What is this?

Krelmic Skein is a story I’ve worked on/off on for over a decade now, going back to it and doing revisions or full alternate takes. This is exclusively Jonathan’s POV of the events, which will be periodically updated until the hopeful final version.

Chapter 10

Darkness. A low, enclosed hum—air trapped where it shouldn’t be. A neon blue light flickers on, streaming along the top of the walls on either side of the large room. Outlining a large square in the wall that fires with a wet, concussive thud, like meat slapped onto concrete. Light flares once from this outline, a surgical white flash that silhouettes rusted tables, hanging cables, and a far wall scabbed with stains too old to be red anymore.

Jonathan inhales reflexively, but regrets it instantly as all he tastes is chemical. Sweet in the back of the throat, acidic on the tongue. The air claws its way into his lungs like it’s offended by the idea of being breathed. He coughs—once, twice—and the third cough folds him in half.

He stumbles forward, hands reaching for something that isn’t there, feet slipping on a floor slick with condensation and old residue. His knee smashes into metal. A table edge catches his ribs. The sound echoes—too loud, too sharp—then dissolves into a hollow drip somewhere far overhead.

He coughs again, harder. Something warm runs down his chin. Blood, maybe. Spit, definitely. He tries to straighten, tries to orient, tries to think—and slams headfirst into the table.

A warmth overtakes Jonathan as his consciousness returns. His body forces another cough which jolts him, not on the concrete he previously was, but wood. Splintered. Damp. The warmth is from a light. Not the sterile clinical he’s grown up with but a different kind. A kind of warmth he’s not felt since he was a kid. Diffused, yellowed light, filtered through something organic. Leaves. Fog. Smoke. It pulsed gently, as if the world itself was breathing. A small, unseen smile crept from inside him as he basked in the natural light of the sun.

Something gripped his shoulder and shook him—careless, not rough, but persistent.

“Hey—hey now—skinny feller—wake up, aye?”

Jonathan inhales sharply and fights to open his eyes, the natural rheum having crusted over painfully and more deeply than he’s ever experienced. The air here is thick with rot and wet iron. It smells alive in the way infections are. His throat spasms. He rolls to his side and retches, dry and painful, spitting bile onto the warped floorboards already stained darker than it.

Fighting his eyes and scratching a crust from them, a shape looms into his vision. Small. Hairy. Crooked.

A face pushes close—wide-set eyes, nose flattened like it lost an argument years ago, mouth split in a half-worried, half-curious grin. The thing wears layers of patched cloth and oilskin, all soaked through, all wrong-sized, and smells faintly of mildew and something chemical that never quite washes out.

It squats beside him, head cocked.

“Thought ya was dead,” it says. “Or worse’n.”

Taking a moment, Jonathan blinks. The world swims, then steadies just enough for him to register a series of problems, the first; he is naked. Not metaphorically. Not partially. Completely bare-assed.

Looking down at himself, then back up at the creature which stared back, unfazed.

“Don’t reckon I ever seen one o’ ya make it outta the lo’er bowls,” the thing continues, scratching at its own matted fur. “Most folks don’t come back up. ‘Cept in bits ‘n bellies.”

Jonathan opens his mouth but nothing coherent comes out. Still unsure what he’s looking at is exactly real or if it’s all a dream. The creature seems to take this as confirmation rather than concern.

“Name’ns Porch,” it says, nodding to itself. “Found ya down there when the light popped. Ain’t s’posed to be light no more.”

It reaches behind itself and produces a battered canteen, metal dented inward like it’s been bitten. Porch gives it a shake, listens to the slosh, then offers it forward.

“Drink,” it says. “Helps. Always helps.”

Jonathan hesitates exactly one second before taking it. His hands shake. The metal is warm and when he drinks, the water tastes off—thick, metallic, bitter in a way that lingers on the tongue. It is worse than the water they served in Ashgate.

He chokes, coughing violently, water spilling down his chest. Porch pats him on the back, too hard, too cheerfully.

“Aye, that’s normal,” Porch says. “Takes some gettin’ used to. Ain’t killed me yet, though.”

Jonathan wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and finally looks around. The facility squats behind them, half-sunken into a wall of rock that disappears into the fog and trees around them. Rusted vents along the ground nearby breathe fog. Broken fencing disappears into murk. Beyond that—trees warped and swollen, shacks perched on stilts, water pooling where ground should be.

He’s outside. The ground is wood. Real, organic wood. And dirt, not muck or grease or dead skin, but earthly soil. The walkway Porch dragged him to is surrounded by a swampish environment. One from dreams and magazines, and for the first time in a long time. Jonathan gives a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, stuttering into a genuine smile, overtaken by the beauty that is nature. No concrete walls encasing him. No guards bullying him. No cameras around watching every move he makes. No screams or fights.

It feels like freedom. Finally letting himself a moment to breathe from the confines of the people who abducted him as a boy. Jonathan allows himself to feel free from the various experiments. Experiments that tore him apart and forcing him back together over and over. His eyes water into a mist that drowns the world.

Even with his head spinning in circles, he forces himself up properly onto a knee, straightening his back, mind racing through the impossible probability. Unable to fully accept that he’s really free. No alarms blaring. No metal or closet sized cells he must share with killers and rapists constantly trying to get him. No explosive collars to track him or control his powers. He wipes his eyes so that he may see clearly again.

Furrowing his brow, still unable to fully form a coherent line of thought that can be translated into spoken words, he raises an arm towards a hovering branch nearby. He widens his eyes to intake the scenic sight before him and accepts that if this is a trick, he’s okay with this being his final moments as he tenses his body, tightening his hand into a fist and forcibly swinging it downward causing the tree above them to lean forward quickly before the branch snaps off and hits the ground with a violence that sends the mud around it to splash over them.

Porch jumps back and gives a howl of warning towards the splash, at first not recognizing it to be a fallen piece of the tree. Puffing himself up he tilts his head and his ears stand to attention, perking up like a pair of antenna.

“Am I…” Jonathan stutters into a cough as he falls from his knee and looks down to his hands, trembling. “Did I not die?” tears welling up, blurring his vision as Porch lowers to all fours and makes a small movement towards him.

Not touching the man, Porch’s rabbit-like ears lift back up slowly, rotating as if turned by an unseen hand. One angles towards the facility. The other toward the swamp beyond the boards. His nose twitches once. Then again. Faster this time.

Jonathan is still staring at his hands, fingers splayed, trembling as if they don’t belong to him. Tears spill freely now, hot and unguarded, cutting clean lines through the grime on his cheeks.

“I thought,” he says, voice cracking thin, “I thought I’d be dead before I ever saw this.”

His gaze drifts upward—trees, sky, light breaking through fog like something holy and undeserved.

Porch swallows.

“Aye,” he mutters. “Seen that look before.”

He reaches out, finally, gripping Jonathan’s upper arm with more strength than kindness, giving him a sharp shake.

“Hey. HEY. Breathe, skinny. You breathe quiet now.”

Jonathan flinches, eyes snapping back to him, unfocused and wet.

“I— I can feel it,” Jonathan says, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “The air. It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t— it’s not filtered. It’s not—”

Porch’s grip tightens.

“That ain’t the part you worry ’bout.”

His ears snap fully upright as the swamp goes quiet. Not slowly. Not naturally.

Insects cut off mid-chirp. The distant croak of something amphibious dies in its throat. Even the fog seems to hold still, clinging low and thick between the trees.

Porch’s nose wrinkles.

“Oh hells,” he breathes.

He yanks Jonathan toward him, hard.

Jonathan stumbles, barely catching himself, confusion flashing into panic.

“What—?”

The boards behind them creak, not from wood settling. From weight. Something large shifts in the mud beyond the walkway. Water sloshes thickly, displaced in a way ponds don’t like. A low sound follows—wet, grinding, almost mechanical, as if muscle and bone are negotiating terms.

Porch shoves Jonathan back another step.

