Chapter 1

The moon hung low over the Persian Gulf, its pale light fractured by gentle waves as the small ship cut a determined path through the night. Onboard, 16 year old Greta Thunberg crouched at the bow, her hands gripping the cold metal railing. The air was thick with salt and tension, the faint hum of the engine the only sound in the stillness.

She had agreed to this. She had believed in the mission, in the need to act decisively. But now, as the towering oil rigs loomed on the horizon, doubts churned within her like the restless sea. She looked back at the crew—her comrades in this high-stakes gamble.

Simon, the group’s grizzled leader, stood near the wheelhouse, murmuring last-minute instructions to Ismail, their local guide. Freya, the ship’s engineer and the steadiest among them, tightened the straps on her backpack, her sharp eyes scanning the rig ahead. Nico, barely older than Greta, joked nervously with Freya, his attempt at humor a thin veneer over his obvious fear.

“You’re quiet,” Freya said, her voice low as she moved beside Greta. “Nervous?”

Greta nodded, her braid swaying with the motion. “More than I thought I’d be. It seemed so clear when we planned this. Now I just ... I don’t know.”

Freya squeezed her shoulder. “It’s normal. But this—what we’re doing—matters.”

“Does it?” Greta asked, her voice almost lost to the wind. “Or am I just risking all of us for a statement that won’t change anything?”

Freya didn’t answer, her face unreadable. Instead, she moved to the crate containing their tools and explosives.

Greta turned back to the horizon. The air had grown colder, and she shivered, wishing she hadn’t been so disciplined in her diet. In Swedish winters, her body could withstand the chill, but here, drenched by the sea spray and cloaked in doubt, she felt every ounce of lost warmth, though she was thankful that her breasts had decided to grow at last, and fast, although her bra felt unfamiliar and uncomfortable.

“Two minutes out,” Simon called softly, his voice firm. “Stay sharp.”

The boat slowed, its engine falling to a murmur as they neared the oil rigs. The lights from the structures reflected on the water, shimmering like molten gold. Greta’s heart pounded. She clutched the small toolkit Freya had handed her earlier and glanced at Nico, who gave her a shaky grin.

Then, the plan unraveled.

A piercing spotlight swept across the water, catching their ship in its beam. A voice thundered over a loudspeaker, first in Arabic, then in English: “Halt immediately! This is a restricted area!”

“Reverse!” Simon barked, lunging for the controls. “Abort the mission! Go, go, go!”

Freya cursed under her breath, slamming the engine into reverse. The boat jerked, its nose veering away from the rig, but it was too late. The sound of gunfire cracked through the night. Bullets struck the deck, splintering wood and punching holes in the hull. Greta ducked, her toolkit clattering to the floor as chaos erupted.

A sharp, deafening explosion split the air. A bullet had found its mark—striking the crate of explosives. The blast ripped through the ship, a wave of heat and force that hurled Greta into the water. The cold enveloped her instantly, stealing her breath. She flailed, disoriented, until her fingers found a floating plank of wood.

Flames licked the shattered remains of the ship. Greta clung to the debris, her teeth chattering uncontrollably. She scanned the dark waters, calling out between gasps for breath. “Freya! Nico! Simon!”

No response. Only the distant crackle of the fire and the faint wail of alarms on the rig.

Time passed in a blur of cold and fear. Greta’s arms ached, and her mind drifted to bitter self-recriminations. Why had she thought this was a good idea? Why had she believed she could challenge such powerful forces without consequences?

A light appeared on the horizon. A small boat approached, its engine a dull growl against the water. Greta’s heart raced. Rescue—or capture? She had no choice but to wait.

The boat drew closer, and a figure leaned over the edge. “There she is,” the man barked, his voice hard. A hand shot out, grabbing Greta’s arm with more force than necessary. She winced as he hauled her aboard, her sodden clothes leaving a puddle on the deck.

The man stood over her, his face twisted with disdain. His uniform bore the logo of the oil company, his boots scuffed and stained with grease. “So, you’re the little eco-warrior, huh?” His words dripped with venom. “Congratulations. You just made the dumbest mistake of your life.”

Greta sat shivering, too cold and exhausted to respond. Another man, similarly dressed, approached. “The others?” he asked gruffly.

