking to people who I assume are there, even though, they aren’t.

It’s a new day, and like always, my father is most likely passed out from his overload of drugs and expecting his breakfast to be ready before he leaves to smuggle for coke and smoke more weed with his so called friends.

So like the good daughter I am, I force myself to my feet and after a few times of nearly falling, I finally manage to stand up.

My body is tired. My brain is tired. My energy is drained from the inside out.

I slowly make my way to the pan and turn on the stove. My fingers are shaking as I crack 2 eggs and break them into the hot oil.

I have to get them perfectly shaped and perfectly proportioned or I’ll risk getting another beating when my father wakes up.

I’m sure by this time I’ve developed some sort of OCD.

My lips are dry and cracked and my stomach growls and moans with hunger. Unfortunately, there’s only enough to feed one of us.

And I can’t have the honor of eating this time.

The ceramic plate shakes in my bloody hands as I place it on the countertop of the kitchen table and dish the eggs onto it.

My father wakes up to the small noises I’ve made in the kitchen. He growls in anger. My breathing is unsteady as I walk toward him with the plate.

He doesn’t even acknowledge my presence and just chows down the food that I’ve taken into such precaution whilst making.

“Where’s the sauce?” He asks finally. He looks up at me with a scowl on his face. My mouth opens slightly—realizing I’ve forgotten the sauce.

“I’m sorry da—”

The harsh clicking sound of his hand colliding with my cheek echoes throughout the empty space of the kitchen.

I bite back a cough. I stare at the ground. A painful sting makes its way to my temple.

“Don’t you fucking call me that—you stupid bitch!” He spits as I flinch at his sudden change in tone.

My hands shake furiously at my sides and I stutter out an apology. “I’m s-sorry s-sir.” My voice cracks and I realize just how dry my throat is.

Without warning, he smashes the plate onto the floor and stands up, towering over me with a height of 6’8 feet.

My body feels heavy and shakes with fear. My organs feel as though they’ve been smashed together.

“Clean that up before I get home.” He speaks down to me and furiously slams into my unstable body whilst exiting the door.

That’s all it takes for my to lose my balance and fall.

A scream erupts from my throat as my soft flesh gets penetrated by the sharp ends of the ceramic plate.

My hands clutch tightly onto the broken pieces as though they were glass. I want to feel this. This hate. This anger. This pain. This sadness. This grief.

It’s the only thing that keeps me attached to myself. Without it I’m afraid I’ll float away.

Without it I’m afraid I’ll lose my grip on reality. I’ll lose my ability to feel.

I will never forget my mother’s words before her death.

Never lose yourself because of pain. You’ll only be robbing others of getting to see how bright you really are…

My heart aches for her touch. Her soft embrace that made me feel safe.

After her death—my dad became what he is today.

It leaves me wondering why she never said those words to him. He needed it more than me.

And I needed her more than him.

A loud knock on the door pulls me back into reality. I’ve been laying with my own thoughts on the floor for the past few minutes.

My head buzzes softly as the anxious pit in my stomach returns. I pray to god that isn’t my father.

But I know it isn’t. He wouldn’t have knocked.

So who would it be?

The thought of being seen in a condition like this by anyone else but my father scares me. I know what my dad would do if he knew that I’d been seen in this state.

For a few seconds I’m considering just laying here. Just succumbing to the reality set out for me to live.

But then a small pulse of mine elevates at the thought of perhaps getting discovered. Found, saved….

A flicker of hope and a ray of light for a blinding moment, blinding me enough that I don’t even realize the impossibility of that ever happening.

The knocks on the door have become more prominent now, louder and boisterous.

That door could be my salvation. Or it could be some sort of test.

A few seconds later accompanied by the sound of my bones pivoting eachother and my skin being penetrated further on the inside, I’m standing somewhat straight up and just barely stable.

My fingers slowly open the door, afraid of who’s on the other side. The suns ray of light hurts my eyes for a while as I make sure to obscure myself from my visitors view.

“Ma’am—I’m officer Gordon. I’ve come to confront you about the noise pollution. The neighbors are complaining-“

Just before he can finish his sentence, I shut the door harshly in face as my body shakes with adrenaline and fear.

There’s a police officer on the other side of the door, who now hits it even harder with the persistence to come inside.

