010: Prisoner Z26

My day began long before the others.

By 4 a.m., the loud mechanical drilling shook the entire house awake. Girls grumbled and scrambled out of bed, their footsteps quick and irritable as they moved toward the shared bathroom. But I remained seated, already dressed, already ready. I'd been up since 2 a.m. — not just from habit, thanks to the routine Auntie drilled into me — but because I couldn't sleep.

The fear and guilt were still gnawing at my insides like rats in a locked box. But even though dread clung to me like a second skin, I knew one thing for sure: if I was going to survive this, I had to let go of regret. That emotion had no place here.

I looked down at myself, at my new identity stitched in white thread across my left chest — Z26. That single word had become my name. The black jumpsuit I wore had white stripes running along the right side, baggy enough to conceal the fragility I'd been trying to mask for weeks. And for once, I felt… covered. Like my skin was finally safe. They'd given me a spare uniform, a black face cap, a hair tie for my curls, gloves, and rubber boots. I tied my hair up tight, stuffed it into the cap, pulled it low over my eyes, and finished the look with my gloves and boots.

Then I stood, pushed away from the thin mattress that passed for a bed, and walked into the sitting room.

Most of the girls were already dressed. They moved like ants preparing for an exodus — rolling up their bedding, tidying up in silence. I made my way to Adriana, Olga, and Maja, who stood closest to the front door. All of them were in uniform too, looking more like soldiers than prisoners.

"You fit in well," Adriana smirked as I joined their circle.

I rolled my eyes. "I don't want to fit in."

"Well, too bad," Maja chirped. "You do."

"You should cheer up," Adriana added, patting my back gently. I nearly flinched — I hated being touched — but the look in her eyes reminded me of Grandma Louisa. Soft. Familiar. A warmth I hadn't felt in so long it nearly broke me.

"You should smile," she repeated. "We're about to leave."

I turned and saw the rest of the girls were now dressed. Some still adjusting their caps, but all of them looked ready. I checked the broken clock mounted on the far wall — 4:58 a.m. We'd be gone by five, I guessed.

Just then, Diane stumbled into the room, half-panting, hair wild, uniform barely on. "Bitch! You couldn't think to wake me up?" she snapped at Olga.

The girls turned their attention to Olga. The silence that followed was stiff with accusation.

"You didn't think to wake her?" Adriana prodded, arms folded.

I watched Olga. She fascinated me. There was something deliberate about her chaos, something calculated. Predictable, even. Like she wanted to be misunderstood. I could see through her already — something none of the other girls seemed capable of doing.

Diane's voice changed, her tone laced with genuine fear now. "I'm your bedmate, Olga. You could've at least tried."

The air was heavy with expectation. But I wasn't surprised when Olga turned her face slightly and said coldly, "I'm not responsible for anyone. You're grown. Act like it." And just like that, she left — stepping through the front door without a glance back.

The silence that followed her exit stretched and pulsed like a wound.

"We should leave," I said flatly. That snapped everyone into motion.

We filed out of the house and into the soft chill of early morning. Buses were parked in front of every building on the row — ours, a mini coaster bus, could hold about sixteen girls. I climbed in last, scanning the seats. Only one spot was open — right next to Olga, who sat cross-legged, wearing a smug look like she'd been waiting just for me.

I saw Maja mouth a soft "Sorry" from across the aisle.

"It's no problem," I mouthed back before settling into the seat.

"I thought you weren't going to sit after all that hesitation," Olga whispered, amusement lining her voice.

I shot her a look. "Why should I stand? I won't inconvenience myself because of something you caused."

She smirked. "Good. I thought you were a follower."

"I follow strong leaders. Not other slaves with delusions of grandeur — ones who volunteer to be here because of some obsession with the mafia."

The smirk dropped from her lips. "Not the mafia," she corrected, eyes drifting. "Someone in the mafia."

That caught my attention. "Who?"

Her lips curved into a real smile this time. "Lorenzo De La Cruz. The prince of this place."

I frowned. "What do you—?"

"We'll talk later," she cut in, voice low and serious. "9 p.m. After work. Meet me behind the building. Don't bring Maja. Come alone. I'll tell you everything. Even how to get out."

I raised a brow. "Why not Maja?"

"Because I only see you as an equal."

That shut me up.

She turned away, her silence giving me space to think. I leaned into the seat, catching Maja's eyes across the aisle. She gave me a small smile. I returned one that barely reached my lips.

I looked around and felt the weight of this reality settle in my bones.

Every girl here had a past. A story. A dream. Someone had once called them daughter. Someone had loved them. And now, we were property — branded and shackled to an empire of shadows. Controlled. Watched. Owned.

We weren't prisoners.

We were livestock.

And somehow, Olga sat there like she didn't belong in this horror story. Her stillness. Her calm. It unsettled me because I realized what she really was — not broken, but mad. Mad in a way that made sense in a place like this.

The kind of mad that survives.

And if I was going to make it out alive, I had to become that too.