“Gone, I think,” the first man replied. “Maybe the sea swallowed them. Pity it didn’t take her too.”

Greta flinched at the words but said nothing. Her lips were blue, her limbs trembling violently.

“Don’t expect any sympathy here,” the man sneered, crouching to glare into her eyes. “You think you’re some kind of hero? You threaten our jobs—our lives—and now you expect us to save you?”

“I didn’t—” Greta began, her voice hoarse, but he cut her off with a sharp laugh.

“Save it. We’ll decide what to do with you when we get to the rig.” He stood, waving a hand dismissively. “Get her out of my sight.”

Two men grabbed Greta roughly, dragging her toward the rear of the boat. She collapsed onto a bench, her body spent. As the rig grew closer, its lights harsh and unwelcoming, her thoughts spiraled between regret and a fierce, unyielding determination.

She might have failed tonight, but her fight was far from over.

The rig was a cage of cold steel and glaring lights, its sprawling platforms a far cry from the freedom of the sea. Greta had been marched inside the main building the night before, her steps echoing on the metal floor as oil workers and security guards jeered and muttered behind her. She was deposited in a small, windowless room with metal walls and a single cot bolted to the floor.

The lock clicked shut behind her, and the sound lingered in the air like a cruel taunt. Greta sat on the cot, her wet clothes clinging to her skin, shivering uncontrollably. The night stretched on in a haze of exhaustion and fear. She tried to think of her crew—Freya’s calm voice, Simon’s commanding presence, Nico’s nervous grin—but every memory led her back to the explosion, the fire, and the sound of their voices swallowed by the sea.

She hadn’t slept. How could she? Every creak of the rig and hum of machinery outside the walls felt like a threat. The cot was hard and cold, the stale air suffocating. Her body ached, her mind raced, and no amount of steady breathing could slow her pounding heart.

The door rattled in the morning, and Greta jolted upright, her breath hitching. The lock turned with a sharp metallic grind, and the door swung open. A man stepped inside, his boots heavy on the floor.

He was tall, with dark, sun-weathered skin and deep-set eyes that gleamed with something far more unsettling than mere hostility. He carried a tray, but his crooked smirk made it clear this wasn’t just about breakfast.

“Well, well,” he drawled in heavily accented English, setting the tray on the small table by the cot. “Look at the little eco-terrorist. How’s our guest this morning?”

Greta didn’t respond, her throat dry. She forced herself to meet his eyes, but the leer she found there made her wish she hadn’t.

He crouched down, putting his face level with hers. His breath smelled faintly of cigarettes and coffee, and his grin widened as he studied her. “What’s wrong? You’re not as brave without your little friends, hmm?”

Her stomach twisted, and she shrank back instinctively, pressing herself against the wall. The man chuckled, low and cruel, and leaned in closer.

“You’ll be interested to know,” he said, his voice dripping with mockery, “that the news is already reporting your death. Quite the hero’s end. Killed in a fiery blast, your body lost at sea. A real tragedy.”

Greta’s pulse quickened. “No,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“Oh yes,” he said, his grin widening. “The whole world thinks you’re dead. No protests, no rescue missions, no questions. We could keep you here as long as we like. Or do whatever we want with you.” His words hung in the air, thick and heavy with implication.

Greta’s breath came in shallow gasps, her mind racing for something—anything—to say or do. She tried to press herself further against the wall, but there was nowhere to go.

“Scared?” he asked, tilting his head. “You should be. You made this bed, girl. Now you’re going to lie in it.”

He reached out suddenly, brushing a damp strand of hair from her face. Greta flinched, turning her head sharply away. He laughed again, standing and stepping back toward the door.

“Eat your breakfast,” he said, nodding at the tray. “You’ll need your strength.”

The door slammed shut, and the lock clicked into place. Greta sat frozen, her hands trembling as she stared at the tray of bread and tea. The room felt smaller, the walls closing in on her.

She wrapped her arms around herself, her mind racing with fear and despair. If the world thought she was dead, no one would come for her. She was alone. But even as the fear threatened to consume her, another thought crept in, sharp and defiant: If no one’s coming, I’ll have to get out myself.

Her jaw tightened. She wouldn’t give him—or any of them—the satisfaction of seeing her break.