My heart skips a few beats and I wish that it was all the encouragement I needed for death to envelope me.

The floor should swallow me at this point. I’d rather be dead than discovered.

My hands shake anxiously as spikes that feel like dripping, cold water runs through my spine.

“Ma’am—I’m gonna need you to open this door!” He insists and the feeling of his hand banging against the door vibrates against my body and sends pain shooting through my back.

I fall to the floor, and suck in a deep breath. I’ve set a trap for myself. There is no one guarding the door.

It swings open violently and the gentle features of the police officer reveals themselves as he stands in the doorway looking down at me.

I am petrified.

He shakes and trembles and atlast steps one foot forward with his eyes fixated deeply on me and a heavy, surprised gaze embracing his face.

His mouth agape and I’m worried I’ve done something wrong. I fear that I’m somehow wanted.

I fear that he knows me and no one knows me.

His voice is just above a whisper and broken into shards of the ceramic piled out onto the floor.

“Marinette?”

...G O R D O N...

“Gordon—you’ve got yourself another case.” Another file thrown onto my desk. Another homicide. Another fucking headache.

Parker stands infront of me with that usual smug look on his face, grateful that he doesn’t have to do my type of work. All he does is hand out the files and give out some coffee to the lazy people I call colleagues.

The water dispenser’s still full of unused water, sitting there for the ghost of Christmas past.

Ungrateful motherfuckers.

My temple pains with glee. I’m too old for this.

“Look—boss says that if you finish this case you’ll be able to open that other…” he trails off, trying to recall the cold case I was supposed to work on decades ago.

“The Bianchi case.” I finish for him and exhale with a deep, long and well deserved sigh. That case has been messing with me for years.

He clicks his fingers and I watch his face light up. “Yeah—that one! He says he’ll let you finish it up if you still want to.” He smiles an eerily happy smile.

My eyesbrows furrow as I pinch the bridge of my nose in frustration.

I’d like to reopen the case. But there’s a reason it’s gone cold.

“What’s up with that case anyway?” Parker’s slump posture and relaxed figure asks. His arm rests lazily over the top of my desk as he takes an unauthorized seat next to me as if we’re old friends.

I stare at him for too long. “Listen—tell the boss I’ll finish this case, but I don’t see potential in reopening the other one.” I mumble in annoyance, hoping he’d just piss off.

“Sure—but really though—what’s the other case about? People are sayin’ it’s about some drug lords or shit like that—”

“And who would ‘people’ refer to?” I cut him off. The way he chuckles and averts his eyes from my own, confirms it; my colleagues has been talking shit about the case and about how I didn’t do a good job.

I’d like to see them take that case for a spin.

“Look man—I’m just askin’—”

“Well if you’re asking then ask for yourself instead of trying to spread rumors about shit you aren’t even informed about,” I snap, feeling salty.

Without another word, he nods and rubs his hands, looking for warmth. “Okay—sorry. So…what happened?” He questions, walking on eggshells around me.

I have no time for this shit.

Eyeing the new case on my desk, I push the cover aside and take a small look at what I’m dealing with.

“Gordon! What’s going on with you, man?” Parker’s sharps voice wakes me up from my daze.

I rub my forehead impatiently and close the case. “Sorry—what do you want to know?” I ask, feeling my temperature rising to my temple. I think I’m getting a flu.

“What happened?” He sits similar to a puppy eager to get its treat.

“It was a drug case—I mean, not really…basically it had to do with the Bianchi’s.” I blurt out, not seeing the need to elaborate on something that’s in the past.

He shakes his head, unsatisfied with my answer. “C’mon that can’t be all,” His eyes twitch with excitement.

I sigh again, trying to blur out the sound of office doors closing and opening and about 20 people shouting over one another for unimportant reasons.

“Look—the Bianchi’s main mafia members were basically accused of drug and human trafficking. Apparently they were selling people with drugs stuffed inside their stomachs. Fucked up shit that I couldn’t find the source of.” My eyes close as I try to recall what I’m saying in my head.

I hear him gasp and open my eyes only to see him gaping in surprise. “Don’t bullshit me! How? Why’d you close it?” He stumbles over his words, too anxious to know more—as if it’s a unfinished book and I’m controlling when the next chapter is released.