“Run,” he hisses. “When I say—”

The fog parts, revealing a shadow. It doesn’t charge out immediately. It emerges, slow and deliberate, as if aware of how terrifying it already is.

The thing’s body is a patchwork of scales and scar tissue, hide stretched unevenly over a frame that was never meant to stand upright. Its head is crocodilian in shape but wrong in the details—jaw hinged too wide, teeth mismatched like they were replaced one batch at a time. One arm ends in a clawed hand; the other in something heavier, knotted with muscle and bone growths that resemble failed armor. It’s tall. Too tall.

Metal glints along its spine. Bolted. Embedded. Forgotten. Its eyes find Jonathan instantly and don’t blink as Porch goes rigid.

“Lo’er bowl eater,” he whispers. “Big un’.”

The creature inhales, his whole body shifting. The sound pulls air inward, dragging fog and stench and heat with it. Jonathan feels it in his chest, like gravity itself leaning forward.

Porch shoves him again, panic finally cracking through.

“NOW!”

The thing roars a sound that is part animal, part industrial—like a warning siren screaming through a throat that was never meant to make it. It lunges, boards exploding beneath its weight as it hauls itself fully onto the walkway.

Jonathan’s legs finally move, allowing him to stand. Not because he wants to run, but because something deep inside him—older than Ashgate, older than collars and cages—refuses to die here. Not after escaping. Not after finally getting freedom. He stumbles backward, heart hammering, the world snapping violently back into focus.

Porch darts sideways, grabbing a rusted spear from where it was wedged into the boards, planting his feet with a snarl that bares small, sharp teeth.

“Skinny!” Porch barks over his shoulder “You wake up now or you die!”

The creature’s shadow swallows them both as Jonathan’s breathe catches. His hand twitches. Porch raises his spear. However instead of impalling the beast he watches in shock as it suddenly flies into the air, as if snatched by God himself. His eyes unblinking and his mouth widen as he feels life enter a state of slow motion. He looks over just in time to see Jonathan bring his raised hands back down towards the ground in a brutal, emotional way before a force sends him back, forcing him from his feet and tossing him into the waters behind.

As he regains his awareness, Porch looks up from the water, using the spear to pole-vault off the ground and jump onto a vine to give himself a better vantage, he looks over and realizes that the creature that was lifted into the sky came crashing back down with such force that the shockwave sent him back and completely broke the creature, shattering its insides. All that was left untouched was Jonathan, huffing and puffing as he fell to his knees.

Prologue

The relentless rain drummed against the windows of the Berlioz home, a small, two-story brick house tucked into a nondescript corner of Sercadia’s sprawling cityscape. The streetlights flickered weakly, their amber glow swallowed by the oppressive gloom that seemed woven into the city itself. It was Simon’s twelfth birthday, though the boy sat alone at the kitchen table, the uneaten remnants of a modest dinner still on his plate. His wooden toy horse, worn smooth from years of handling, sat in front of him. The air in the house was thick, suffocating, as though it shared in the weight of unspoken things.

Simon’s mother, Ava, moved about the dimly lit kitchen with mechanical precision. She wore her usual muted attire, but tonight she had applied a touch of rouge to her cheeks and tied her hair back with an ornate clip, its gilded edges a sharp contrast to her otherwise practical demeanor. George lingered by the front door, staring at the rain-slicked street outside. His face was gaunt, a far cry from the charismatic stage actor the city once adored.

“Eat your dinner, Simon,” Ava said, her voice clipped with a forced warmth. The knife in her hand trembled as she chopped an apple into thin slices. She avoided looking at her son.

“Are we doing anything special tonight?” Simon asked, his voice quiet but hopeful. His bright, inquisitive eyes darted between his parents. “You said we might, remember?”

Ava’s hand faltered, the knife slipping and nicking her finger. She hissed under her breath but didn’t answer. George glanced over his shoulder, his jaw tightening.

“Of course, we are,” George finally said, though his tone carried no joy. “It’s a… a family thing. You’ll like it.”

Simon perked up, his small face breaking into a smile. “Really? Are we going to see a play? Or maybe—”

“Finish your dinner,” Ava interrupted, her voice sharper now. “We’ll leave soon.”

The boy’s smile faded, but he nodded, obedient as ever. George turned back to the window, his fingers gripping the frame so hard his knuckles turned white.

---

They left just after dusk, Simon wrapped in a thick coat that was a size too large for him. The streets were nearly deserted, the few pedestrians hunched under umbrellas or rushing to escape the chill. The Berlioz family moved in tense silence, their footsteps splashing through puddles as they made their way toward Sercadia’s industrial district. The boy clutched his toy horse tightly, his breath fogging in the cold air.

“Where are we going?” Simon asked after several blocks. His voice was steady, but there was an edge of unease.

“You’ll see,” Ava said, not meeting his gaze. She held his hand firmly, her nails digging slightly into his skin.

The journey ended beneath a sagging bridge on the edge of the industrial district. Rainwater dripped from the rusted beams above, creating an incessant patter on the cracked pavement. A heavy, corroded door was set into the bridge’s concrete foundation, its surface pockmarked with rust and scrawled with graffiti so old it was barely legible. George hesitated, his breath visible in the frigid air as he stared at the handle, which gleamed faintly with grease and condensation. The door seemed to absorb the light from the nearby streetlamp, a dark, gaping fissure daring them to enter.

Ava nudged him forward, her voice low and sharp. “Do it, George.”

Reluctantly, George gripped the handle. It felt cold and slimy, as though something alive had touched it before him. He pulled, the door groaning open with a sound like tortured metal. Beyond was a narrow corridor, its walls slick with moisture and lined with corroded pipes. A faint, sulfurous smell wafted out, mingling with the damp stench of decay.

The family stepped inside, the sound of their footsteps echoing unnaturally against the stained metal grates that formed the floor. Overhead, exposed pipes dripped oily water into dark puddles. The air grew colder as they moved deeper, the industrial hum of the city above fading into silence. Simon clung to Ava’s hand, his toy horse pressed tightly against his chest.

“Where are we going?” he asked, his voice trembling.

“Not far now,” Ava replied, her tone brittle. She avoided looking down at him.

The corridor twisted and turned, narrowing in places where the pipes bulged out like veins. Pools of stagnant water gathered in the dips of the floor, reflecting the dim, flickering light of occasional bulbs caged in iron mesh. A strange, rhythmic sound echoed through the space, like distant machinery grinding to life.

They passed a rusted sign bolted to the wall, its faded letters warning of dangers long forgotten: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED. Below it, a newer scrawl read: THE HUNGRY WILL BE FED.

Simon hesitated as they crossed an intersection where multiple corridors branched off into darkness. “It smells bad,” he muttered, wrinkling his nose.

“It’s just the way down here,” George said, his voice tight. He glanced at Ava, whose expression had hardened into something unreadable.

At last, they reached another door, this one heavier than the first and reinforced with thick, riveted iron plates. A faded sigil was etched into its surface, barely visible under layers of grime. Ava stepped forward, producing a key from her coat. She inserted it into a rusted lock that seemed far too ancient for the modern industrial surroundings. With a series of heavy clunks, the mechanism released, and the door swung open with surprising ease.

The cavern beyond was immense, the air damp and cool. Its walls, rough and uneven like natural rock, arched high above, disappearing into shadows. The floor was worn stone, uneven and slick, with rivulets of water coursing down into unseen drains. Flickering candles formed a wide circle at the center of the space, their flames casting jagged shadows across the walls.

In the middle of the circle stood a stone altar, ancient and weathered. Its surface was carved with intricate symbols that seemed to ripple and shift when looked at directly. Around it, cloaked figures moved with precise, solemn purpose, their faces obscured by deep hoods. The flicker of candlelight caught on their robes, revealing stains of old blood and smudges of ash. The air was thick with the pungent scents of incense and rot, an oppressive miasma that clung to the lungs and skin.

