One hundred days. That’s how long I’d been rotting in this digital graveyard—a forced-labor compound hidden in the lawless jungles of Southeast Asia. And today, in the middle of the humid, suffocating heat, I realized I was carrying the devil’s child. The "devil" was the man running this hellhole. Things had gone from bad to worse. My sales numbers had been at the bottom of the leaderboard for three days straight. As punishment, they’d used the whips, then the cattle prods, and finally, they’d tossed me into the "Grave"—the water cell—like a piece of discarded trash, waiting for the organ harvesters to come collect the remains. The filthy, ice-cold water reached my waist. I drifted into a feverish sleep, fueled by exhaustion and pain, and there he was: my father. He’d been dead for three years, but in the dream, he looked as real as the scars on my back. "Sweetie, don't be afraid," he whispered, his voice a ghost of a lullaby. "The drainage grate on the left is loose. Pull it open tonight, and you can run. You can go home." I jerked awake, my heart hammering against my ribs. I was still submerged in the dark, stagnant water of the cell. Panic flared, but I reached out, my fingers trembling as they searched the slimy stone wall to my left. My breath hitched. There it was. The metal grate wobbled under my touch. I was just about to wrench it open when a tiny, high-pitched voice echoed through the silence of the dark. It wasn't in the room; it was inside my head. “Mommy! Don’t listen to him! That’s just a restless spirit trying to pull you into the abyss with him!” ... The voice—childlike, innocent, yet terrifyingly sharp—rang out again. “Mommy, if you crawl through that grate, you’ll end up right under the executive dorms. You’ll be walking straight into the lion’s den.” “Wait. Just wait until next month. When the compound closes a major scam deal, they’ll throw a party. Everyone will be drunk. You can slip out the back gate in the chaos.” My hand froze under the water, my fingertips hooked into the rusted edge of the grate. I checked the room, then my own sanity, before the absurd truth settled in: this was the heart of the child in my womb. My baby was telling me to stay. My dead father was begging me to go. I didn't know who to trust. Suddenly, footsteps thudded above. A flashlight beam sliced through the ceiling vent, tracing a jagged white line across the murky water. I sucked in a breath and pressed myself into the shadows of the corner, praying the silt and darkness would swallow me whole. The guard’s eyes, cold and predatory, scanned the cell from above. I didn't move. I didn't blink. It felt like an eternity before the heavy thud of his boots faded into the distance. But the water was rising. It was at my chest now, a slow, relentless theft of my body heat. My limbs were turning to lead. I knew that if I didn't leave tonight, I wouldn't leave at all. Tomorrow, they’d drag me out for another round of "re-education." I’d seen what happened to the last girl who spent three days in the Grave. When they hauled her out, she was purple and breathless, her eyes wide with a terror that hadn't faded even in death. I didn't have three days. I gripped the grate again, gritting my teeth as I pulled. The rusted metal sliced into the raw sores on my palms. It was a searing, white-hot pain, but I didn't make a sound. With one final, desperate heave, the grate gave way. The sudden release sent a massive splash echoing through the cavernous cell. Heavy footsteps immediately sprinted back toward the vent. I collapsed against the wall, pretending to be unconscious, using my body to shield the open hole. The guard descended the ladder into the cell. I felt the heat of the flashlight beam move across my eyelids. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Finally, the splashing of his boots moved away. I thought he was gone. I started to open my eyes, but the voice screamed in my mind: “Mommy! Don’t move! He’s right behind you!” I froze. A few seconds later, I felt a hot, foul breath against the nape of my neck. A low grunt followed. "Heh. Looks like another one’s biting the dust tonight." The guard waded out, and I heard the heavy iron door of the upper chamber slam shut. “Mommy, he’s gone now.” I let out a ragged gasp, my heart nearly leaping out of my throat. If I had opened my eyes, I’d be dead. Beneath the waterline, the dark mouth of the pipe beckoned—just wide enough for someone as wasted away as I was to squeeze through. It was a black void leading to God-knows-where. My "baby" was still frantically pleading with me not to go inside. As I hesitated, my vision blurred. I was pulled back into that gray mist. My father appeared again, wearing his favorite old flannel shirt, his face etched with frantic concern. "Run, June. Just swim through. It’s a two-minute stretch, and you’re out. Your daddy would never hurt you." The