I close my eyes again and continue pinching the bridge of my nose, hoping that things will get less noisy. “Lack of evidence.” I say bluntly.

Our short—not really ‘conversation’ is interrupted at the sound of high heels elegantly clacking toward our direction—presenting one of our many work colleagues with a phone in her hand.

“Gordon—there’s a phone call for you.” I nearly hop out my seat, silently thanking Helen for getting me out of this interrogation.

Parker sighs and taps his foot anxiously on the floor, waiting for me to finish with the call and return to feed his curiosity.

I nod at Helen and watch as her face wrinkles with smile lines reaching her starling blue eyes that compliments her blonde hair.

Placing the phone to my ear, with my most punctual voice, I say: “Good day, officer Gordon speaking,” And almost immediately I hear the voice of an old friend.

“Gordon, thank god! I’ve been calling in for a while and no one’s been helping me. I’m glad I’m talking to you.” She squeales with happiness.

I chuckle in amusement and clench my teeth, noticing the strange look Parker gives me.

“It’s good to hear your voice Nicks, what’s been up with you?” I hear a small sigh in the background and some struggling before she speaks again.

“I’ve been having some issues with my neighbors. They moved here a while back and can’t seem to keep their mouths shut!” She complains curtly.

My head throbs with her voice echoing through my ears. I nod—but remember that she can’t see me. “Okay, I’ll be right there. ” I mumble and put the phone off after hearing her ‘thank you’.

I turn to Parker and for once—I might just actually have use for him. “Parker—can you head over to 31 Adeline road?” He hops up at the sound of my voice and shifts uncomfortably.

Then he shakes his head. “I’m sorry but no, I don’t do that stuff.” I sigh in frustration.

Well neither do I! I’m tempted to shout at him.

Even that’s too energy consuming. “Fuck it! I’ll go.” I curse to no one in specific.

Without hearing another word from him, I grab my coat from behind my desk and walk out, into the cold air of winter.

Noise pollution. I’m a homicide detective, not a lower graded shithead.

I clench my teeth in frustration as I get into my car, slamming the door behind me. I turn on my phones maps and start the engine, listening to the directions.

Cold case. I should’ve been able to finish it. I could’ve done better. I could’ve helped those victims.

My lips are cracked. I haven’t slept properly in days and it’s affecting my driving. The roads and traffic lights are almost nothing but smudged lines of different colours.

Before I’ve managed to properly concerntrate, I’ve already arrived at my destination.

I get out of the car and close the door, stepping onto the brown and wet lawn of Nicole’s house.

Her house is face-bricked and dry with nothing but grey coloured walls to accompany the feeling of dulled hope.

Depression.

Two knocks on her door gets it jerked open with a profuse amount of strength. A gush of wind floating past my legs.

Even the trousers can’t keep the cold out. Her eyes are wrinkled with old lines and smiles that hide annoyance.

“Hey Nicks…” My voice is roughly formed with plain pronounciation. She welcomes me with open arms—literally.

Her embrace startles me for a small amount of time before I finally accept it and pull her into my own arms.

Her old and grey hair smells like the oceans bed—surprisingly fresh and new for its appearance.

“Hey Gordy. God—it’s nice to see you! You’ve gained some neat muscles I see,” She points out and tugs my blazer whilst scanning me from head to toe.

My cheeks heat up slightly at the compliment. “No need to lie, Nicks, we all know I’ve been getting fat.” New of me to be modest.

She giggles in disagreement and without further ado, she says: “So—about my neighbors,” her eyes immediately reveal that annoyance I referred to earlier.

“I can’t deal with them anymore—day in and day out it’s like fucking ruckus! Shouting and screaming!” How redundant.

I nod, listening to the harsh words coming from her sweet voice. It’s rather odd to hear someone who usually comforts other’s, talk the way she’s talking.

“So…was it highschool or the neighbors that made you hard?” I ask sarcastically, noting her complaints in my head.

She immediately hides her face and abruptly stops talking. “W-well, I just want some peace and quiet…I don’t think it’s that difficult.” She points out shyly.

Once again, I nod and pinch the bridge of my nose. “Okay, I’ll go over there and see what’s happening.” I inform her and watch as she nods in return.

