Prologue

The earliest memory I have is of standing barefoot on a golden beach, staring out at the tide. The water rose and fell in slow, emerald swells, effortless and whole. For a few fragile seconds, the world made sense. It is a hazy, sun-bleached fragment, but it’s the only memory I have left that doesn’t bring a sharp pulse of agony behind my temples. Everything before and after that afternoon has been stripped from me. I don’t know how many months I’ve been curled inside this iron dog crate, but time lost its meaning long ago.

The only other thing I remember is the sudden fracture where my life ended.

A dingy public restroom. Water running from a rusted tap while I tried to wash my hair in the basin. I remember the sour tang of bleach, the deep ache in my limbs, and a stubborn spark of anticipation in my chest—excitement for something I had earned, though whatever it was has vanished with the rest of my past. I was tracing a jagged crack in the mirror when the heavy door slammed back against the tile. Four burly men stepped inside, blocking out the light.

I scrambled for a stall, but they were upon me before I could scream. Heavy boots kicked my legs out from beneath me. Calloused hands pinned my wrists, crushing my chest against the filthy linoleum. I thrashed, desperate and feral, until a burning pinch bit deep into the side of my neck. Cold chemicals flooded my veins. Within three rapid heartbeats, the floor dissolved beneath me, and the world went black.

That was the last time I saw the sun. The last time I wore clothes, or walked on two feet, or existed as a living person rather than livestock awaiting slaughter.

When I woke, I was stripped bare, shaved clean from shoulders to ankles, and strapped to a freezing stainless-steel slab. Raw rope burns encircled my wrists, proof that my body had fought even while my consciousness was gone. A hard rubber ball gag stretched my jaw to its tearing point. Above me, a woman in a stiff lab coat conducted her inspection with the brutal efficiency of a butcher cataloging cuts of meat. Every time I squirmed against the cold steel, a sharp, backhanded slap cracked across my cheek until blood trickled from my nose.

“Intact. Virgin,” the doctor announced flatly, stripping off her latex gloves with a crisp snap.

An orderly leaning against the doorframe grinned, his breath sour against my ear. “Does that mean we can’t have a turn, doc?”

The doctor didn’t look up from her clipboard. “Take her to overstock. She’s young enough to stay fresh until they dig her out. Don’t ruin her.”

Overstock. The word branded itself into my thoughts. Not a person. Just excess inventory.

Before I could process the terror, heavy leather mittens were locked over my hands, curling my fingers into useless clubs. A gaping ring gag pried my mouth open, and a rigid harness strapped a blindfold over my eyes. Blind, mute, and defenseless, I was crammed into a steel cage built for an animal. The iron bars pressed deep into my spine and knees, forcing my withered body into a permanent, agonizing crouch.

Then came the tubes—one forced down my esophagus for feeding, and others routed below to drain into waste bags.

Days or months blurred together in a suffocating haze of darkness, dampness, and the grinding roar of heavy machinery. I was stacked inside a massive shipping container alongside dozens of other shivering captives. We were an orchestra of misery, our cages trembling with silent sobs and muffled groans. A woman in the crate nearest mine fought the feeding line daily, letting out wet, strangled shrieks that frayed my sanity. I hated her for the noise, yet I envied her rage; I had already retreated into the numb, hollow corners of my own mind.

Outside the corrugated metal walls, the distant shouts of dockhands and the salt air signaled that we were moving. I wondered if I had committed some terrible crime to deserve this—if this was a sentence I couldn’t remember. Or if I was simply unlucky.

I drew a tight breath, feeling the sharp lattice of my ribs press against my inner arms. My hair was growing back in uneven tufts. What color was it? What color were my eyes? At what point does a body cease to be human?

A sudden clatter rattled the container. Heavy footsteps approached, unhurried and precise.

The security latches snapped back, groaning as the iron doors swung wide. The woman next to me screamed instantly. A guard’s boot slammed into her cage with a deafening clang, shocking her into silence.

“Headcount?” a calm, cultured voice asked. The smooth authority in his tone sent a visceral chill down my spine.

“Thirty-two,” answered a second man—the one whose muttered curses I recognized from the waste rounds. “At capacity.”

“Containers Three, Four, and Seven are packed solid,” a third guard reported from the threshold. “One and Two are nearly full. We have thirty more arriving over the next fortnight. We have to clear space.”

“That’s precisely why I’m here,” the calm voice murmured. Fabric rustled as he paced the narrow aisle between crates. A woman whined, and he shushed her with an eerie, paternal warmth. “Clear the excess. Sort the viable wombs for the breeding transport, pick out the strong bucks for labor, and cull the rest. But first—Doctor Wentzler flagged a pre-marked subject in this hold. A young doe for his orchid project.”

The footsteps paused directly in front of my crate. The faint scent of laundry detergent and antiseptic drifted through the bars. Latex-clad fingers slid between the grates, trailing slowly down the hollow of my cheek. I held my breath, terrified that the slightest tremor would invite violence.

“Start with this one,” the calm man instructed, tapping the steel bar above my head. “Pull the youngest females and the heaviest males. Twelve for the boat, minimum.”

Rough hands hauled my crate from the stack. I braced against the searing pain as the feed and waste lines were torn free from my body. Cold air flooded my raw throat. The sudden shock overwhelmed my blunted control, and a wave of heat and shame hit me as my bladder gave out on the pallet. The guards cursed, shoving my cage violently onto an automated conveyor belt.

The incline carried our cages upward toward the open harbor air. Industrial noise and the sharp sting of ocean spray battered my senses. At the sorting platform, handlers barked designations, slapping adhesive placards onto the cages.

“Womb,” a worker grunted, tagging my frame after a swift, invasive inspection. “Small, but healthy.”

Womb. The word settled in my gut like lead, yet a perverse, desperate thread of relief coiled through my panic. If I was a breeder, they would keep me alive. They would have to feed me. I clung to that twisted scrap of false hope, desperate for any fate that spared me from the incinerator.

We were being divided into transport lines when a sharp shout cut through the engine noise.

“Wait! Hold that cage!”

Heavy boots pounded up the ramp. The handler hauling my crate stopped, letting the frame drop heavily against the deck.

“Not this one,” a breathless runner panted. “She’s pre-marked. Direct transfer.”

“For the institute?” the handler scoffed. “Look at her. She’ll be ripped to shreds.”

“Doctor Wentzler’s direct requisition,” the runner insisted, tapping a stylus against a clipboard. “He specifically demanded a juvenile subject.”