The sound of the lock turning made Greta stiffen. She had been sitting on the edge of the cot, staring at the cold metal floor and trying to ignore the pangs of hunger gnawing at her stomach. When the door swung open, she looked up, and her chest tightened. It was the same man from earlier—the one with the mocking voice and the leering eyes.

“Up,” he barked. “You’re going to clean yourself up.”

Greta hesitated, unsure if this was another cruel game, but the thought of warm water on her skin and an end to the clammy chill clinging to her clothes pushed her to her feet. She followed him down the narrow corridor, her bare feet cold against the metal floor.

He led her to a small bathroom, the walls coated with a film of rust and mildew. “Five minutes,” he said sharply. “Make it quick.”

Greta turned to him, her voice hoarse. “You’re going to watch?”

The man smirked. “No, I’ll give you your privacy. For now.”

Her relief was immediate but fleeting. The way he said it—for now—made her skin crawl. Without waiting for more, she stepped inside and shut the door, twisting the flimsy lock.

The water ran lukewarm at best, but it was enough to wash away the grime and salt crusted on her skin. She stood under the spray, scrubbing her arms and legs until they turned pink, letting the water stream through her hair and over her face. For a few moments, she felt human again.

When Greta stepped out of the shower, steam billowing around her, she immediately noticed the absence of her clothes. The damp, salt-crusted garments she had clung to were gone. In their place, on the counter, was a crude sack folded neatly. Her heart sank, and a knot of dread twisted in her stomach as she unfolded it to reveal what they had left for her.

The sack was rough, the fabric coarse and abrasive to the touch. Scrawled across it in bold black marker were words that made her skin crawl: Eco whore. Rig property. Swedish slut. Fresh meat. No holes barred. Each taunt hit her like a slap, leaving her trembling.

She clutched the towel tighter around her, her pulse quickening as her mind raced. She wanted to refuse, to fight, but the knock on the door shattered her hesitation.

“Move it!” the man outside barked. “You’re done.”

Her hands shook as she slipped the sack over her head. The fabric chafed against her skin, hanging loosely on her small frame, the messages glaring out like wounds. She took a shaky breath, trying to steady herself, but when she opened the door, the man’s grin made it clear that she had no armor left.

“Well, don’t you look the part,” he sneered, his eyes raking over her in a way that made her feel stripped even further. “How’s that for a uniform? It suits you.”

Greta’s lips pressed into a thin line, but her silence only seemed to amuse him.

“Come on,” he said, gripping her arm roughly and leading her down the hallway.

The walk back to her room felt endless. Workers lined the corridor, stopping to gawk as she passed. They whispered cruel comments loud enough for her to hear.

“Nice outfit, princess.”

“She’ll fit right in here.”

“Better break her in quick—fresh meat never lasts long.”

Laughter followed her, sharp and cutting. Greta kept her head down, her face burning as she tried to block it out. But it was impossible to ignore the words scrawled on the sack she now wore, their meaning amplified by every taunt and jeer.

When they reached her room, she expected to be shoved inside again. Instead, the man held up a new addition—a collar made of heavy black leather, its edges worn but sturdy. Her breath caught, her chest tightening.

“No,” she said instinctively, stepping back.

“Oh, yes,” the man replied, his grin widening. “This is part of the deal.”

“I can’t,” she gasped, shaking her head. “I can’t wear that.”

“You don’t have a choice.” He grabbed her wrist, his grip bruising, and snapped the collar around her neck before she could pull away. Greta clawed at it, but there was no clasp to undo—only a locking mechanism that clicked audibly as he secured it.

“It’s locked,” he said with a smirk, watching her struggle. “No escaping this one, princess. It stays on.”

The collar’s weight pressed down on her, its constriction unbearable. Her fingers fumbled with it, her breathing shallow as panic began to set in. The sensation was overwhelming—too tight, too foreign, too much. Her autism made such sensory overload unbearable, and the collar was like a vise, squeezing her mind and body.

“Stop that,” the man snapped, grabbing her hands and forcing them down. “You touch that again, and you’ll regret it.”

Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them away, her throat tight with humiliation. He wasn’t done. From his belt, he pulled a chain leash, snapping it onto the collar with a loud clink.

