The darkness in the warehouse was absolute, broken only by the flickering, sickly yellow light of the single bulb overhead. Diya was no longer sitting in the chair; she had been moved to a rusted, iron bed frame in the corner of the room. Her wrists were tied to the headboard with thick, rough hemp rope that bit into her skin every time she moved.

Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat. Every breath was a struggle against the rising tide of terror. She wasn't just afraid for herself; she was terrified for the tiny, fragile life growing inside her. She felt a sharp, cold dread as she looked at the two figures in the room.