The lock clicked shut with a sound of finality.

Twelve people stood or sat in the cramped wooden cage.

The air was thick with the smell of unwashed bodies, damp straw, and hopelessness.

Outside, the bandits laughed. They cracked open a cask of ale.

Inside, the reality of their situation began to sink in.

The tool man, Gareth, slid down the bars. He buried his face in his hands.

"We are dead," he moaned. "We are all dead."

The onion man was pacing. It was a tight circle. Three steps, turn. Three steps, turn.

"They can't do this," he muttered. "I have a shop. I have customers waiting."

One of the merchants, a sharp-eyed man named Silas, was staring out at the bandits.

He wasn't crying. He was pale. He was trembling.

"Did you see it?" Silas whispered. His voice shook.

"See what?" the other merchant asked.

"The tattoo," Silas said. "On the skinny one's arm. The black serpent wrapped around a hammer."

The other merchant gasped. "No. Are you sure?"

"I travel the border towns," Silas said. "I know the marks. I know the stories."

Marcus stepped closer. He lowered his voice. "What does it mean?"

Silas looked at Marcus. Fear made his eyes wide and glassy.

"It is the Obsidian Hand," Silas whispered. "They aren't just bandits. They are a syndicate."

"Black market," the other merchant added. "Drugs. Weapons. Slaves."

"They run the southern route," Silas said. "If they have us, we aren't being ransomed. We aren't being held for gold."

He swallowed hard.

"We are already sold," Silas finished. "We are just waiting for pickup."

A wave of despair washed over the group. It was palpable.

The onion man fell to his knees. He began to pray loudly.

"Shut up!" Gareth hissed. "They will hear you! They will hurt us!"

"Let him pray," Elara said softly. She held Thomas's hand tightly. "We might need it."

Marcus felt a cold knot in his stomach. Organized crime.

This wasn't a random opportunity. This was a pipeline.

If they reached the south, they would vanish. They would become property.

He looked around the cage. He needed to find a weak link.

His eyes landed on the little girl.

She was sitting in the corner, farthest from the door.

Her pristine white dress was smudged with dirt.

She was staring at him. Again.

Those black eyes were bottomless. They didn't show fear. They didn't show sadness.

They just watched.

Marcus felt a strange urge to comfort her. He was an adult. She was a child.

It was his job to be the calm one.

He crouched down. He moved slowly so as not to startle her.

"Hey there," Marcus said softly. He offered a gentle smile.

The girl didn't react. She didn't blink.

"It is going to be okay," Marcus lied. "We are going to figure this out."

He reached out a hand. He meant to pat her shoulder.

The girl tilted her head. It was a sharp, bird-like movement.

She didn't lean into his touch. She didn't pull away.

She just looked at him. Like he was a bug in a jar.

"Okay," Marcus whispered. He pulled his hand back. "Not a hugger. Got it."

'Is she mute?' Marcus thought. 'Unlucky girl.'

The tension in the cage spiked.

"Nothing is okay!" the onion man shouted suddenly. He stood up.

"Keep your voice down," Silas hissed.

"No!" the onion man yelled. "Why should I? We are cattle! We are meat!"

"Stop it," Elara pleaded. "You are scaring everyone."

"We should be scared!" the onion man raved. "Look at us! Trapped like rats!"

He pointed a shaking finger at Marcus.

"And you! Mr. Fancy Boots! You told us to surrender! You told us to give up our weapons!"

"You didn't have weapons," Marcus pointed out calmly. "You had a basket of onions."

"We could have fought!" the onion man screamed. "We could have run!"

"We would be dead," Marcus said. "They had crossbows. Fighting was suicide."

"Better dead than slaves!" Gareth shouted. He joined the argument. "My father was a free man! I am a free man!"

The argument erupted. Voices rose. Accusations flew.

Panic had turned to anger. And they were turning on each other.

Marcus stood up. He raised his hands.

"Listen to me," he began. " fighting each other helps no one."

Before he could finish, the cage door rattled violently.

Someone kicked the bars.

Silence fell instantly.

A bandit stood there. It was the skinny one with the tattoo.

He wasn't wearing his mask anymore. His face was narrow and cruel.

He smelled of cheap ale and sweat.

"Shut up!" the bandit yelled. "Or I cut your tongues out."

He glared at the group. His eyes swept over the huddled passengers.

His gaze lingered on Elara.

She shrank back against Thomas. She tried to make herself small.

The bandit grinned. It was a wolfish look.