“There,” he said, giving it a sharp tug that made her stumble forward. “Now we’re all set. How does it feel to belong to the rig?”

She didn’t answer, her fists clenching at her sides. The leash rattled as he gave it another pull, forcing her to follow him.

As he led her to the cot, she caught her reflection in a small, grimy mirror on the wall. The sack hung awkwardly on her frame, the words Rig property and Swedish slut glaring back at her like brands. The collar stood out starkly against her pale neck, its presence inescapable.

He hooked the leash to a ring bolted into the wall, the chain rattling loudly in the silence. “There we go,” he said, stepping back to admire his work. “Safe and sound.”

Greta sat stiffly on the cot, her hands gripping the edge as she tried to calm the rising panic in her chest. The collar felt like a trap, the sack like a mockery of everything she stood for. Every sensation was an assault—coarse fabric, cold metal, the weight of their jeers hanging in the air.

The man lingered for a moment longer, his smirk never fading. “Don’t bother trying to take it off,” he said, gesturing to the collar. “That lock won’t budge without the key. You’re ours now, princess. Might as well get comfortable.”

He left, the door slamming shut behind him. Greta sat frozen, the sound of the lock clicking echoing in her ears. Her fingers hovered near the collar but didn’t touch it. She couldn’t bear the feel of it against her hands again.

Her breathing was shallow, her mind a storm of shame, anger, and despair. She wanted to scream, to cry, to tear the collar off and rip the sack to shreds. But she didn’t. She couldn’t.

Instead, she pulled her knees to her chest, curling into herself on the cot. Her hands shook as she pressed them to her face, and the words scrawled across her makeshift garment felt like they were etched into her skin.

But beneath the crushing humiliation, a spark of defiance still burned. She wouldn’t let them break her. Not completely. Not yet.

The next day, the routine of degradation began in earnest. Greta was yanked out of her room before dawn, the chain leash clipped to her collar jangling with every tug. The sack hung awkwardly on her, barely brushing the tops of her thighs. The rough-cut armholes left the sides of her torso exposed, and though she clutched the fabric to hold it closer to her body, it was futile.

They led her to the galley first, where a pile of greasy dishes waited in an industrial sink. The stench of leftover food mixed with the faint, metallic tang of oil from the rig itself.

“Get to work,” one of the men barked, pointing to the sink. “You want to be useful, don’t you?”

She didn’t respond, her stomach twisting at the jab. Wordlessly, she turned to the sink, the cold water biting into her hands as she began scrubbing the plates. Every so often, she could hear their whispers behind her, their low, cruel laughter.

“Good little dishmaid, isn’t she?”

“She looks better like that—dirty and working.”

Another man, bolder than the rest, sauntered up and placed a hand on the counter beside her. “Need some help there, princess?” he said, his tone thick with mockery. His eyes traveled down her figure, lingering on the crude messages scrawled across the sack.

Greta stiffened but didn’t look at him. She kept scrubbing, willing herself to ignore him.

“I’m talking to you,” he said, leaning in closer. His hand “accidentally” brushed against her side, where the armhole left her exposed. She flinched, biting her lip to stop herself from reacting further.

“Careful,” another man called from across the room, laughing. “You might scare her off. Fresh meat doesn’t always last long.”

The laughter that followed was sharp and jeering, and Greta’s hands trembled as she gripped the plate she was washing. She wanted to scream at them, to lash out, but she knew it would only make things worse.

After the galley, they dragged her to the bathrooms. The filth there was overwhelming, the smell of mildew and unflushed toilets making her gag. A bucket and a rag were shoved into her hands.

“Get cleaning,” the man in charge said with a sneer. “You wanted to save the planet, right? Start with this.”

Greta crouched down, scrubbing the tiles with trembling hands. The sack rode up with every movement, exposing more of her legs, but she didn’t dare adjust it. The workers came and went, some stepping over her, others pausing to make comments.

“Nice view.”

“She’s got the eco look down—barely covered and down on her knees.”

One of them gave her leash a playful tug, making her stumble. Another leaned down and pretended to whisper in her ear, though his voice was loud enough for everyone to hear. “You’d better get used to this. It’s your place now.”