Simon’s eyes widened, his grip on his toy horse tightening. “Who… who are they?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Friends,” Ava said, her voice hollow. But her trembling hand betrayed her words.

George approached the nearest figure, his posture stiff. He held out a small pouch, the contents rattling as he passed it over.

The hooded figure accepted it, the gesture strangely formal, almost ritualistic. The stranger turned away, adding the pouch to a pile on a rickety wooden table pushed against the cavern wall. The collection was varied, its contents glinting in the dim light: jewelry, coins, even a stack of neatly bound paper bills.

Suddenly, fire sparked, casting the room in a warm, orange glow. Torches blazed to life along the walls, revealing more hooded figures standing in watchful silence.

The altar burst into flame, its surface alight with a strange, unnatural glow. A low, guttural chant rose from the assembled strangers, a primal sound that seemed to echo and reverberate from every direction.

“Mazhelzulth sangai fasorthai, Helzulth drauv uthnai qorth.”

One of the figures stepped forward, their hood falling back to reveal a woman with sharp features and hollow cheeks. Her Saskontoban accent was crisp, her words cutting through the stillness like a knife.

“The boy,” she said, her gaze fixing on Simon with an intensity that made him shrink back. “Bring him.”

George swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. “Do we… do we have to—”

The woman silenced him with a glare. “You made your pact, Berlioz. There’s no turning back.”

Two other cultists approached, their cloaks parting to reveal pallid faces and hands that bore strange, ritualistic scars. One of them was missing several fingers, the stumps blackened and twisted. They reached for Simon, who clung to Ava in panic.

“Mom, Dad—what’s happening?” Simon’s voice rose in fear.

Ava flinched, but didn’t meet his gaze. She gently detached him, her face a mask of despair.

“You’re special, Simon,” she said, her voice trembling. “You’re going to do something incredible tonight.”

Before he could protest, the cultists seized him, dragging him toward the altar. Simon screamed, thrashing against their grip, but he was no match for their strength. They strapped him down with thick leather bindings, his small frame dwarfed by the imposing stone slab, stained with old blood. The chanting grew louder, filling his ears, pressing against his mind until it was all he could hear.

Tears welled in his eyes, his chest rising and falling in ragged sobs. “Please, let me go,” he pleaded.

The cult leader stepped forward, the ancient book cradled in her hands like a sacred relic. Her face emerged from beneath the hood, gaunt and pale, the skin stretched tight over angular bones. Her eyes gleamed unnaturally, catching the light of the candles like twin shards of glass. Her thin lips parted, and her voice slithered through the cavern, commanding and chilling.

“Behold the sacred text that heralds Yon Wauter,” she intoned, her Saskontoban accent sharp yet strangely melodic, like a blade slicing through frost. “Tonight, through the boy, He shall step into this world once more.”

The cultists chanted louder, their voices now frenzied, as if her words had unlocked some primal fervor. The leader moved with deliberate grace, her fingers brushing the air as she gestured toward Simon. A faint smirk played on her lips as she looked down at him.

“Kelthar vorash uth zanthi, Nyshka sanghel uthlai vorath,” the cloaked figures sung, the second part in their strange language.

As the voices grew louder and louder still, Simon writhed in desperation, his eyes pleading with his parents. George turned away, his face pale and drenched in sweat. Ava clutched his arm, her own face a mask of anguish.

“Do not be afraid, child,” she said softly, her voice dripping with mockery. “You are a vessel, chosen for greatness.”

Simon whimpered, his small frame trembling against the straps. He tried to turn his head, to look at his parents, but her presence seemed to hold him in place. Her fingers trailed over the book, tracing the alien script with reverence.

“Talai fasang kelthar qorthai rakhalan, ianai fasang helai rakhalis zanthesh vorathai velkai!“

As she began to speak these words in a sing-song, the air grew dense, heavy with an unseen pressure. The symbols carved into the altar flared to life, their green glow pulsating like a heartbeat. The ground beneath their feet trembled, and a low hum reverberated through the cavern.

Then the rift opened.

The vortex tore through the air above Simon, its edges crackling with chaotic energy. The swirling black and red void was unnatural, a wrongness so profound it felt alive. The cultists fell silent for a moment, their heads tilting as if entranced by its pull. Then the first tendril emerged.

Slick and wet and made of pure darkness, it uncoiled from the void like the arm of some impossibly large creature. It reached downard, caressing Simon’s face with a grotesque intimacy. He tried to pull away, but it held him fast. The tempature plummeted, frost forming on the edges of the stone slab.

Simon screamed, thrashing against his bonds, but the tendril pressed firmly, almost gently, against his chest. The boy’s body arched violently as it plunged into him, and the cavern erupted into chaos.

The cult leader’s triumphant smile faltered. Her eyes darted between the book and the vortex, her fingers trembling as the alien script began to shift on the page.

“This… this is not right,” she whispered, her voice thin with panic.

The altar cracked with a deafening sound, the split running jagged down its center. The vortex widened, its edges fraying as though reality itself were being torn apart. A guttural roar erupted from the void, the sound so deep and resonant it seemed to shake their very bones.

“Mom! Dad!” he screamed, turning into choking gasps, his voice cracking with panic. His body convulsed violently, the leather straps creaking under the strain. The cultists’ chanting frenzied, their voices almost histerical.

George’s eyes met his son’s. There was terror in his gaze, but also a deep, unfathomable regret.

“I’m sorry,” George said, his voice barely audible above the deafening roar of the rift.

“No!” the leader screamed, clutching the book tighter. “He is not ready! The vessel is incomplete!”

A tendril lashed out, faster than thought, piercing her chest. Her scream turned into a wet gurgle as blood sprayed from her mouth, splattering across the altar and Simon’s ashen face. The leader’s body went limp, collapsing into a heap as the book fell from her grasp. The glow from its pages dimmed, but the vortex continued to grow, unrelenting.

George grabbed his wife’s arm, his voice hoarse and desperate. “Ava, we have to go! It’s over!”

But she shook him off, her gaze fixed on the writhing black tendrils and the vortex’s seething maw. Her lips trembled, her eyes wide with a manic light. “No,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. “It’s not done… He’s not here yet. We need more…”

“Ava!” George shouted, his voice cracking. “Look at me! We’ve lost him! We have to—”

A tendril shot out and wrapped around her waist. She gasped, clawing at the slick, pulsating surface as it lifted her off the ground. For a moment, her eyes met George’s, and the fervor drained from her face.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice soft and broken. Tears spilled down her cheeks as the tendril yanked her violently upward.

The impact against the altar was sickening, her skull splitting open with a wet crack. Blood sprayed across the stone raining onto Simon, and pooled beneath her lifeless body, mixing with the dark ichor dripping from the tendrils. George staggered back, a scream caught in his throat, his mind unable to process the sight. His gaze fell on his son, still strapped to the altar. Simon’s eyes were wide and unblinking, the light within them fading.

The chanting was drowned out by the unearthly roar, the cultists’ screams and shrieks punctuating the chaos. Some scrambled to escape, while others stood frozen, their minds unable to process the unfolding nightmare.

“Dad…” Simon gasped, his lips coated with blood.

The vortex screamed as it expanded, its edges jagged with chaotic energy. The cultists scrambled in all directions, their robes snagging on jagged rocks and pooling blood. Tendrils lashed out indiscriminately, pulling them into the void. One woman was dragged screaming, her fingers clawing at the stone floor until her nails splintered and peeled away. A man stumbled into a tendril, his chest caving in with a sickening crunch as it coiled around him.

The cavern itself seemed to rebel against the intrusion, the walls groaning as cracks spidered outward. Loose rocks fell from the ceiling, shattering on the stone floor. The torches lining the walls sputtered and died, leaving only the sickly glow of the vortex and the altar’s cursed symbols.

George’s legs moved on instinct, his body screaming for escape even as his mind remained frozen. He turned, the sounds of ripping flesh and breaking bones filling his ears, the acrid stench of blood and burning air choking him.