"You lot are too loud," the bandit said. "Need to separate the noisy ones."

He unlocked the door. He stepped inside.

The passengers scrambled back. They pressed against the far wall.

The bandit ignored the men. He walked straight toward the young couple.

"You," the bandit said. He pointed at Elara. "Come here."

Thomas stepped in front of her. "No."

The bandit laughed. "No? Did the sheep say no?"

"She stays with me," Thomas said. His voice shook, but he stood his ground.

"Thomas, don't," Elara whispered. She clutched his arm.

"As the leader said before, you are either a brave man," the bandit sneered. "Or a really stupid one."

He reached out and grabbed Elara by the arm. He yanked her forward.

Elara screamed.

Thomas snapped.

He threw a punch. It was clumsy. It was desperate.

It hit the bandit in the jaw.

The bandit stumbled back. He looked surprised.

Then he looked angry.

"You little rat," the bandit snarled.

He drew a short club from his belt.

Thomas tried to swing again. The bandit ducked.

He slammed the club into Thomas's stomach.

Thomas doubled over. He gasped for air.

The bandit brought the club down on Thomas's back. Hard.

There was a sickening crunch. Thomas hit the floor.

"Thomas!" Elara shrieked. She tried to reach him.

The bandit grabbed her hair. He pulled her back.

He kicked Thomas in the ribs. Once. Twice. Three times.

The sound of breaking bone echoed in the silence.

Thomas groaned. Blood bubbled from his mouth. He stopped moving.

The other passengers watched in horror. No one moved. No one breathed.

Marcus took a step forward. His hands balled into fists.

He wasn't a fighter. He knew that.

But he couldn't watch this.

Before he could act, another bandit appeared at the door.

"Oi! Snake!" the second bandit shouted. "What are you doing?"

Snake paused. He still held Elara by the hair. She was sobbing.

"Teaching them manners," Snake said. He kicked Thomas again. "This one bit me."

The second bandit looked at Thomas. He was a bloody heap on the straw.

"You idiot," the second bandit scolded. "You damaged the merchandise."

"He attacked me!"

"He is a laborer," the second bandit said. "He is worth gold coins if he can walk. Now he is worth nothing."

Snake shrugged. He didn't care.

"I am taking this one," Snake said. He gestured to Elara. "For trouble fees."

"The boss won't like it," the second bandit warned.

"The boss is asleep," Snake said. "And I am bored. Wanna join?"

The second bandit smirked, a sign that he is in.

Snake dragged Elara toward the door. She dug her heels in. She reached for Thomas.

"No! Please!" she begged. "Let me stay! He needs help!"

Snake slapped her. It was a casual, backhanded blow.

"Shut it," he said.

He dragged her out of the cage. He slammed the door shut. He locked it.

Elara's screams faded as she was dragged toward the tents.

Inside the cage, the silence was heavy. It was suffocating.

Thomas lay on the floor. His breathing was shallow and wet.

The onion man was vomiting in the corner.

Gareth was rocking back and forth.

Marcus stood frozen. His fists were still clenched.

He looked at Thomas. He looked at the door.

He felt a cold rage burning in his gut. It was a new feeling.

He had spent his life using words. Using logic. Using empathy.

He had resolved conflicts. He had healed hearts.

But words didn't stop a club. Empathy didn't save Elara.

Logic meant nothing to men like Snake.

He looked at the little girl in the corner.

She hadn't moved. She hadn't screamed.

She looked at Marcus. She tilted her head again.

Her eyes seemed to ask a question.

What are you going to do now, Coach?

Marcus exhaled slowly. The breath shook in his chest.

He knelt beside Thomas. He checked his pulse. It was weak.

"We need water," Marcus said. His voice was flat. "And cloth."

He looked at the others. They were broken. They were done.

Marcus realized something then.

This wasn't a story he could talk his way out of.

He tore a strip from his shirt. He pressed it to Thomas's bleeding mouth.

He needed to save this man. He needed to get them out.

But he was just a life coach.

He thought of Theo. He thought of Damien.

He thought of the women who trusted him.

If only he could send a message. If only he had a way to signal them.

The sun set outside. The camp went dark.

From the tents, a woman screamed. It was short and sharp.

Then silence.

Marcus closed his eyes.

He focused on the problem.

Step one: Keep Thomas alive.

Step two: Find a weakness in the cage.

Step three: Pray someone notices he is missing.

He pressed harder on the wound.

"Hang on," Marcus whispered. "Just hang on."

He wasn't sure if he was talking to Thomas, or himself.

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