She burned with humiliation, her cheeks red as she fought to focus on the task in front of her. The cold tiles bit into her knees, and the rag scratched against her raw hands, but the worst part was the endless jeers and occasional touches—a hand brushing her back, a finger tracing the edge of the sack near her shoulder, a laugh when she flinched.

The days blurred together in a haze of menial labor and unrelenting humiliation. She was made to scrub floors, polish railings, and clean the bathrooms over and over again. Every task was accompanied by jeers and wandering hands, her captors taking every opportunity to remind her of her powerlessness.

Her body ached, her hands raw from cleaning chemicals and cold water. The sack chafed her skin, the words on it feeling like physical wounds. But through it all, she endured. She kept her head down, her focus on surviving each moment, each task, each cruel remark.

At night, locked back in her small room, she would curl up on the cot, her collar pressing against her neck like a shackle. Her mind raced with plans and ideas, none of them feeling solid enough to grasp. But one thought stayed with her, steady and unyielding:

I will not let them break me.

The days became a relentless grind of physical exhaustion and psychological torment. Greta was dragged from her cot before the first hint of daylight, the metallic jingle of her leash her only warning before the door swung open and her daily ordeal began.

Her captors showed no mercy, keeping her on her feet for eighteen hours at a stretch, scrubbing, cleaning, and hauling supplies. The sack she was forced to wear offered no protection from the cold or the sharp edges of the tools and surfaces she worked with. Her skin was raw from cleaning chemicals, her hands blistered from scrubbing steel and scrubbing tile. The words scrawled on the sack—Swedish slut, Eco whore, Fresh meat—were a constant reminder of her humiliation, but they were nothing compared to the words she couldn’t avoid hearing.

One day, scrubbing the galley floor while the men sat nearby, Greta overheard their conversation. She had learned to tune out their jeers, but this time their words sent a chill through her.

“I bet she’d cry real pretty,” one of the men said with a smirk, his voice low but loud enough for her to catch.

“She’d scream too,” another chimed in, laughing. “Bet she’s never had a real man show her how it’s done.”

Greta froze, her stomach twisting. She kept her head down, her hands gripping the rag as she tried to appear oblivious.

The first man continued, his voice taking on a mocking tone. “You think she’s all righteous about saving the planet? She’s not so high and mighty now, is she?”

“No,” a third voice said, his tone darker. “She’s just another piece of ass. And if she keeps working like this, maybe we’ll show her how good she could have it.”

The table erupted in laughter, and Greta’s chest tightened. Her heart pounded as she tried to steady her breathing, but her hands shook as she resumed scrubbing. She kept her head low, unwilling to let them see her fear. Yet the sound of their voices seemed to echo in her mind long after they had moved on.

The unwanted touches grew bolder as the days wore on. A hand lingering on her waist as someone passed by. Fingers grazing her exposed side through the wide armholes of her sack. A tug on her leash that pulled her close enough for her captor’s breath to brush her cheek.

“Lighten up, princess,” one man had said when she recoiled, his grin wide and unapologetic. “You’re lucky we’re keeping you busy. Wouldn’t want to waste your talent.”

Greta learned to flinch before the touch came, but that only seemed to encourage them.

Late one evening, after scrubbing toilets for what felt like hours, Greta’s leash was tugged sharply, pulling her off balance.

“Careful,” the man said, his voice dripping with mockery. “You’re supposed to be graceful, aren’t you? Saving the world and all that.”

Greta looked up at him, her face pale with exhaustion, but she said nothing. The collar around her neck felt heavier than ever, its lock a constant reminder of her captivity.

The man crouched down beside her, his smirk fading into something darker. “You know,” he said, his tone almost conversational, “you could make this a lot easier on yourself. You just have to ... cooperate.”

Her breath hitched, and she recoiled slightly, her back pressing against the wall. “Stay away from me,” she managed, her voice shaking.

He laughed, standing up and giving the leash a tug that forced her to her feet. “Oh, don’t worry,” he said. “For now, you’re safe. But you’d better pray that doesn’t change.”

Each night, when they finally unhooked her leash and shoved her back into her room, Greta collapsed onto the cot, too tired even to cry. She curled into herself, her mind replaying the conversations and laughter she’d overheard, the touches she couldn’t avoid, the threats that loomed in every word.

