Qin Qinxi strained to shift her body closer to the girl beside her.

A veil covered the woman’s mouth and nose, leaving only a pair of eyes exposed. Her eye sockets were deep, her eyelashes thick—she looked like a local.

But there was something wrong with those eyes. The pupils were dilated, her gaze unfocused, and she leaned against the wall as if she were a pile of meat stripped of its bones.

“Hello?” Qin Qinxi asked softly in English. “Are you okay?”

The girl looked at her, her lips moving but no sound coming out.

Qin Qinxi’s heart sank.

She shifted forward, and the iron chains on her ankles clanged loudly.

Ignoring the pain, Qin Qinxi reached out to touch the girl’s wrist.

Her wrist was icy cold, her pulse weak and rapid, trembling beneath her fingertips like a thread about to snap.

“How long has it been since you last ate?” Qin Qinxi asked.

The girl still didn’t respond.

It was then that Qin Qinxi noticed how severely chapped the girl’s lips were, with streaks of blood seeping from the cracks and dark red scabs forming over them.

She raised her hand and waved it in front of the girl’s face. The girl’s pupils reacted sluggishly, barely responding to the light.

This girl was already dehydrated. She had hypoglycemia. It could be an electrolyte imbalance—or something even worse.

In such cases, the first priority is rehydration, followed by glucose supplementation. If oral intake isn’t possible, intravenous fluids are necessary.

But there was nothing here…

She glanced down at her own hands and the girl’s, both shackled by iron chains, then looked around at the other desperate women.

There was nothing.

She couldn’t save her.

Just then, a girl in the corner of the ship cabin began to sob quietly.

The sound spread like an infection, soon turning into a wave of muffled, stifled sobs that seemed to echo through the veil.

Qin Qinxi couldn’t hold back any longer. Tears streamed down her face.

At that moment, she truly felt hopeless.

It was as if someone had thrown her into a deep well, where no matter how hard she shouted, no one could hear her.

If she didn’t eat soon, she might end up like this too.

She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, her shoulders shaking as she wept uncontrollably.

How could she be so unlucky? From childhood to adulthood, she’d never harmed anyone or caused trouble for anyone—she’d only come to Syria to volunteer as a doctor and save lives.

Yet time and again, she kept running into human traffickers.

Thinking of this, her tears flowed even more fiercely.

But her other hand remained on the girl’s wrist, not letting go.

The girl’s pulse was still there. She was still alive.

Qin Qinxi pressed the pads of her fingers against the girl’s wrist, pressing hard enough to leave a crescent-shaped white mark, watching as the color slowly returned.

The capillary refill time was over three seconds. Microcirculation was already compromised.

Qin Qinxi leaned closer and said, word by word in the simplest English: “Later… if you’re given food, you must eat it. Do you understand?”

The girl looked at her, her gaze still unfocused, but seemed to have understood. She nodded slightly.

Qin Qinxi released her hand and leaned back against the wall.

Her tears kept flowing, trickling down the edge of the veil and dripping onto her blue robe, staining it with a small dark patch.

Suddenly, she remembered that night at the field hospital.

A boy had been brought in, his leg amputated, blood pooling all over the floor.

She knelt on the ground to staunch his bleeding, and he gripped her hand, repeating the same sentence in Arabic over and over.

A nurse nearby translated for her: he didn’t want to die; his mother was still waiting for him to come home.

The boy didn’t make it.

Qin Qinxi closed her eyes, pushing that image out of her mind.

The door suddenly swung open.

All the girls stood up reflexively, their feet tangled in the iron chains, instantly squeezing into a tight line.

The girl next to Qin Qinxi couldn’t stand up.

She tried twice, but her legs felt as soft as cotton.

Qin Qinxi grabbed her arm and pulled her upright. The girl leaned heavily against her, trembling like a枯叶 in the wind.

A woman entered. She had an Asian face, was in her thirties, and had a full figure.

She wore a tight-fitting dress that opened all the way to her thighs, with elaborate makeup—smoky eye shadow.

She scanned the room slowly.

“Stop crying,” she said in Mandarin.

Qin Qinxi froze, snapping her head up.

The woman continued, switching languages after every sentence:

Mandarin, English, Arabic—making sure everyone in the room could understand.

“You slaves, get ready for the auction later. Behave yourselves.”

“Pray that some rich buyer will take you. For slaves who are bought, the contract goes to the owner, and you’ll get another chance at the auction to be chosen again.”

End of Chapter 9: Chapter 9