The room smelled of stale alcohol and cigarettes. A single bulb swung lazily above, casting shadows that made the peeling wallpaper look like it was crawling. Emily stood stiff in the corner, clutching her thin sweater tighter around her frame. Her heart pounded in her chest as her father leaned across the table, his greedy eyes fixed on the man opposite him.
"Dad, you can't do this," Emily whispered, her voice trembling.
Her father didn't even glance at her. He smirked and tapped his fingers on the wooden table, the sound sharp, impatient. "Shut up, girl. You're my blood, which makes you my property. I can use you however I see fit."
The man sitting across from him—a local gangster named Marco—grinned, revealing gold-capped teeth that glinted in the dim light. His reputation in the slums was infamous: quick to fight, quicker to kill, and known for snatching whatever he wanted. He wasn't the mafia king Emily had only heard whispers about; no, Marco was small-time. But small-time didn't mean safe.
"How much were you saying again, Mr…?" her father asked, voice dripping with false charm.
"Marco," the gangster said smoothly, lighting a cigar. He blew smoke in Emily's direction, making her cough. "And I'd say your little dove here is worth… enough to settle your debts, old man. Maybe even enough to buy you a few more bottles."
Emily's stomach turned. She wanted to scream, to beg, to run—but her legs felt like they were carved from stone. Her father chuckled, a hollow, humorless sound.
"Then she's yours," he said.
Her world stopped. The words crashed into her like cold water, stealing her breath. Her father didn't look at her, didn't see the tears building in her eyes. To him, she was nothing but currency.
Marco rose from his chair and approached her with slow, deliberate steps. His gaze roamed her face, her trembling hands, the way she pressed herself against the wall as if it might swallow her whole.
"Don't worry, Pet," he murmured, his tone mocking. "I'll take good care of you."
Emily flinched at the nickname. She wanted to claw at his face, to spit in his eye—but fear held her captive. Marco grabbed her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. His touch was rough, possessive, and made her skin crawl.
Her father, already pouring himself another drink, waved them off. "Get out of here. I don't want to hear her whining anymore."
Something inside Emily broke. A sharp, suffocating pain flooded her chest, she couldn't believe her dad would sell her off for money, Actually, she could, but behind it, a flicker of fire burned. She didn't know how, or when, but she swore to herself that she would escape. She would never let herself be caged.
Marco yanked her toward the door, his grip iron-tight around her arm. She stumbled, nearly falling, but caught herself. Outside, the night air hit her face, cold and heavy with the smell of rain. The streets stretched dark and endless, filled with secrets and dangers she couldn't yet imagine.
Behind her, the door slammed shut. Her father's laughter echoed faintly through the walls signifying a successful trade for him, cruel and careless, sealing her fate.
Emily lifted her chin despite the tears brimming in her eyes. She wasn't a thing to be bought or sold. She wasn't just her father's blood, nor Marco's plaything.
She was Emily. And someday soon, she would find her wings again, even if she had to fly through fire.