Chapter 87: A Slave Camp With Better Branding
The couch was comfortable, and now that Zhenlan was back home, I was being treated like a princess.
My phone rested in one hand, the screen bright with a drama I’d already watched three times, while the television played in the background. Everything was back to normal now that the guys were home, and I was... happy.
Content.
Some news program was being cycled through the same footage of empty streets and abandoned buildings, repeating itself in slightly different ways, as if changing the angle made it new again.
I hadn’t really been paying attention to it. The news was more of Zhenlan’s things than mine. The dialogue was predictable, the images repetitive, and the tone carefully manufactured to sound urgent without actually saying anything useful.
The worst part of all was that this was one of those "we are sorry to interrupt your regularly scheduled program" and it was playing on. Every. Channel.
I scrolled through my phone, my thumb moving in slow, deliberate swipes, not even my attention span able to take them all. The drama on my phone reached a familiar scene, the fmc standing in front of the man who used and abused her for years and murmured something about betrayal and consequences.
I had seen it enough times to know that she was going to get back together simply because he was her first kiss. But no matter how cringy the plot line, it was easier to just watch, letting it play in the background while my mind wandered.
The television continued its steady hum right up until it didn’t.
The programmed message was suddenly cut without warning, the anchor disappearing mid-sentence. In his place was a clean, controlled room that was framed with sharp lighting and neutral tones.
A man in military uniform sat behind a desk, posture straight, expression composed in a way that had clearly been practiced. He looked like someone people were meant to trust.
My thumb slowed, then stopped.
"This is an official emergency broadcast," he announced, his voice calm and measured. From the corner of my eyes, I watched as everyone, the men and the survivors lean toward the man. They hung on his every word. "As of 0800 hours, military units have been deployed across the country to secure survivors. We have established operational bases in multiple locations. You will be rescued."
His hands remained folded in front of him, unmoving as he continued. "When you are collected, you are instructed to bring all available supplies with you. Food, water, and medical resources will assist in maintaining stability during relocation."
There was a brief pause before he continued, just long enough to make the next part feel reassuring.
"If you are unable to bring supplies, do not worry. You will be provided with food and water upon arrival."
Another pause.
"The crisis is over. You are safe."
The message repeated.
Same words. Same tone. Same expression that never shifted, no matter how many times it looped. It was clean, controlled, and convincing in the way things usually were when they were meant to be believed without question.
I watched it through once.
Then again.
It sounded good.
Reassuring.
Almost comforting, if you didn’t look too closely at what was actually being said.
Behind me, the house began to shift and I could hear what everyone was thinking. The carrot was being dangled in front of them...
And everyone would jump for it.
The whispers started low and urgent as feet moved faster across the floor, and the carefully curated fear that I had instilled into the survivors disappeared into a puff of smoke. Hope settled into the space, thin and sharp, cutting through the control they had learned to maintain.
I didn’t turn around, I didn’t look away from my phone.
But I didn’t need to to know that they were already moving.
One of them stepped into the kitchen, his movements careful but purposeful, while another followed close behind.
The sound of a bag unzipping carried through the room, followed by the soft clink of cans being lifted and sorted. They worked quickly, quietly, taking what they could without drawing attention to themselves.
They weren’t asking for permission like they had been taught, and they weren’t looking at me. They were acting like I wasn’t there.
I let my thumb move again, shifting to the next scene on my phone.
On the screen, the protagonist’s voice broke as she cried in the rain, the emotion heavy and forced in a way that tried too hard to matter. I had always thought this part was overdone. The writing pushed where it should have built, and the performance followed it off the edge.
Behind me, reality did it better.
"We take what we can carry," Scar Face said, his voice low but steady. "Nothing that slows us down."
Someone hesitated before answering. "What about her?"
There was a pause, brief but deliberate.
"We don’t ask," he said. "We just go."
Across the room, Yuche stood near the window, his posture loose but controlled as his attention split between the survivors and the television.
Zhenlan stood beside him, though his focus was elsewhere, his gaze resting on me like he was waiting for me to say something one way or another. Chenghai remained near the doorway, his weight slightly forward, ready without stepping in, while Lingyun watched the survivors directly, tracking each movement without bothering to hide it.
"Are we going?" one of the survivors asked quietly... too bad it wasn’t quietly enough. I could hear every word.
"Yes," Scar Face answered without hesitation.
I looked up then, slow and unhurried, like none of it mattered enough to rush for.
The movement alone was enough to freeze them where they stood, their hands stilling on bags and supplies, eyes flicking toward me before dropping away again. They were careful, tense in a way that hadn’t been there a moment ago, like they were waiting for me to take something away from them.
I didn’t.
"Go ahead," I said, my voice flat and uninterested, like it didn’t make a difference to me one way or the other. "Don’t let me hold you back."
The reaction was immediate, even if they tried to hide it. The hesitation broke, replaced by sharper movements and quieter urgency as they continued packing. They thought they had gotten away with something, like permission had been a loophole instead of something given freely.
The broadcast continued behind me.
"You will be rescued."
"Bring your supplies."
"You are safe."
I lowered my gaze back to my phone, letting the drama reach its ending as the protagonist walked away into the rain, the music swelling like it meant something.
Behind me, ten people packed their way out of the house, their decisions already made.
They thought they were escaping.
They thought they were being saved.
They thought they had found something better.
I had heard it all before.
I had lived it before.
And I already knew exactly where they were going.
They weren’t escaping, they were walking into a whole new level of hell.
Because that compound they were desperate to get to? That was just a slave camp with better branding.
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