My Milk Trap in Golden Triangle - Chapter 2: Chapter 2

My eyes darted across the room, scanning the faces around me until they landed on a girl with unusually fair skin. I leaned closer, my voice barely above a whisper. "Where are we? Why are we trapped here?"
Her response was a blank, hollow stare—empty, like a corpse with a heartbeat. A shiver crawled down my spine.
A young man nearby, clutching his stomach like he'd been punched one too many times, rasped, "Myanmar."
"Myanmar?!" The word tore from my throat before I could stop it.
Big mistake.
A guard's head snapped toward me. He wasn't local—his features were all wrong. He could've been the guy sitting next to me in a college lecture hall back home.
But the stun baton in his hand crackled to life, shattering the illusion.
"What did you just say?" His voice was sharp, his eyes too bright, too alert.
My mouth went dry. "I—I just said... this is Myanmar..."
He threw his head back and laughed—a sound that turned my blood to ice. Then, without warning, the baton jammed into my side.
White-hot pain exploded through me, muscles locking, limbs jerking like a puppet with cut strings. I hit the ground hard, my body convulsing, every nerve screaming.
Above me, his voice dripped with cruel amusement. "That's right! Welcome to Myanmar, family! Your new home!"
The pain was unbearable, but it burned away the fog in my mind.
And then it hit me—Monica.
Monica had sold me out.
After all these years. After everything.
Before I could collect myself, the young man yanked me out of the cell.
Every instinct told me this wouldn't end well. I tried to fight back, but my limbs were still weak and trembling from the electric shock. My body wouldn’t obey me. Helpless, I was dragged into another room—dark, damp, reeking of something foul.
The stench hit me first—mold, sweat, and something worse. My stomach twisted as I felt something wet and sticky beneath me. Then I saw it: a milky, slimy liquid smeared across the floor.
Bile rose in my throat. I barely had time to turn before I was on my knees, heaving violently.
The door burst open. A dark-skinned man stepped in, silhouetted by harsh sunlight. His gaze flicked to my vomit, then to the young guard behind him. He swore under his breath—then snatched the stun baton from the guard’s hands.
The guard’s eyes widened in fear. A second later, he was writhing on the ground, convulsing just like I had.
The dark-skinned man left without another word. I didn’t know if I’d dodged disaster or walked straight into something worse.
Minutes later, another man stormed in. He grabbed the guard by the collar, hauled him up, and backhanded him hard enough to split his lip. The guard didn’t make a sound.
Then the man turned to me.
I didn’t wait to find out what he wanted. "Stay the hell away from me!" I shrieked, scrambling back until I hit the wall. My breath came in ragged gasps, tears burning down my face.
His hand closed around my throat in an instant, slamming me against the concrete.
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t scream. My vision blurred as I kicked wildly, my nails clawing at his arm. One desperate knee-jerk hit landed—and his grip tightened in rage.
A sharp crack echoed as his palm struck my cheek, finally letting go.
I crumpled, choking, coughing, my throat on fire. The sting on my face barely registered.
Before I could recover, another brutal slap sent me sprawling. His rough hands grabbed my blouse—the one I’d picked so carefully for my interview—and tore it like paper.
Then I realized what he was going to do.
Ice flooded my veins. I fought like a wild animal, thrashing, kicking, screaming—but his grip was iron.