The vortex grew, its swirling depths consuming the light. From it emerged a monstrous figure, its form shifting and undefined, like liquid given shape. Its surface glistened black and wet, and its eyes burned with a fiery malice.

With a deafening bellow, the creature lashed out, its tendrils flailing wildly. It dragged the screaming cultists into the void, their bodies contorting and twisting before vanishing into nothingness.

George turned and fled, his footsteps echoing through the cavern, his voice hoarse from screaming. The creature followed, its roars shaking the walls.

Simon lay motionless, his eyes open but empty, watching, one by one, the cultists are slaughtered. Tendrils slashed through flesh with brutal efficiency, blood pooling across the cold concrete floor.

At last, there was silence. The vortex collapsed, the void shrinking and retreating. Simon was alone, the altar stained with gore and littered with scraps of flesh.

Above, the storm raged, and the rain continued to pour.

As Simon closed his eyes, a voice seeped into his mind—low, guttural, and dripping with malice.

“Happy birthday, Simon,” it purred, the words reverberating through his thoughts like the toll of a funeral bell, each syllable sinking him deeper into the dark.

The world around him faded, swallowed whole by the black, wet void as he felt his body gently lift.

Welcome to Ashgate Corrections

The cargo helicopter sliced through the air with a deafening roar, its bulky frame swaying slightly as it approached the hulking monolith that was Ashgate Correctional Facility. The horizon was gray and bleak, with storm clouds churning over the frothing sea below. To the untrained eye, the facility might have appeared abandoned—its rust-streaked walls and jagged towers looked like the remnants of an industrial nightmare—but the sharp lights that dotted its structure betrayed its activity.

Inside the helicopter, the atmosphere was suffocating. twenty prisoners sat shackled along a metal bench, their orange jumpsuits sticking to their damp skin. Dean Matroni sat among them, his long, dark hair plastered to his forehead. His sharp brown eyes scanned his fellow passengers: hardened criminals, all of them—except for one.

She was different. Blonde hair tied loosely at the nape of her neck, soft green eyes that darted nervously around the cabin, and plump features that seemed out of place here. She looked as if she belonged on a college campus, not aboard a transport bound for what could only be hell.

The chopper jolted as it began its descent, and a guard standing near the cockpit barked over the noise. “Final stop, folks! Welcome to Ashgate Correctional Facility, your new home!”

Dean shifted his gaze to the other guards. Two of them stood near the hatch, whispering just loud enough for him to catch fragments.

“File says he already has a ‘Tousia.”
“Bullshit. No record of him bein’ here before.”
“Yeah, but look at him. Guy screams ‘monster.’”
“Warden’s orders, though. Keep it under wraps.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. His ‘Tousia—a deadly ability he barely understood—had been dormant since his capture. The guards’ whispers confirmed something he’d suspected: Ashgate wasn’t just any prison.

---

The helicopter landed with a metallic groan on the facility’s weather-beaten platform. Dean and the others were marched out into the biting sea air. The wind carried the tang of salt and oil, stinging Dean’s nose as he stepped onto the slick steel surface.

Ahead, the facility loomed like a beast. Its massive exterior dripped with rain and seawater, rust streaking the metal like old blood. Despite the decay outside, the moment they entered, everything changed.

The interior was pristine—clinical and cold. Polished steel floors gleamed under harsh fluorescent lights, and the air smelled faintly of antiseptic. Guards flanked the prisoners, their electric batons crackling faintly as they prodded the group forward through the labyrinthine corridors.

A younger inmate near the back muttered, “Place’s clean enough to eat off the floors.”

“Too bad you’ll be eating off your knees,” a guard snapped, eliciting nervous chuckles from the others.

Dean kept his head down, his steps measured, but his sharp gaze darted to every corner, memorizing every turn. They passed locked steel doors, each labeled with a number and what seemed to be medical symbols. Some doors emitted faint sounds—whirring machinery, muffled groans, or worse, screams that faded as they moved deeper into the facility.

They were herded into a stark, white-walled chamber with a steel podium at its center. The space was immaculate, almost surgical, a sharp contrast to the decayed exterior of the facility. As Dean stepped inside, a faint, low hum prickled at the edge of his awareness. It was barely audible, but it wormed its way into his skull, making him slightly dizzy. His vision blurred for a second, and he instinctively reached out to steady himself, catching the edge of a nearby bench.

“On your feet,” barked a guard, his voice cutting through the haze. Dean barely had time to straighten before the man struck him across the back with his baton—not with electricity, just enough force to grab his attention.

“Move it, inmate,” the guard growled, gesturing toward the center of the room.

Dean bit back a retort, his jaw tightening as he fell back into line. Around him, guards lined the walls, their eyes scanning the room like predators waiting for an excuse to pounce.

---

From a side door, a man strode in—a towering figure with a bearing that screamed ex-military. His dark hair was cropped short beneath the brim of a low hat, and his thick beard seemed more like armor than warmth. Correctional Major Gordon, as he introduced himself, carried an air of authority so suffocating it felt like the walls themselves leaned in closer. His boots thudded heavily against the steel floor, and when he stopped at the podium, the sound echoed like a gunshot.

Gordon paused, scanning the group with a look that was part disdain, part predatory amusement. “Welcome,” he began, his voice low but resonant, “to Ashgate Correctional Facility. Some of you may know it by its old name: Hilmand Correctional Institute. Back then, it was a dumping ground for Dilhamn’s undesirables—the mentally ill, the homeless, the generally useless.” He leaned forward slightly, his lips curling into a sneer. “But those days? Long gone.”

Dean straightened as Gordon’s gaze swept over the room, catching the faint hum from earlier again, making his head swim for a moment. His eyes flicked toward the girl he couldn’t stop staring at during their ride. She stood out in the crowd not just for her features—those long, wavy blond locks framing a face both innocent and defiant—but for the way her chest rose and fell with nervous breaths under the standard-issue jumpsuit. Dean found his gaze drifting lower. {Damn.}

She stiffened as Gordon’s sharp gaze landed on her. “You,” he said, pointing. “Clarke, Sydney. I’ve read your file. Dangerous, resourceful, and…” His tone took on an unmistakable edge of mockery. “…unusually popular with the boys, I imagine. Ashgate is unisex, in case anyone’s wondering. Yes, you’ll be brushing shoulders—and sometimes more—with everyone. But before any of you get clever ideas about touching what isn’t yours, know that we have rules. Break them, and you’ll be begging for death before you even see a cell.”

Gordon straightened, turning his attention back to the group. “Now, for those of you wondering why this facility exists—why you’ve been sent to a rusted rig in the middle of the damned Mazqorath Ocean instead of some cushy land prison—allow me to enlighten you.” He began pacing, his boots clanging against the steel floor with each deliberate step.

“Ashgate isn’t your average prison. This is a place for… innovation.” His smirk widened, as if he were enjoying a private joke. “You’re here because no one out there gives a damn about you. No family, no government, no lawyers hounding us for your rights. Here, you don’t just rot. You’re used.”

The room was silent save for that faint hum. Dean could feel it vibrating in his teeth now, just enough to make him uncomfortable. His hands twitched at his sides, but he stayed still, watching Gordon.

“Some of you,” Gordon continued, letting the weight of his words settle in, “have already been touched by our enhancements. We call it ‘Eaftousia.’ You’ve got something in you—something different. Whether you asked for it or not.” He stopped pacing and turned to face them fully. “For the rest of you who haven’t? Well, the lower levels are always looking for volunteers. Or, should I say, conscripts.”

There was a murmur among the new arrivals. One of the inmates—a wiry man with a scar running down his cheek—whispered something to the person beside him, shaking his head. Gordon caught it instantly.

“You,” Gordon snapped, pointing at the man. “Got something to add?”

The inmate froze. “No, sir,” he muttered, his voice barely audible.

Gordon’s boots thundered as he closed the distance in three strides, looming over the man like a storm cloud about to break. “Speak up. You got something to say, Scarface? Or was that mouth stitched shut along with your dignity?”