mist evaporated. Outside the cell, I heard the muffled voices of the guards changing shifts. This was my window. “No!” the baby’s voice turned shrill, more desperate than I’d ever heard it. “That pipe takes way longer than two minutes! You’ll drown in the dark!” Two minutes or three? The difference was life or death. I pictured myself stuck in that lightless tube, water filling my nose and lungs, my consciousness flickering out in a cold, lonely suffocation. No one would ever find me. I’d just be another missing person in a file folder back in the States. But if I stayed? Tomorrow was the cattle prod. The day after was the whip. How much longer could I survive the torment? The shift change ended. The new patrol was starting. I took one massive, lung-bursting breath, dived under, and shoved myself into the black pipe. It was narrower than I’d imagined. The metal walls scraped against my shoulders, and every inch forward required every ounce of my remaining strength. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. My lungs began to burn. My chest felt like it was being crushed by a hydraulic press. In the absolute darkness, the only sound was the frantic drumming of my heart in my ears. My throat convulsed, my body screaming for oxygen. I bit my lip until I tasted blood, clawing at the slimy joints of the pipe to drag myself forward. My vision began to spark with white stars. Just as I prepared to let the water in, the pipe angled upward. Using the last of my strength, I scrambled up the incline. There was a tiny gap of air—less than four inches—between the water and the top of the pipe. I broke the surface, gasping, greedily inhaling the foul, metallic air as if it were the finest perfume. I kept moving, crawling through sections that were fully submerged and others that offered a sliver of breath. Finally, a faint, grayish light appeared ahead. I burst through the drainage exit and collapsed onto the muddy earth, gasping like a fish hauled onto a deck. The night air hit my soaked clothes, sending a violent shiver through my frame. I tried to stand. Ahead of me was a twelve-foot concrete wall topped with jagged concertina wire. I reached for a handhold, but my muscles turned to jelly. I fell back, hard. Suddenly, the compound behind me erupted in red light. A siren wailed—a high, piercing shriek that cut through the jungle. They knew I was gone. I forced myself up, staggering along the base of the wall, searching for an exit that didn't exist. I was trapped in a corner. I didn't have the strength to climb. “Mommy!” the baby’s voice echoed. “Go into that building! Third floor, the room on the far left. There’s a space under the bed!” I didn't argue. I sprinted toward the nearby barracks. The stairwell was a tomb. I found the room on the third floor; the door was slightly ajar. I scrambled inside and threw myself under the bed, tucking my limbs in tight. Seconds later, the sound of heavy boots and shouting filled the hallway. "Search it! Every damn room!" "She couldn't have gotten far!" The footsteps stopped at my door. The handle turned. A flashlight beam swept across the floor, the light dancing inches from my face. I buried my nose in my arm, stopping my breath. The beam lingered on the foot of the bed. My heart stopped. Luckily, a pile of discarded laundry and trash blocked his line of sight. He didn't linger. "Clear! Next door!" The door slammed. I lay there, drenched in a fresh coat of cold sweat. The shouting outside continued for a long time before fading into a dull hum. “Mommy, stay here. Give it a day or two for the heat to die down. I’ll find us a way out.” I started to nod, but the world went black again. I was pulled back into the fog. My father was there. He wasn't gentle this time. He was terrified. "Run! You can’t stay here!" he yelled. "There’s a gap in the fence behind this building. A crawlspace. That’s your only way out!" He saw the doubt on my face and his voice cracked. "Do you forget whose child that is? Do you really think that... thing... wants to help you? It’s a monster’s seed, June!" I flinched. The child belonged to Killian Varga, the compound’s second-in-command. I’d met him online, fell for his charm, and spent a year in a whirlwind romance before he lured me on a "vacation" that ended in a cage. "Dad, I..." Before I could finish, a new set of footsteps jolted me awake. They were doing a second sweep, and this time, they were being thorough. “Mommy! Quick! The storage closet next to the bed!” I looked. There was a small door. But there were no windows in there. If they found me, I’d be cornered. The doorknob turned. In that split second, I had to choose: the closet or the window behind me. I rolled out and slipped into the closet, pulling the door shut just as the bedroom door kicked open. Three sets of boots entered. Their first move was to rush to the window. I watched through