Payton Moormeier

I was walking home after university. It was late, dark, and windy. I had my headphones in, but I couldn't hear anything. So I didn't notice a car pull up next to me.

• Hey!

I turned around. All I saw was a blur. Beyond that, pitch darkness. Someone's hand pressed a rag to my face. My breath caught. My body went limp.

— We're taking it. Load it up.

Voices as if through cotton wool. The slam of a door. The hum of an engine.

I woke up cold. My feet were bare, the concrete floor was dirty. The lightbulb on the ceiling was dim. Water was dripping somewhere. I was sitting on an old mattress, my hands free, but my shoes were gone.

The door opened. Two people entered. They stared at me silently. Then one of them left and returned with the other.

Peyton.

He walked in slowly, looking at me as if he was seeing me for the first time in his life, but he already knew that he was mistaken.

"Is this her?" he asked, not looking at his own people.

• Yes, boss. We did everything.

He leaned towards my face and narrowed his eyes.

• How old are you?

“Nineteen,” I answered, trying not to tremble.

Peyton straightened up, cursed under his breath, walked to the wall, and slammed his fist against it.

— Morons. She's five years younger. She's not who we were looking for.

“But we thought…” someone began.

"Are you fucking nuts?" His voice grew harsher. "You've got the wrong guy. How do you even work?"

• Boss, the photo was old, the lighting...

— Shut up. And take her away. To the sixth. And don't let anyone set foot in there. I'll sort this out.