Before I leave, she tugs my sleeve and rubs the palm of my hand—leaving goosebumps all over my skin.

Her touch is soft and gentle—coming from a woman who’s in her late 50s.

“Really, Gordon—you’re in good shape. I hope you’re feeling better after the incident.” She smiles again and finally releases me from her hold.

I merely grunt in response, having no energy to talk about that sore subject.

The sourness at the back of my throat causes my eyes to sting with wetness.

She notices and before she notices too much, I turn away from her door and walk away—over to the neighbors house. The door shuts behind me and I almost instantly feel the anxious drop in my stomach.

A pit of despair waiting to fall from my eyes. As a man—I don’t embrace these petty emotions. They’re nothing but unnecessary and yet they are necessary given the circumstances.

I exhale a shaky breath and inhale the fresh air of winter. The sky is dark and the grass is damp. Puddles of water nearly soaking my shoes as I walk.

The house next door is much…uglier—truthfully speaking. The walls are dented with chipped paint and cracks running through the corners.

The door looks like it was fighting a battle with the rain—and lost.

The windows are shattered and threatening to break on even the slightest bit of impact.

I sigh my last sigh for the day and brace my knuckles to knock on the door.

I wait 5 seconds for someone to atleast shout. But nothing comes from the other side of the door—so I proceed to knock again. Louder and more emphasized.

Another 3 seconds pass me by before the door swings open gently. From what I can gather, the house is dark and filled with almost nothing inside but the figure obscuring themselves from my eyes.

My suspicion only grows. I lick my lips and pull out my badge, presenting it to whoever I’m talking to, whilst my other hand rests on my gun—just in case.

“Ma’am—I’m officer Gordon. I’ve come to confront you about the noise pollution. The neighbors are complaining-“ Before I manage to finish, the person slams the door right in my face.

The fucking disrespectful shit.

My head feels hot with temper as I clench my teeth and fist in coordination to one another and furiously bang against the door—exactly the way a police officer should.

“Ma’am—I’m gonna need you to open this door!” My voice rings out loudly as tiny droplets of rain begin to hit my head.

A small thump can be heard inside the house and I’m not sure what to take that as—but fearing that whoever’s inside is in danger—I try the handle and push the door open.

I’m pleasantly surprised at how easy it was to open.

Stepping inside, I notice just how dark the house is and immediately notice the smell of metal—so prominent and pungent, I can almost taste it on the tip of my tongue.

My nostrils flare in disgust and repulsiveness.

The small sounds of squeaking floorboards catch my attention too soon as I look down.

I choke on air.

My mouth agape and my eyes open widely. She lays fearfully on the floor in the dark and crowded space. My breath hitches and my throat dries up with shock.

The beauty robbed from my life;

“Marinette?”

My eyes water and my fingertips feel numb to the world. She stares at me with a startled look on her face.

“W-what?” She breathes out and only now do I realize the difference in her voice.

No…she’s not Marinette.

I swallow harshly in embarrassment and glee—disappointment and sadness fills my stomach and stabs painfully at my organs.

Thousands of nails are once again stabbing through my chest until the oxygen cannot be held securely by my punctured lungs.

“Ah-who are you?” She winces in pain and I’m momentarily pulled out of my own pain. Her eyes water but she tries hiding it.

Finally—I notice the blood dripping from her fingers that clenched tightly around her ribs—and I wonder how I missed it earlier.

Her flesh is quite literally pierced and open, allowing blood to flow freely. I don’t have to be a biologist to see that whatever she’s endured—was done by someone with an intention to seriously torture her.

“Oh my god—are you okay?” I ask quickly, watching her flinch as I come closer. I frown curiously. “Who did this to you?” Her face contorts into different emotions.

But she doesn’t answer my question.

Her lips are cracked and her cheeks are sunken in. She hasn’t eaten in days.

My stomach churns and my chest burns with anger. I hold out my arms to her and watch as she flinches at my every move. Her eyes are barricaded with dark circles and her body is robbed of clothing.

The floors even look better than her—and this floor looks hideous.

“Look—I promise I’m not going to hurt you pumpkin.” I tell her reassuringly and for the first time in a week—feel myself getting soft.