the crack in the door, a wave of nausea hitting me. If I’d jumped, they would have seen me instantly. "The sheets are damp!" one shouted. "She was just here! Search everything!" Furniture was tossed. Drawers were ripped out. The footsteps moved toward the closet. “Mommy! There’s a loose ventilation panel in the ceiling! Use the shelves!” I scrambled up the metal racking in the dark. My elbow clipped a cardboard box, and it started to slide. I caught it mid-air, heart hammering, and eased it back. I shoved the ceiling tile aside and hauled myself into the crawlspace just as the closet door was ripped open. Flashlights probed the floor and the shelves. I laid flat in the dust, suppressing even the sound of my heartbeat. Eventually, they left. My back was soaked, and my knees were raw where the metal edges of the duct had sliced into me. “Turn left, then straight. It leads to the fourth floor,” the baby whispered. “They won't search there again.” I followed the instructions, shimmying through the tight space until I reached another vent. I eased it open and looked down. It was an office, plush and carpeted, with a desk lamp glowing softly. I dropped down and saw a photo on the desk. Killian. This was his private quarters. The hair on my neck stood up. The baby’s voice was quick to soothe me: “He’s not here. He’s downstairs leading the search. You can hide here until nightfall. Look in the left drawer. There’s a black keycard. It opens the back gate.” I pulled the drawer open. The card was there. But as my fingers brushed the plastic, the mist returned. My father stood before me, his expression grim. "It’s lying to you. It brought you here so Killian would find you, so he’d know about the pregnancy. It wants to be his heir, June. It wants his life, not yours." He pointed to the window. "Climb out. Use the A/C units as steps. There’s a gap in the perimeter fence at the bottom. That is your only path to freedom." I snapped back to reality. “Don't listen to him!” the baby hissed. “The patrol will see you on the wall! The back gate is the only safe way!” I walked to the window. Below, flashlight beams moved like searching fingers, but there were gaps—rhythmic intervals of darkness. The A/C units were bolted to the wall, forming a precarious ladder down to the second-floor terrace. The keycard felt cold in my hand. I looked at the gate, then the fence. I took a breath and pushed the window open. I climbed out, my boots slipping on the metal casings of the A/C units. Every time I stepped, the brackets groaned, threatening to pull out of the stucco. I reached the terrace and slid down a drainpipe, hitting the ground hard. The gap my father mentioned was there—a dark, jagged hole at the base of the fence. I dropped to my stomach and crawled, my nails digging into the dirt. As soon as I squeezed through to the other side, a light hit me. "Over there! Someone’s by the fence!" I didn't look back. I ran. The jungle outside the compound was a wall of thorns and shadows. I plunged in, branches whipping my face, drawing blood. The baby had gone silent—angry, perhaps. I didn't care. I just needed to move. The shouting grew closer. Then came the sound that chilled my blood: the baying of hounds. "Let the dogs loose! Don't let her reach the road!" The barking tore through the night. My lungs felt like they were bursting, but the mud and roots kept tripping me up. Two Dobermans burst through the brush, their green eyes glowing with predatory hunger. I grabbed a heavy branch and swung. I caught one across the nose, and it backed off with a whimper, but the other lunged, its teeth sinking into my calf. I screamed. I jammed the branch into the dog’s eye until it let go, leaving my leg a mangled, bloody mess. I limped forward, every step a serrated knife in my skin. Finally, the trees thinned. A paved road stretched out before me, shimmering under the distant moon. I went to lunge for it, but a black SUV roared out of the shadows, its high beams blinding me. Three men jumped out. At the head was Mick, one of Killian’s lead enforcers. He held a stun baton, a cruel smirk plastered on his face. "Run all you want, sweetheart. You're not going anywhere." I turned to go back into the woods, but more lights appeared. They had me boxed in. Mick stepped closer, the baton crackling with blue electricity. I backed away, my heel catching on the edge of a sheer drop-off. I didn't know how deep the ravine was. Suddenly, another set of lights appeared on the road. A local police cruiser was heading our way. The baby’s voice screamed: “Mommy! Run to the police! They’ll save you!” I took a step, but then my father’s voice boomed in my skull, clearer than ever. “Jump, June! The police are on his payroll! If you get in that car, you’re a dead woman! Jump! There’s a pool of water at the bottom! You’ll survive!”
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