But I didn’t have anything reassuring to say.
Instead, I just started walking, forcing my legs to move even though every instinct in my body screamed at me to turn around and to run.
The closer we got, the more details I could make out- massive, reinforced doors that led into the lower decks, thick chains securing parts of the ship, and rows of small, reinforced windows high up on the upper levels.
And then there were the guards.
Not just a handful- dozens of them. Some posted at the entryway, others stationed along the perimeter of the dock, all of them heavily armed and watching everything with a cold, calculated stare.
They didn’t acknowledge us, didn’t react to our presence, but I felt their eyes tracking our every step.
This wasn’t normal security…
“Okay, this is officially the scariest, most fucked up thing I’ve ever done.” Cara admitted, shuffling closer in to my side as I gulped…
I didn’t respond, my stomach twisting into knots. The fact that she, of all people, was scared, made my pulse race.
The scarred man led us up a metal gangway, the platform rattling beneath our feet as we stepped onto the ship.
The moment we crossed the threshold, I felt the atmosphere shift.
It was colder up here.
–
Not temperature–wise though the salty sea breeze had a definite bite – but in the feeling of the place.
It was sterile. Clinical.
Something about the air just felt wrong, like stepping into a building that had seen things no one ever talked about.
We were led into a stark, metallic–walled corridor with bright, fluorescent lights that buzzed faintly overhead. The walls were bare except for a few numbered signs, each marking different sections of the ferry. The scent of disinfectant clung to the air, so sharp that it burned at my nose.
Where was everyone else? We couldn’t be the only two signed up?!
The scarred man finally came to a stop near a set of doors, turning to face us. “Wait right here.”
Before we could respond, he knocked twice, sharp and precise.
The door clicked open from the inside, and a second uniformed man stepped out- older this time, with short silvering hair and a crisp white lab coat over his uniform. His sharp eyes flickered between me and Cara before he nodded once.
“They’re the last two?” he asked.
The scarred man nodded. “Yeah, must be. I found them just now.”
The older man studied us for a long moment, then motioned for us to step forward.
“You’ll be processed before we set off,” he said. “Follow me.”
Cara gave me a pointed ‘what the hell does he mean, processed?‘ look, but I ignored it, too focused on keeping my breathing steady.
Because now that we were here, standing inside this place, feeling the weight of its security pressing down on us…
I wasn’t sure if we’d made the biggest mistake of our lives.
It was real… all too real!
The door sealed shut behind us with a heavy, mechanical clang, locking us inside a stark, white–walled processing room.
:
The space was eerily clean, the air thick with the stench of antiseptic, like the kind used in medical clinics.
A long metal table sat in the middle of the room, its surface reflecting the harsh, fluorescent light above.
Along the back wall, a row of lockers stood beside a cabinet filled with neatly stacked supplies everything from medical kits to folded garments.
There were no windows in here. No exit except the door we had just come through.
I swallowed hard. Officially trapped? Maybe…
–
Cara shifted uneasily beside me, her gaze darting around as if searching for an escape route herself but she too wasn’t going to find one.
–
—
The older man in the lab coat who I now assumed was some kind of doctor or official in this strode toward the metal table and placed a clipboard down with a sharp clack. He then turned to face us, his eyes scanning us like we were specimens under a microscope.
“You’ll answer a few questions before we begin,” he said, his voice even and emotionless. “This is standard procedure for all participants. Understand?”
I nodded stiffly. Cara crossed her arms but gave a half–hearted shrug.
“Good.” He picked up the clipboard. “Names?”noveldrama
“Margot Belle,” I said quickly, my voice sounding surprisingly firmer than what I felt.
“Cara Owens, Cara muttered after.
The man ticked us off on the list, seeming satisfied, before he scribbled something down. “Ages?”
“Both eighteen,” I answered before Cara could.
Another scribble,
“Medical history? Any conditions we should be aware of?” He tested, raising a brow.
“No,” we both said in unison.
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