Page 1 of Kidnapped Prisoner By the Bratva
Chapter 1 – Wren
“Watch it, punk!” a cyclist yelled at a driver, whose vehicle almost knocked him down. “Learn to drive, asshole!”
The driver who’d already pumped the brakes stuck his head out the window, a frown etched on his face. “Fuck you!” he cursed, glaring at the cyclist riding into the traffic.
He cursed some more, rambling words that I didn’t pay enough attention to catch. The driver slid back into his car and drove away, his tires screeching loudly against the asphalt.
The street was alive this hot afternoon, pulsing with energy. Impatient drivers blared their horns, construction workers hammered away, the roaring noise of their heavy engines filling the atmosphere.
The savory aroma of delicious food from a nearby restaurant wafted through the air, mingling with the acrid scent of hot asphalt and exhaust fumes. In the distance, sirens wailed—perhaps an ambulance or a police car chasing some criminals. It wouldn’t be the first time anyway.
My boots scuffed against the pavement as I walked down the sidewalk, the gentle breeze caressing the stray strands that framed my face. My golden blonde hair was tied up in a messy bun on top of my head, my pale skin freckled from the sun.
I lifted my camera to my face, squinting an eye with slightly furrowed brows. The camera shutter clicked with each shot as I took photos of the streets—cityscape, skyscrapers, pedestrians, and so on.
This was one of the few things I loved so passionately: photojournalism. It was the one thing that made me feel alive and complete. Taking photos helped me relax, get my mind off the random stuff that constantly flooded my thoughts.
For instance, my declining grades.
Yes, I was failing. I wasn’t proud of it, but it’s the truth that no one was aware of. For some reason, I wasn’t doing well in school this semester like I did last semester. Which was strange considering I was majoring in photojournalism, something I was freaking good at.
However, I already had a plan to get back on track by studying harder in the courses I was weak at, like Photojournalism History, which I hated. I found it dry and boring, especially because it required me to know the pioneers in the profession. Not to mention how daunting it was to memorize hundreds of specific dates.
It was so overwhelming.
There’s also a course called Statistics for Journalists, which I felt didn’t relate directly to my passion for photography. Or maybe I just didn’t like the course because I hated math, and there’s a lot of math involved. Plus, Professor Smith was terrible at teaching the class. He was a trainwreck as a teacher—respectfully speaking, of course.
These courses, along with a couple of others, just felt disconnected from practical application. I realized that I was failing those courses because I hated them. So, the first step was to find a way to love them.
How can I fail at something I love?
Anyway, today I was out on the streets chasing emotions, the rawness of city life with my camera hanging loosely at my chest. I was looking for faces in the crowd that tell stories without speaking, exotic cars, peeling posters.
I’d been roaming the streets for what felt like an eternity, scanning, searching, chasing the kind of grit that made me feel alive. The city closed in on all sides, but that wasn’t enough to shake me off.
I lifted the camera, adjusted the focus, and the shutter clicked when I captured the construction workers. Somethingelse caught my attention across the road: an eight-year-old boy with the smile of an angel.
Maybe he noticed my camera, or maybe he was just smiling at something the woman holding his hand was saying. I assumed she was his mother or legal guardian. His honey blond hair caught the sunlight, and his hazel eyes glinted as he moved, looking up at the woman.
They stopped by an ice cream truck, and while the woman placed their order, the boy turned in my direction just in time for me to capture that beautiful smile. My lips curled at the corners, my expression soft as I watched him through my lens.
The boy waved at me, retaining that heart-warming smile that stirred a flutter in my chest. He did notice my camera.
I waved back, picked up my pace, and continued walking.
A busker leaned against the brick wall, fingers expertly strumming the strings of his guitar as he performed Ed Sheeran’s “Photograph.” His soft and wistful melody hit me with a wave of nostalgia.
I took a moment to appreciate his voice and the memories that the song sent rushing back into my head.
The small crowd around him listened in silence, heads nodding slowly, some eyes closed, some palms placed on chests. For a moment, it was as though the busker’s music had frozen time itself.
Three teenagers stood by a lamppost, eyes fixed on their phone screens like they weren’t listening, even though their heads would occasionally tilt toward the busker’s direction.
I lifted my camera and took as many shots as I could, focusing not only on the performer but also the crowd around him. I captured the woman with grocery bags standing in the middle of the sidewalk, and the old man staring at the ground like he was replaying a memory in his mind.
Clearly, I wasn’t the only one feeling nostalgic right now; the busker’s music had that effect on a lot of us. My lips curled into a small grin as I lowered my camera and walked away.
A few paces ahead, I rounded a corner, and just down the street, something interesting caught my attention. A black SUV idled at the curb outside an open warehouse. Inside, two men in impeccably tailored suits stood beside a pillar, speaking quietly. Behind them was another figure—a man dressed in a suit whose form was almost swallowed by the shadows.