The man shook his head furiously, his bravado evaporating under Gordon’s glare.

“That’s what I thought,” Gordon growled before turning back to the podium. “Now, where was I? Ah, yes. The Ultimate Prison Fighter program. Here at Ashgate, we’ve turned survival into a spectacle. Think UFC, but with… enhancements. Outsiders pay top dollar to watch you tear each other apart. And if you’re lucky enough to impress them? You might even get bought.”

A ripple of confusion spread through the group. Gordon chuckled darkly. “Oh, didn’t I mention? That’s the only way out of here. Impress one of our esteemed investors enough, and they might take you off our hands. Of course, you’re not going anywhere alive unless they’ve got a use for you. Some of you might end up as bodyguards. Others as… personal servants.” His smirk deepened. “Use your imagination.”

Dean’s stomach churned. He wasn’t sure if it was the hum in the air or the implications of Gordon’s words, but a sinking feeling settled over him. This wasn’t just a prison. It was a marketplace, and every one of them was for sale.

“Now, let me make one thing clear,” Gordon said, his voice dropping to a menacing growl. “You don’t own yourselves anymore. You’re Ashgate property. You fight when we tell you to fight. You kill when we tell you to kill. And if you’re thinking of stepping out of line?” He gestured to one of the guards, who stepped forward and cracked his baton against the steel floor, the sound like a gunshot followed by birds chirping as small sparks of electricity flew from the meeting of the baton and floor.

Dean felt a flicker of unease as Gordon’s gaze landed on him. It lingered for just a moment too long before he moved on, but it was enough to make Dean’s skin crawl.

“Welcome to Ashgate,” Gordon said finally, his voice dripping with mockery. “The last place you’ll ever call home. Now, get dressed and get ready. Because your new lives? They started the moment you got off the helicopter.”

The guards barked orders, herding the group toward the uniform station. Dean fell in line, his head spinning with the implications of everything he’d just heard. The hum was still there, faint but insistent, and for the first time, he realized just how out of his depth he was.

---

Dean’s bare feet slapped against the cold metal grated floor as the guards marched him deeper into the dark labyrinthine halls of Ashgate. The stark contrast between his vulnerable, exposed feet and the heavy, reinforced, no doubt steel toed, boots of the guards didn’t escape his notice. The tight metallic collar now around his neck gave an occasional beep, a constant reminder that he was under watch, under control. The thing felt heavier than it looked, and he was already imagining what it might do if he stepped too far out of line.

He passed other inmates along the way—some lounging in the common areas, others skulking in corners, their faces shadowed by a mix of boredom and malice. The clatter of a chess game in one corner, the rattle of a dice roll in another. The guards barked a few commands to clear the hall, and the inmates scattered like cockroaches, their movements mechanical, practiced.

As Dean approached a cell, the guard escorting him rapped his stick against the metal bars. “This is it. Home sweet home.”

Dean gave a dry chuckle as he stepped inside, taking a sweeping glance around. The cell was cramped but surprisingly clean. A narrow bunk bed lined one wall, a small metal sink and toilet occupying the other. He dropped his standard-issue bag onto the lower bunk and stretched, letting his hand brush the top bar of the bedframe. “Wonder how long this’ll be home,” he said to no one in particular.

A voice from above replied, smooth and dripping with sarcasm. “No matter where you go, there you are.”

Dean looked up sharply. A man with dark, slightly disheveled hair lounged on the top bunk, his hands tucked behind his head. His voice carried the sort of practiced indifference that came with experience, though there was a faint smirk on his lips.

Dean frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”

The man grinned wider, his teeth catching the dim light. “It means I’m sharing a cell with another genius who’s never heard of Confucius.”

“Confu-who?”

“Exactly.” The man sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bunk. “I’m Jonathan. Jonathan Stokes. And you must be… let me guess.” He squinted at Dean, tapping his chin theatrically as he glanced at his heavily scared hands. “Matroni. Drifter, but not so new fish, but fresh meat still. Looks like you’re already good at making friends with the guards.”

Dean crossed his arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means I’ve seen your type before. Big guy, tough guy. You look like the kind of guy who’s already got a fan club out in the yard. Give it a week, you’ll be making headlines in the UPF.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, unsure whether Jonathan was mocking him or being serious.

Jonathan tilted his head, studying Dean. “Ah, but you’ve got that look in your eye. That ‘I’ve got a past, and it’s none of your damn business’ look. Let me guess—body count?”

Dean didn’t respond, his jaw tightening slightly.

“Thought so,” Jonathan said with a shrug. “Don’t worry, you’ll fit right in. Half the guys here are murderers. The other half… well, they wish they were.” He leaned back against the wall on the top bunk, folding his arms behind his head again.

Dean sat on the lower bunk, trying to ignore the discomfort of the cold mattress beneath him. “What about you? What’re you in for?”

Jonathan’s grin returned. “Oh, you know. A bit of this, a bit of that. Let’s just say the warden and I have different definitions of ‘acceptable behavior.’” He paused, his smirk fading for just a second before it reappeared, sharper. “But I know how to get by. You stick with me, and maybe you’ll learn a thing or two.”

Dean scoffed. “What could I possibly learn from you?”

Jonathan’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “Oh, lots. Like how to keep your head attached to your shoulders. For one, don’t pick fights you can’t win. Two, don’t trust anyone who smiles too much. And three…” He leaned forward, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Never assume the guards aren’t watching. They always are.”

The faint beep of Dean’s collar seemed louder suddenly, and he instinctively touched it.

Jonathan nodded toward his own collar. “Yeah, that thing? It’s not just for show. They’ve got all sorts of tricks up their sleeves. Stay out of trouble—or don’t. Trouble’s inevitable here anyway.”

Dean stared at his dangling legs for a moment. “You seem awfully calm for someone locked in this hellhole.”

Jonathan gave a light laugh. “Philosophy, my friend. A man who fears suffering is already suffering from what he fears.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Is that another Confucius thing?”

Jonathan’s grin grew smug. “Nah. That one’s Voltaire.” He settled back on the bunk, crossing his legs. “But hey, don’t worry about it. No one else knows either.”

Dean leaned against the wall, closing his eyes for a moment and letting the hum of the collar fade into the background. This guy was clearly a smartass, but there was something about him—something that suggested he’d been here long enough to know what he was talking about.

The clang of a distant cell door echoed down the hall, followed by a muffled yell and the sound of guards shouting. Dean opened his eyes again, glancing at the barred window of the cell.

Jonathan didn’t even flinch. “See? Trouble. Told you it was inevitable.”

---

The cell was bathed in the dim orange glow of the overhead light, casting long shadows that stretched and swayed with the occasional flicker. Dean lay on the bottom bunk, staring at the ceiling, the faint hum of the collar around his neck serving as a constant reminder of where he was. It beeped softly, irregularly, like a predator breathing down his neck.

Jonathan sat cross-legged on the top bunk, his arms resting on his knees as he leafed through a tattered book. The cell was quiet except for the faint rustling of pages and the distant echoes of guards patrolling the corridors. Outside their cell, a soft shuffling sound grew louder, interspersed with the occasional clink of metal.

Dean tilted his head, listening. “What’s that?” he asked, breaking the silence.

Jonathan didn’t look up. “Probably another inmate. They let some of the more docile ones out at night to clean. Good behavior and all that.”

“Good behavior, huh? I’ll bet it’s more like they’ve given up on trying to escape.” Dean’s tone was bitter, his eyes narrowing as he caught a glimpse of the figure pushing a cart down the corridor. The man’s hollow face and vacant stare told him all he needed to know.

“Resignation does wonders for job prospects,” Jonathan quipped, his lips curling into a smirk as he turned another page. “I’m sure you’ll be scrubbing toilets in no time.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, I’ll pass. Besides, I doubt this place gives references.”

