Page 47 of Prey

“I don’t have?—”

“Pay me when you can.” She drops the cigarette, crushing it under her heel. “Come on. You look like you need to get off the street.”

The stairwell reeks of old cigarettes and industrial cleaner. I follow her up two flights, my stolen boots clomping against metal steps. She unlocks a door marked 4A.

Inside, the room is sparse but clean—a single bed with faded floral sheets, a kitchenette along one wall, a bathroom visible through a cracked door. Better than any place I’ve crashed in months.

“Sit.” She gestures to a worn chair by the window. “You look like you haven’t eaten.”

She pulls leftovers from a mini-fridge—Chinese takeout in white containers. The microwave hums as she heats it, not asking questions. I appreciate that.

“Here.” She sets the steaming container in front of me. Lo mein and something that might be chicken. My stomach cramps with hunger.

“Thanks.” I shovel food into my mouth, barely tasting it.

When did I last eat?

She lights another cigarette, watching me from across the small table. “So what’s your deal? You look like hell.”

I pause mid-chew. How much to tell her?

“Just escaped from some psycho.” The words taste bitter. “He was holding me captive in some industrial building. Had me in a concrete cell for…” I try to count. “Two weeks? Maybe more.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “No shit? Around here?”

“Yeah. Big complex, multiple basement levels.”

She leans forward, cigarette forgotten. “Was it the Architects?”

The name means nothing to me. “I don’t know. His name was Nikolai.”

“Nikolai?” Her face goes bloodless. “Tall guy? Dark hair? Moves like he’s hunting?”

My throat closes. “You know him?”

“Jesus Christ.” She stands abruptly, pacing. “You need to move on. Tonight. Now, even.”

“What? Why?” I ask.

“That man is—” She shakes her head. “Nikolai Vex doesn’t let things go. Ever. He’s got a reputation for being absolutely ruthless as a collector. If you belonged to him…” She trails off, but her meaning is clear.

My hands shake around the takeout container. “He called me hisacquisition.”

“Fuck.” She runs both hands through her bleached hair. “Look, I can help you get out of the city, but we need to move fast. He’s probably already?—”

“What’s a collector?” The words stick in my throat.

She lights another cigarette with shaking hands. “You really don’t know?” A bitter laugh escapes her. “Collectors acquire people. Women, mostly. Sometimes men. They take contracts from buyers who want specific types—blonde, brunette, young, old, whatever sick preferences they have.”

My stomach churns. The lo mein threatens to come back up.

“They study their targets first. Learn routines, habits, weaknesses. Then they take them clean—no witnesses, no traces. The targets just… disappear.” She takes a long drag. “Most end up overseas. Sex trafficking, private buyers, whatever brings the highest price.”

“That’s sick.” The word feels inadequate. My hands clench around the takeout container until the plastic cracks. “And there are more collectors around here?”

She nods slowly. “This whole district is their hunting ground. The Architects run the biggest operation—Nikolai is the only collector among them, but there are eight others living there, all with their own fucked up businesses. But there are freelancers too. Smaller crews. Everyone knows to stay out of their way.”

“But none—” She shakes her head, exhaling smoke through her nose. “None of them are as unhinged as Nikolai. Most collectors are gangsters. Cold, efficient, but predictable. They take their targets, make the sale, move on.”