Her eyes are glossy with tears. “Please just leave—you don’t know what he’ll do if he finds you here!” She shouts out with vocal chords clearly damaged.

My veins burn with hot anger. “Who?” My demanda are not met as she merely rolls herself into a ball and cradle back and forth.

My heart clenches as I pull my phone from my back pocket. “Look—I’m going to call 911, if you want to, you can tell me later on who did this to—”

“No! Don’t call the police—please! He-he’ll hurt me again—please just go away!” She begs—unfolding herself and jumping into my with the type of force that usually has me drawing my gun.

But I don’t—and I pull her into my arms. I feel her bones stiffen underneath my grasp before she eventually calms down from being hysterical and cries softly into my chest.

“Tell me who you’re talking about—I promise I won’t let him hurt you…” I coo her as my hand massages her scalp.

Her trembling figure withdraws from my grasp as she holds onto her knees once again, now acknowledging my presence fully and looking into my eyes.

“I can’t…” I smile softly—already having a good idea of who it might be.

I nod and pull out my phone. “Please, let me call the ambulance—you need medical attention immediately.” I say softly but she shakes her head in disagreement.

“Look—there’s no point in fearing death if you’re not trying to live. If you’re scared of him killing you—then why aren’t you allowing me to heal you?” I try sounding as logical as possible.

But her next few words startled me.

“Who said I wanted to live?” Her voice is coarse but clear. Bruised and tattered.

Something inside me snaps—she has the ability to help herself right now but she’s just throwing the opportunity away. There are other people without the chance to save themselves—like Marinette.

And here she is just throwing it away—giving up and choosing death. I despise whoever made her feel so comfortable with choosing death as her savior.

I close my eyes and call the ambulance anyway. Her face scrunches with fear and I pat her head.

She knows she can’t stop me—so she doesn’t try.

“911—what’s your emergency?” The operator speaks.

“Hello—this is detective Gordon—I’m going to need to call for my backup squad and get paramedics over here as soon as possible please—there’s a girl bleeding to death and needs immediate medical attention. Do me a favor and tell my team it’s a code red.”

The girl looks at me with amazement—admiration even—as though it’s the kindest thing anyone has done for her.

I smile at her softly and pat her head again.

“Yes sir—paramedics will be there soon with your team.”

“Thanks.” The line cuts and I place my phone back in its respective spot. “What’s your name?” Her head tilts up at my question as she bites her lower lip—most likely contemplating whether or not to tell me.

“Z-zohra” She responds quietly, her eyes averting to the door with a anxious gaze. “Expecting someone?” Her face changes swiftly as her jaw clenched. “No…” I know she’s lying.

“Zohra….that’s a nice name,” Her cheeks tint pink at the compliment. The bruises running along her neck could be the result of attempted strangulation.

I shouldn’t think of it as I do—but this is just another case waiting to be loaded onto my desk; child abuse.

“Where’s your parents?” Her face immediately scrunches—I’m not sure what emotion that delivers but I know to tread lightly on that topic.

The small squeak of the door sends my body twisting and straight up with gun in hand. Zohra gasps behind me and I realize I’ve come face to face with a man—most likely her father.

His face is filled with dark spots and scabs. His cheekbones are unhealthily sunken into his skeleton. “Sir—I’m gonna need you to put your hands up.”

He looks shocked and quickly does as I say. “Officer—I don’t understand—Z-Zohra my sweet child—are you okay?” He shouts in anguish as he looks at her with a sad expression.

I squint my eyes trying to figure out if this is an act or if it’s truth. “Sir—can you explain why your daughter looks like this?” I try approaching calmly and watch as he steps forward.

“Sir—I myself am confused—she was fine when I left the house! I was just getting some groceries.” He reasons and suspiciously—I look at his hands and notice small packets.

“What are in the packets?”

“Spice for the food of course.” Zohra’s breath is unsteady behind me and I can tell that she’s uncomfortable around him.

I kneel down—still pointing my gun. Zohra tries speaking but I can’t make out a word she says—so I inch closer and allow her to speak in my ear.

My blood runs cold at her words.

“Save me…” She whispers softly with a trembling voice and uneven tone.

Without thinking twice—I cock my gun. “Step back—put your hands behind your head and get on your knees.” I say sternly to her father as I get up and step forward.