Jonathan chuckled, shutting his book and leaning over the edge of the bunk to look at Dean. “What about you? You got a plan, or are you just going to scowl your way through the rest of your miserable existence here?”

Dean shrugged. “Haven’t thought that far ahead. Hard to make plans when you don’t know the rules.”

Jonathan nodded thoughtfully, sitting back. “The rules are simple: don’t get caught breaking them.”

Dean smirked. “Sounds easy enough.”

Jonathan raised an eyebrow. “You’d be surprised how complicated simple things can get in a place like this.”

The footsteps faded as the cleaning inmate moved further down the hall. The cell fell silent again, save for the low hum of the collars. Dean shifted uncomfortably, the weight of the metallic band around his neck feeling heavier than ever. He rubbed at the edge of it absentmindedly.

“You ever think this thing might… I don’t know, blow up or something if we step out of line?” Dean asked, half-joking, but the thought clearly unsettled him.

Jonathan tapped his own collar with a finger. “Doubt it. If they wanted us dead, they wouldn’t go through the trouble of keeping us alive. Besides, dead bodies don’t fight in their little tournaments nor do they.. Usually sell for much.”

Dean considered this, then smirked. “You seem to know a lot about this place for someone who’s just arrived.”

Jonathan grinned, leaning back. “I have a talent for reading between the lines.”

“Or you’re just good at bullshit,” Dean shot back, earning a laugh from Jonathan.

Before either could say more, a voice crackled to life—not from the intercoms but from the collars around their necks. It was low and distorted, almost mechanical, yet eerily human.

“Pay attention, inmates. The rules of this game are not what they seem.”

Dean froze, his eyes darting to Jonathan, who sat up sharply. His usual smirk was replaced by a look of confusion.

“What the hell was that?” Dean asked, his voice low.

Jonathan shook his head slowly, his brows knitting together. “No idea, its never done that” he admitted, his hand absently brushing against the collar.

The voice didn’t return. Instead, the silence in the cell grew heavier, the faint hum of the collars now feeling oppressive, like the ticking of a clock counting down to an unknown fate. Dean lay back down, his thoughts racing as his eyes fixed on the ceiling, the distant echoes of footsteps fading into the darkness.

Heart’s Last Beat

The walls of solitary confinement were painted in the drab gray of despair, scuffed and dented by decades of inmates who had fought against their isolation. Maxwell Baxter sat on the cold steel cot, his head resting against the wall, his pale hands shackled loosely in his lap. His figure was skeletal under the dim light, his gaunt face framed by a mess of ash-white hair that seemed to gleam unnaturally in the gloom. Dark circles hung beneath his crimson eyes, a testament to sleepless nights spent with thoughts too dark to quiet.

The faint hum of the metallic collar around his neck was constant—a low, irritating buzz that seemed to burrow into his skull. He’d learned to ignore it, much like the chains around his ankles or the distant cries of other inmates from down the long corridor. Ashgate had a way of conditioning its residents, grinding them down to nothing more than reflexes and silence. Maxwell wasn’t entirely there yet, but even he had his limits.

From the narrow, grimy window of his cell, he could just make out the skeleton of the yard below, lit by floodlights that burned away any illusions of privacy. The grated walkways outside were alive with the steady, deliberate movements of guards on patrol. Their boots clanged rhythmically against the steel as they crossed paths, nodding curtly or muttering brief exchanges.

Maxwell’s crimson eyes tracked them methodically, his gaze following each step, each pause, each habitual gesture. One guard paused near the edge of the walkway, lighting a cigarette with the telltale flick of a metal lighter. The brief flare illuminated his face—a patchy beard, sunken cheeks, and a scowl that seemed carved in stone. Another guard rounded the corner, adjusting his belt with a weary sigh. Their movements were predictable, their routine a monotonous loop that Maxwell had cataloged out of sheer necessity.

“Private Baxter,” he muttered to himself, his voice barely above a whisper. The title rolled off his tongue like a bitter memory, each syllable laced with contempt. His lips curled into a faint sneer, the kind that didn’t quite reach his hollow eyes. The name wasn’t entirely his anymore, not after what had been done to him.

He shifted on the cot, his shackles clinking softly as he leaned his head back against the wall. The cold steel pressed against his scalp, grounding him in the present. He tried to focus on the noises outside his cell—the hum of the fluorescent lights, the faint echoes of distant conversations, the relentless buzz of his collar. Anything to drown out the memories clawing at the edges of his mind.

The clang of a door further down the corridor shattered the fragile silence. The sharp, metallic sound reverberated through the walls, followed by the muffled shouts of a guard barking orders at another inmate. Maxwell’s jaw tightened instinctively. He didn’t need to see the scene to know what was happening. Someone was resisting, or maybe just moving too slow for the guard’s liking. It was always the same.

The sound of heavy boots grew closer, echoing with a deliberate authority. Maxwell didn’t bother looking up. He already knew who it was before the figure appeared at his cell—a tall guard with a grim face and eyes that seemed permanently narrowed.

“On your feet, Baxter,” the man barked, his tone cold and clipped.

Maxwell didn’t move immediately. He tilted his head lazily, his crimson gaze sliding to the guard with an icy calm that made the man hesitate, if only for a moment. The silence stretched between them, tense and palpable, before Maxwell pushed himself to his feet with deliberate slowness.

His movements were almost mechanical, each step and shift of his weight precise. He extended his hands for the cuffs, his expression unreadable. The guard stepped forward, snapping the restraints tighter than necessary. The steel bit into his wrists, but Maxwell didn’t flinch.

“Yard time,” the guard muttered gruffly, his voice lacking any trace of enthusiasm.

“Can’t wait,” Maxwell replied, his tone as dry as the air in the cell. There was no sarcasm, no humor—just the flat monotony of a man who had long since learned to find amusement in nothing.

The guard grabbed his arm roughly, pulling him toward the door. Maxwell’s bare feet scraped against the cold floor as he was led out into the corridor. The fluorescent lights above flickered faintly, casting long shadows against the walls.

As they passed other cells, muffled voices drifted through the narrow gaps in the doors. Some were curses, others whispered prayers, and a few were incoherent mutterings of inmates lost to their own minds. Maxwell didn’t react to any of it. His focus remained on the guard ahead, the clinking of his chains, and the ever-present buzz of his collar.

When they reached the gate leading to the yard, the guard stopped, pressing a button on the panel beside the door. The hiss of hydraulics filled the air as the gate slid open, revealing the sprawling, multi-tiered expanse beyond.

Maxwell stepped forward, his eyes narrowing against the harsh floodlights. The cold air hit his face, carrying with it the familiar stench of sweat, rust, and despair. As the gate clanged shut behind him, he let out a slow breath, his lips twitching into a faint smirk.

“Another day to survive,” he muttered, his voice barely audible over the distant roar of inmates in the yard below.

---

The yard was a vast, multi-tiered expanse of grated steel floors, each level teeming with inmates. The open design made it impossible to escape notice—every movement, every sound seemed amplified in the harsh acoustics of the space. The upper levels offered a glimpse of the dull gray sky, its thick clouds heavy with the promise of rain. On the lower tier, Maxwell Baxter moved silently, his bare feet brushing over the cold, grated metal as he took in the chaos around him.

To his left, a group of inmates sat hunched in a loose circle, their faces grimy and their laughter sharp as they played cards with a deck so worn it was barely recognizable. The air was thick with tension, the stakes whispered low but evident in the intensity of their glares. On his right, two muscular men circled each other in a brutal sparring match, prison renowned Lil Terry Cuts and Diesel Khrist, their knuckles bloodied from repeated blows. Each impact echoed across the yard, drawing a mix of cheers and jeers from the onlookers above.

Maxwell’s crimson eyes scanned the levels above. From his vantage point, he could see inmates leaning over the grated floors, shouting insults, trading banter, or simply watching with predatory interest. The noise was constant—a cacophony of voices, footsteps, and the occasional clang of a fist meeting metal.

