KROSS

The warehouse sat on the edge of Lyon like a rotting tooth, half-hidden under broken streetlights and the stink of the Rhône at low tide. Container 47-B was due to leave at 02:20, with twenty-three girls inside, all under nineteen.

I had been watching for six nights from the back of a black panel van, windows cracked just enough for the cold to keep me sharp.

Tonight the pattern shifted.

At exactly 02:03, the container's side doors opened, three men stepping, laughing, lighting ...