She didn’t feel safe—not for a moment. And she knew things would only get worse.

But somewhere beneath the fear, a small, stubborn ember of resistance still burned. She had no plan, no resources, no allies. But she had survived this long. She had endured. And as she lay there in the dark, her fingers brushing the unyielding lock on her collar, she made herself a silent promise: They won’t win. I’ll find a way out.

The air on the rig was thick with the unspoken, ever-present threat that loomed over Greta. It wasn’t just the degrading tasks or the constant jeers—it was the way the men looked at her, the way their voices dropped to mocking whispers when she passed, the way their jokes and comments hinted at something far darker.

When they made her crawl for the first time, the humiliation burned like fire beneath her skin. She had hesitated when one of the men tugged her leash, too slow to respond, her exhaustion making her sluggish. He yanked it harder, sending her off balance and forcing her onto her hands and knees.

“Stay like that,” he barked, a cruel grin spreading across his face. “You don’t deserve to walk.”

Laughter erupted around her. “Look at her! On all fours like a proper little bitch.”

Greta wanted to argue, to rise back to her feet, but the sharp pull on the chain warned her against it. She stayed on her hands and knees, her face hot with shame as she crawled after him. The rough metal floor scraped her knees, but the comments that followed her were far worse.

“Nice view,” one of the men called out, his voice thick with amusement. “Didn’t think an eco-princess would have an ass like that.”

“Yeah,” another added, laughing. “Maybe she’s been practicing for doggy style.”

More laughter echoed down the corridor, crude and jeering, as Greta kept crawling. Her hands shook as they pressed against the cold metal, and she bit her lip to keep her tears from falling.

One man leaned down as she passed him, his voice low and dripping with mockery. “Careful, sweetheart. We might get ideas if you keep wiggling like that.”

It only got worse as the days went on. Crawling became a regular part of her routine, demanded of her whenever she moved between tasks. If she hesitated, the leash would snap taut, jerking her forward.

“Down,” one of the men growled once when she tried to stand. “Stay on all fours. You look better that way.”

The laughter that followed was cruel, the comments more degrading with each passing day.

“Bet she’s got plenty of practice crawling for attention.”

“Think she knows any tricks? Maybe we should teach her.”

“She’d look good with a tail,” another joked, sending the others into fits of laughter.

Greta’s chest tightened with every word, the weight of their cruelty pressing down on her. But it wasn’t just the jokes. It was the way their eyes lingered on her as she moved, the way some of them tugged her leash just a little too hard, the way their hands brushed against her sides or her back when she passed.

The threat of sexual violence hung over her like a storm cloud, always there, always growing darker. One evening, after hours of scrubbing toilets and crawling between rooms, Greta overheard a conversation that made her blood run cold.

“She’s breaking,” one of the men said, his voice carrying across the corridor. “Won’t be long now.”

“Good,” another replied. “She’s been acting high and mighty for too long. About time someone put her in her place.”

“Think we’ll get a turn?” a third man asked with a laugh. “I bet she screams real nice.”

Greta’s breath hitched. She crouched low, pretending to scrub as her hands trembled. She wanted to bolt, to run and hide, but there was nowhere to go. The collar around her neck felt tighter than ever, and the words scrawled across her sack—Swedish slut, Eco whore, Fresh meat—felt like they were branding her.

One of the men passed her, and as he did, his hand brushed against her lower back. “You’d better be careful, princess,” he said, his voice low. “If you don’t do what we say, someone might get tired of waiting.”

Each night, when they finally unhooked her leash and locked her back in her room, Greta collapsed onto the cot, her body trembling from exhaustion and fear. The darkness felt like a reprieve, but it wasn’t enough to keep the memories at bay. The cruel laughter, the degrading comments, the lingering touches—they played over and over in her mind, a nightmare that didn’t end when she woke.

She wanted to cry, to scream, to fight, but none of it would help. The rig was an iron fortress in the middle of the sea, and the men who surrounded her had stripped her of every ounce of power.

But not her will. Not yet.

Lying there in the darkness, she made herself a silent promise: They might have me now, but they won’t have me forever. I’ll survive this. I have to.

The men’s cruelty knew no bounds, and Greta’s hope that she had experienced the worst of their degradation shattered when they introduced their latest form of torment.