One figure on the upper levels caught his attention. The man had long, dark hair that fell loosely around his sharp features. He stood against the railing on one of the catwalks, his posture relaxed but alert. The metallic collar around his neck reflected a brief glint of light, and Maxwell’s unnaturally sharp vision locked onto it. The engraved serial number was clear: DM-0256.

Maxwell tilted his head slightly, narrowing his eyes. The man seemed new, yet something in his stance carried the weight of someone accustomed to chaos. Their gazes met briefly, an unspoken acknowledgment passing between them. Maxwell turned away, uninterested in dwelling on the moment, as a grating laugh cut through the din.

It came from a mysterious new inmate. A man of dark skin and a small frame, but still towered over most other inmates strutted around level 5, Maxwell’s level, like he owned it. His voice loud and mocking, his presence drew attention—not respect, but the kind of begrudging notice afforded to someone too obnoxious to ignore.

“A’ight, listen up! All you so-called white people!” Xubruse’s voice rang out, dripping with scorn as he gestured broadly to the yard. “Always thinkin’ you own the damn world! But I’m here to tell y’all it’s different in here! Y’all think y’re safe but imma teach you!”

Maxwell barely glanced at him, his attention flicking back to the inmates nearby. A few muttered under their breath, shaking their heads or exchanging amused smirks.

“New fish is tryin’ to make a name for himself,” one inmate murmured to another.

“Yeah, loudmouth like that won’t last long,” his companion replied with a low chuckle.

Xubruse, undeterred, pressed on. He pointed to a group of inmates seated on the far side of the yard. “Look at ya, sittin’ there like ya got a right to relax. Like y’re better than the rest of us. I see you, all smug with your fake-ass toughness.”

From above, a sharp voice cut through the air. “What’s with the Zenzawi act? You sound more like you’re from Sumech!”

Laughter rippled across the tiers of floors, and Xubruse’s jaw tightened. He turned sharply, glaring up at the source of the taunt.

“You think I’m jokin’?” he snarled, his voice growing louder. “I’m from Zenzawi, born and raised! My people built kingdoms while y’all were still crawlin’ in the dirt! My people taught you how to bath!”

The mockery from above continued, but Xubruse ignored it, turning his attention to Maxwell. His gaze locked on the pale man with the unnatural eyes, and his swagger grew more pronounced.

“And you,” he spat, pointing a bony finger. “You sittin’ there like some kinda demon king, with your freak-ass eyes and that dead-man stare. What’s the matter? Too good to talk to me?”

Maxwell’s expression remained impassive, his crimson eyes fixed on Xubruse without a flicker of emotion.

“You think you’re better than me?” Xubruse continued, his voice rising with each word. “You think you can just sit there, lookin’ like death warmed over, and not pay respect? Nah. Not here. Not to me. You bouta learn somethin’”

The yard grew quieter as inmates turned to watch the confrontation. Maxwell’s silence was unnerving, his lack of reaction more damning than any insult.

“What’s the matter, albino colonizer?” Xubruse sneered, stepping closer. “Got nothin’ to say? Or are you just scared? See I was told ’bout you, I was told you the scary motha fucka, but you seem like a bitch to me!”

Maxwell finally spoke, his voice low and even. “I’m just bored.”

Xubruse blinked, caught off guard by the calm reply.

“But,” Maxwell added, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, “you’re about to fix that.”

The yard erupted in a mix of cheers and groans, the crowd sensing a fight. Xubruse lunged forward, his fists swinging wildly, but Maxwell was ready. His movements were precise, almost surgical. He sidestepped the clumsy attack, grabbing Xubruse’s wrist with one hand and placing the other on his chest.

“The hell you doin’?” Xubruse hissed, struggling against Maxwell’s steele grip.

Maxwell’s red eyes locked onto his. “Ever see someone’s heart pop like a balloon?” he asked softly, he could feel his opponents heart rate rise in the palm clasped tightly against his chest. “Want to see it?”

Xubruse’s face contorted in confusion, then horror as his chest convulsed violently. His breath hitched, and his eyes widened in panic. Blood sprayed from his mouth in a sudden, grotesque burst, splattering onto the grated floor. The sound of it hitting the metal was wet and final.

Xubruse dropped to his knees, clutching at his chest as his body convulsed one last time. Then he collapsed, motionless.

The yard fell silent. Even the jeers from above had ceased. Maxwell released the lifeless man and stepped back, brushing his hands against his prison jumpsuit as if wiping away invisible dirt.

His crimson eyes scanned the crowd, daring anyone else to step forward. One did, though not to threaten or engage. A young man, no older than eighteen, a Numean with dyed blonde hair.

On one of the upper levels, the man with the long, dark hair—Dean Matroni—leaned against the railing, his expression unreadable. Beside him, Jonathan Stokes broke the silence with a sardonic comment.

“Well, that’s one way to make a first impression.”

Dean didn’t reply, his gaze fixed on Maxwell. Below, Maxwell glanced up, his eyes meeting Dean’s once again, though neither said a word. The tension in the yard lingered, heavy and unbroken, as the guards began to approach.

---

Back in his cell, Maxwell sat on the edge of his cot, his pale hands resting on his knees, his crimson eyes staring at the solid floor beneath him. The faint hum of his collar buzzed incessantly, a low vibration that seemed to worm its way into his skull, matching the dull ache behind his eyes. His fingers drummed lightly on his legs, the only sound breaking the heavy silence of solitary.

A memory crept into his mind, unbidden and unwelcome—a dimly lit room, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood and sterile disinfectant. He could feel the cold steel of the operating table beneath his back, the straps around his wrists and ankles cutting into his skin. Overhead, a single bulb flickered, casting harsh shadows on the faces of the people he had once called friends.

“Come on, Private,” Martin Sanders sneered, his square jaw clenched as he loomed over Maxwell. The man’s military-cut blond hair glinted in the sickly yellow light, his blue eyes devoid of the camaraderie they once held. “Where’s that fight now, huh? Where’s the great Maxwell Baxter?”

Emmanuel Clark, with his athletic tone and perpetual smirk, leaned in closer, his glasses reflecting the dim light. “You were always so damn quiet, Max. Guess we’ll see how loud you can get when we take you apart.”

Terrance Chapman stood further back, his bulk casting an imposing shadow on the far wall. He crossed his massive arms, his dark skin glistening with sweat as he laughed—a low, rumbling sound that felt like nails scraping against Maxwell’s psyche. “We’re just getting started,” he said, his voice a slow drawl laced with anticipation.

And then there was Ella Abbot. She hovered near the corner, her auburn hair tied back into a tight braid, her sharp green eyes glittering with something far worse than malice—curiosity. In her hands, she toyed with a scalpel, its blade catching the flickering light. “Let’s see what makes you tick, Baxter,” she murmured, almost to herself. “For science, of course.”

Their laughter echoed around him, cruel and hollow, as the memory blurred. Maxwell could feel the straps tightening, hear the faint whir of machinery spinning to life. His chest rose and fell rapidly, panic threatening to claw its way through his calm exterior.

He forced himself back to the present, his breath slow and deliberate.

“Pointless luxuries,” he muttered under his breath, his voice steadying as he ran a hand through his white hair. His eyes blinked twice, clearing the ghosts from his vision.

The echo of boots on steel jolted him from his reverie. The sound grew louder, accompanied by the clinking of keys and the sharp bark of a guard’s voice.

“Baxter!” A burly guard appeared at the cell door, his face set in a scowl. Behind him, two more stood ready, their postures stiff and professional. “The warden’s had it with your attitude.”

Maxwell looked up slowly, the faintest smirk curling his lips. He stood with deliberate movements, his hands loosely at his sides. “Took him long enough,” he said, his tone dry.

The guard didn’t reply, stepping forward to grab Maxwell’s arm. The other two moved in to shackle him, the cuffs clicking tightly around his wrists. They yanked him forward, dragging him out of the cell with practiced ease.

