Celeste stepped up onto the shuttle's rusted ramp as if onto a tomb. The ship groaned beneath her; it looked older than her life and twice as tired. Leather cords bit into her wrists with every pull. Her feet were shackled just enough to hobble her—short, humiliating steps toward an uncertain future.
She tried to catalogue possibilities—maid, servant, some planet's bargain-basement labor—but every option felt worse than the last. Would she be useful? Wanted? Or crushed into something unrecognizable? She had never been the sort of woman who dressed to turn heads; she'd spent her time working, thinking the small labors of the day mattered more than paint and mirrors. Now that indifference felt like a pale shield against a world that saw her as merchandise.
A shove sent her stumbling forward. Celeste twisted, kicked, and managed to knock the hulking man behind her off balance. For a breath, she tasted freedom—then the cruiser's bulkhand closed over her, hauling her to the deck. Pain flared as her head struck metal, hot light bursting at the edges of her vision. The world narrowed to the sound of boots and the low laughter of men who treated fear like sport.
They carried her to a small, windowless hold and dropped her on a thin pallet. The place smelled of oil and old metal. Red warning lights glanced across the walls like ill omen signals. No one spoke comfort. No one offered a blanket. Two figures stood over her like judges: one—Sisisky—calm and businesslike; the other—a brute named Draco—smiled with too many teeth.
"Strip her of anything that could hide contraband," Sisisky ordered, the tone clinical. A hand moved toward her clothes, and for a sick moment, Celeste felt all the world fall away. She closed her eyes as coarse hands separated layers she had once worn for modesty and warmth. Shame and cold wrapped around her like another chain.
They patted and prodded with detached efficiency—checking pockets, scanning for implants. The machine beeped; a small panel flashed green. Sisisky whistled softly. "She's clean. Unique." His voice dropped into greed. "An Omega. That will draw interest."
Celeste's cheeks burned—not from the cold but from the humiliation—every stare was another coal pressed into her. Draco muttered, and Sisisky turned away to talk business. "We'll notify the highest bidders in Vlallas. She'll bring a fortune."
They left her to the hold's hum. The stun device's aftereffects trembled through her muscles until they ebbed. Slowly, she pushed herself up, every movement an argument against collapse. The metal under her palms was slick with something she didn't want to consider. Tears blurred her vision, but anger tightened her jaw more than fear did.
Vlallas flashed in her mind as a rumor she'd heard in childhood—hard courts, harder men. She'd once watched, frozen, as a patrol took a woman in a city alley; the memory had marked her with a single promise: never be near them. The thought of being handed over to that kind of cruelty made dying feel, for the first time, like something people might choose.
But the promise she made then to herself was a stubborn, living thing. They could fetter her hands and clip her freedom, but they could not own her will. She pressed her knuckles to her mouth, tasting metal, tasting the grit of the ramp in memory, and said the vow aloud so the cramped hold could not deny it: They will never break me. I will find a way out. I will be free again.
When the shuttle shuddered into flight, the world beyond the tiny porthole narrowed to speed and stars. Her home dwindled into a bright smudge behind them. Celeste forced herself to stare forward. She would not look back.