He looks at Zohra for the first time since I’ve stood here and frowns. “Sir—whatever she’s told you is a lie—”

“I said put your hands behind your head and get on your knees!” My voice raises as my patience runs out.

He flinches and does what he’s told in perfect coordination to the backup team I’ve ordered to come—arriving at the front door with blaring sirens and guns reloading.

“You’re making a fucking mistake! You don’t know who she is!” Her father blurts out in anger.

Zohra looks perplexed at the remark as she follows me out the door.

One of the men that arrived stand by to shoot just incase her father tries to attack any of us. He looks at me and frowns. “Sir—you said code red—”

“Yes—that’s what I said, is there a problem?” I ask timidly as I escort the father out.

“Sir—isn’t code red only for murder or attempted murder?” He asks—questioning my perception.

“Listen—officer, can’t you see he was attempting to murder his daughter? Child abuse counts as attempted murder in this case—the girl is almost half dead.” I blurt softly—remembering to be sensitive about the topic.

He immediately shuts up and walks on, nodding in my direction.

Once I’ve restrained her father and placed him into a police vehicle—I usher Zohra into my car, starting the engine and driving to the police station.

“You wanna tell me how this happened?” I ask her as she gets comfortable in the passengers seat—keeping herself company with the passing traffic lights and people through the window.

“It’s not—no…never mind.” She says quickly.

“Let me guess—it’s not the first time? How long has this been happening for? Where’s your mom? How have—” I cut myself off as I realize her silence might indicate how uncomfortable she is.

“Sorry..”

“No—it’s okay…let’s just say my mom is—having it better than me. ” She smiles softly.

I nod, looking at the police station infront of me.

“Look—we’re at the police station—but from here you’ll be placed into an ambulance and assisted before I continue my job.” She frowns in confusion.

“What do you mean? What’s your job?” She asks weakly.

“Questioning you, of course.” She widens her mouth slightly and forms an ‘O’ shape with her lips.

And just as I’ve said—the ambulance rushes to the car I’m in and pulls her out slowly. “Ma’am—are you okay? I’m going to need you to relax while I put you on the bed.” The woman says and I get out of my car and watch as she gets put into the truck.

I sigh in anguish—she reminds me a lot of Marinette—but just different.

I head into the station only to be bombarded with people.

“Detective—I’ve done some research on the girl and it seems she has no parents.” I listen to Parker as he walks beside me along with two other people.

“She has no other related family members either—atleast not that the system can pick up.” Hailey, another officer speaks.

“How’s that possible? Did you check her medical records for next of kin or something like that?” I ask in confusion.

“Yes sir—she’s like a ghost. I only have one main specimen of her blood in the hospital that was taken when she was 10. Apparently she suffered from appendicitis and had her appendix removed—but something went wrong with the operation and caused major blood loss.” Hailey continues whilst the third and unknown person hands me her medical records.

I wave them off—noting the given information. Parker walks by my side until we reach my office.

I look up at him and frown. His skin is pale—blood withdrawn from his face. He looks unnerved—disturbed even.

I snap my fingers infront of his face—trying to wake him from his daze. “Parker—what’s the matter with you?”

“I’m sorry…sir—what did you say her name was again?” He asks anxiously. His eyes are squinted.

“Zohra…why?” I ask suspiciously and note the ticking of his jaw.

“PARKER?” I shout—annoyed with his constant need to black out whenever I ask him something important.

He flinches and immediately looks at me. “I’m sorry sir—it’s just that…well—you know the Bianchi case you’ve worked on before?” He asks me.

I nod. “Well—I’ve been reading up on it since this morning when you left the office and…in one of the reports—it says that the huge mafia boss or whatever kept mentioning the name of a girl…saying that he’s trafficking all of those girls and trying to find her or some shit like that.” He babbles and for some reason I can’t understand why he’s trying to bring up that which is not important in a case like this.

“So what—who cares about that right now?” I try waving him off.

Parker shakes his head roughly—stopping me from proceeding with the step forward to my office.

“No sir—I don’t think you understand…he said he’d come for her—he said he owned her,” I frown—waiting for him to continue.

“He also said—her name is; Zohra Hale”