Darkness. Total emptiness. Her hands and feet were tied, but that physical constraint was nothing compared to the hollow ache gnawing at her as the adrenaline faded.

  What the hell just happened? Miri thought. And where the fuck am I?

  She shifted her weight, her foot nudging something hard and metallic. The realization hit her instantly: she was in a trunk.

  "?Perfecto! Me in a coffin again, only this time it’s on wheels," she muttered to herself. "Hope they don’t blast the AC, or I’ll actually die of frostbite."

  But there was no use fighting it. Even if her limbs were free, what would she do? Jump out into the middle of nowhere? No. So, instead of wasting energy on a panic attack, she let herself drift off. It was her rightful time to sleep, the only scrap of freedom she had left.

  When she finally woke, she didn't know how much time had passed. Drops of sweat tracked from her brow down to her nose and mouth. She was parched, her throat feeling like sandpaper, so she desperately licked the moisture off her lips just to get a drop of relief.

  She felt like she’d been waiting for a breath of fresh air for an eternity. This cramped space reminded her of being a child — though back then, the trunk had been open. She leaned into the nostalgia for a second before drifting back into a restless haze.

  The rough scraping of a knife against her bindings jolted her awake. When the trunk lid finally creaked open, she found herself staring at a group of men looking down with idle curiosity, as if she were just another delivery arriving at the villa.

  The sun had set, leaving the sky a pale, cold evening blue. Miri rasped, her voice thick with sarcasm:

  “?Dios mío! Have you muchachos never seen a cop tied up en un maletero maldito before?”

  There was nothing left to lose. She knew where this was headed, and it wasn't anywhere good. As they pulled her out, she pushed herself up slowly, her head spinning from the gasoline fumes. She glared at them from under her brow, not with some heroic defiance, but with the simple, honest look of someone who was about to break every single one of their noses.

  All she could think about was the beer she was supposed to be having. A cold one, sitting right there in the corner of her fridge, waiting for her to unwind. Her mouth watered at the thought of that sharp, bitter chill. It was a pathetic thing to fixate on, but she wanted that beer more than anything in the world.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  A kid in a cap and sunglasses, totally unnecessary for the evening light — snorted and stepped back.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this. Look at her! Está resoplando como un toro. Why’d you let her loose, cabrones? She’s gonna bite and strangle us all! ?Y cómo está el compa, eh?”

  He was talking about the man she’d nearly choked to death. The guy who had cut her ropes glanced back at their friend, who was still gasping for air nearby. He pulled a dusty, worn bandana over his face, but he couldn't hide the flicker of fear in his eyes.

  “We aren’t carrying her es una princesa,” he muttered. “Let her walk.”

  It wasn't a gesture of kindness; they just didn't want to get close enough to touch her. The driver added, “I didn't hear her make a sound the whole way. Que raro... No hay muchos policías can handle that... y menos aún una mujer.”

  Miri didn't bother responding to the "especially not a woman" part. She just looked at him and blinked. Once. Slow. Long enough to let the silence do the talking.

  “Verga… she’s got balls,” another kid — maybe the boss’s son — remarked. It was so stupid she just looked away in contempt. The whole thing felt like a circus, and she was the animal in the cage.

  But the boredom didn't last. One of the sicarios stepped forward, his face flushed with rage. He stopped way too close, his breath reeking of cheap alcohol and sour sweat.

  “You think you’re so tough, cabrona?” he hissed, his voice rising with every word. “You’re nothing but a target. If anyone else gets hurt because of you, I’ll slit your family’s throats! I’ll make you watch! And then—”

  Spit flew onto her cheek. He was drunk, unstable, and—most importantly—inside her personal space.

  Miri didn't hesitate. She drove her forehead straight into his. There was a sharp crack, and he stumbled back, clutching his face.

  “?No tengo familia!” she shouted back, her voice cutting through the silence.

  Everyone froze. The drunk guy backed off, dazed. The silence that followed was heavy until another sicario, who had been watching from the sidelines, stepped in.

  “Bueno… just take her to the boss,” he said quietly.

  He approached her cautiously, clearly not wanting to be the next one headbutted. They tied her hands again, though more loosely this time, as if they realized ropes wouldn't really stop her if she decided to snap.

  “Where are you taking me? Déjame ir...” Miri’s voice cracked.

  The bravado was slipping. The reality of the situation finally clawed its way into her chest — she was at a cartel villa, and her life was on the line. Her throat felt drier than ever.

  “We’re taking you con el jefe,” the sicario said, his voice unusually polite, almost hesitant. “Pero, por favor... speak to him with respect. We’re not saying you’ll behave badly, pero...”

  Miri barely heard him. Mentally, she was still back in that stuffy office, sitting in her squeaky chair. They led her toward the villa, the lights glowing with a warm, peaceful hum that felt like a lie. Somewhere inside was the man who would decide if she lived or disappeared.

  She swallowed hard, wondering if, in some other version of this night, she was already home. Opening that cold beer.