As they led him down the dimly lit corridor, the clang of their boots against the grated floor echoed like a funeral march. Maxwell didn’t struggle, didn’t resist. His expression remained impassive, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of something darker—an anticipation, a readiness for whatever awaited him in the depths of Ashgate.

The hallway stretched on, each step taking him further into the unknown, the sterile air growing colder with each passing moment. Somewhere deep inside, a voice whispered—not fear, not regret, but something more primal.

“They think they’ve won… Let them.”

Dean

The morning began with the clang of metal doors sliding open, the symphony of Ashgate’s awakening echoing through the grated levels above and below. The hum of activity was alive—boots stomping, chains rattling, and the murmurs of prisoners falling into their routines. Dean followed Jonathan out of their cell, squinting against the harsh artificial glow of the overhead lights.

“Alright, Matroni,” Jonathan began, his voice laced with sarcasm, “Welcome to your absurd new reality. Here’s the grand tour of your new life.”

Dean raised an eyebrow but stayed quiet, trailing behind Jonathan as they navigated the labyrinthine of corridors and catwalks that made up the various levels of prisoners. The tight collars around their necks gave off faint, intermittent beeps, like insistent reminders of their captivity. Every turn revealed a snippet of prison life—scenes that Jonathan narrated with a tone that swung between indifference and grim amusement.

“First off, our home is separated into eight floors, though these are typically referred to as levels by the guards.” Dean nodded along as Jonthan explained, pointing down. “You got here late, lights were already out, so you probably didn’t notice.” As Jonathan said this, Dean looked down to see that the grated corridors allowed him to see several levels below him. “We can only see five of these floors, with us being on the second. Reserved for new comers and teachers… And sellers.”

“Sellers?” Dean questioned, raising a brow, assuming he was referring to the mules, the inmates who could get their hands on the goods that are traded among the prisoners.

“Sometimes one of the prison investors sends a person here to check the goods. Kind of an undercover inmate.” Jonthan explained catching Dean completely off guard.

{Who the hell would want to do that?} He thought.

“Above us is the first floor, the good boys and girls. Or the fighting champions, pampered with the good life. Movies, books, clicksticks, women, men, children, gold plates.”

“I’m sorry?” Dean squeked.

“The food here is broken into three tiers, Tin is regular prison food, disguesting goop that I wouldn’t be surprised is made of bugs. Silver plates is more normal food. Afforded to the prisoners on good behavior or that make money… And then the gold plates, best of the best by world renoun chefs.” Jonathan said dryly.

“No, you said children?” Dean questioned with his face scrunching.

Jonathan stopped mid-step, his smirk faltering for just a moment before returning with a bitter edge. He glanced over his shoulder at Dean, the humor in his eyes now replaced with a grim shadow. “Yeah, Matroni. I said children. The kind of people who land in this place tend to have… expensive tastes. And the ‘investors’—the ones keeping this hellhole running—they make sure those tastes are met.”

Dean felt his stomach churn. “You’re telling me there are kids here?”

“Not in cells like us, no,” Jonathan replied, his tone low, almost conspiratorial as they passed a group of guards patrolling the catwalks. “But they’re brought in. Quietly. They don’t stay long, though. By the time their ‘clients’ are done, there’s usually not much left to send back.”

Dean’s jaw clenched, his fists curling instinctively. “That’s… that’s sick.”

Jonathan shrugged, his posture casual, but his voice carried the weight of someone long desensitized to the depravity around him. “Welcome to Ashgate, where morality comes to die. You think that’s bad? Wait until you see what the good ol’ doc does to the volunteers.”

Dean shot him a questioning glance, but Jonathan waved it off. “You’ll learn soon enough. For now, let’s keep walking before you make that face in front of the wrong people and end up on someone’s shopping list.”

They continued through the labyrinth of corridors, descending to another level. The grated flooring beneath them clanged with each step, and Dean couldn’t shake the feeling of countless eyes watching them from the shadows. Every now and then, a guard barked orders at a prisoner or slammed a baton against the bars, but most of the inmates seemed to move with the practiced efficiency of people who knew the rules of survival.

They passed a group of inmates huddled around a makeshift table on the side of the walkway. One of them glanced up, his eyes narrowing as he caught sight of Dean. He nudged the man beside him, whispering something that made the others chuckle darkly. Dean’s muscles tensed, but Jonathan grabbed his arm and pulled him along.

“Don’t engage,” Jonathan muttered under his breath. “You’re a drifter. They’re just sizing you up.”

Dean forced himself to keep walking, though his instincts screamed at him to turn back and confront them. “How long until they stop?”

Jonathan snorted. “Depends. If you keep your head down, maybe a few weeks. If you give ‘em a reason, maybe never.”

They rounded a corner, entering a wider corridor lined with cells. The air was heavier here, the smell of sweat and decay mingling with something more acrid. Jonathan gestured toward one of the cells, where an inmate was sitting cross-legged on the floor, his hands folded in his lap. His eyes were half-closed, his lips moving silently as though in prayer.

“That’s Barlow,” Jonathan said. “Used to be a big-shot preacher on the outside. Got caught laundering money for a cult, or so the rumors say. Now he runs his own little congregation here.”

Dean frowned. “What kind of congregation?”

“The desperate kind,” Jonathan replied with a smirk. “He promises salvation, redemption, freedom from this place. All he asks for is loyalty… and a few favors.”

“And people believe him?”

Jonathan shrugged. “When you’re stuck in a place like this, you’ll believe anything if it gives you a shred of hope.”

They moved on, passing more cells and groups of inmates until they reached a small, open area that served as a common room. The atmosphere here was charged, a mix of tension and exhaustion that made Dean’s skin crawl. Inmates played cards at a battered table, while others leaned against the walls, their eyes darting between the guards and the other prisoners.

Jonathan leaned in closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “This is where you figure out who’s who. Alliances, enemies, people to avoid at all costs. You’re new, so you’ve got the luxury of being overlooked—for now. But that won’t last.”

Dean scanned the room, his gaze lingering on a particularly smaller framed man pacing the door to a cell surrounded by larger inmates, both male and female. His head giving a few jerks, obviously on something but also obviously a name in here with the guards and the other inmates Dean glanced in the cell behind him, sparled on the floor. The other inmates around him laughed at something he said, but their laughter carried a nervous edge, as if they were laughing because they had to.

“Who’s that?” Dean asked, nodding toward the man.

Jonathan followed his gaze and chuckled. “That’s Big Mitch. He runs the smuggling ring on this floor—drugs, weapons, information. If you want something, he can get it—for a price. Just don’t cross him. He’s got a temper.”

As Jonathan says this, Dean watches Big Mitch lean back and flex his body as he let out a loud howl that echoed around the common area.

Dean filed the information away, his mind racing as he tried to make sense of the complex web of power and survival that governed this place. Every step he took seemed to uncover another layer of corruption, another reason to hate this prison and the people who ran it.

Jonathan clapped him on the shoulder, breaking him out of his thoughts. “Come on, Matroni. Let’s grab some food. You’ll need your strength if you want to make it through the day.”

---

The mess hall was a cacophony of clattering trays and shouted conversations. Dean observed cliques forming naturally—gangs staking claims at tables, loners sitting tensely on the edges, and the unlucky ones wandering too close to a territory they didn’t belong to. “Stick to the middle ground,” Jonathan advised, nodding toward the chaos. “Too far in any direction, and you’re fair game.” As he said this the two watched an inmate find a tray in his face as one of the groups began jumping him.

Passing through the serving line, an inmate with a hair net and a brown jumpsuit placed a few bits of slop on a pair of plates that Dean and Jonathan grabbed.

“Three meals a day with minor flavorful differences,” Jonathan sarcastically smirked. “You’d think being in the ocean we’d get some fish. Mabye squid. But that’s reserved for siler and gold plates.”

Taking a seat near the center of the canteen, Dean picked up the moldy-looking slick goop with his plastic spoon, but it appeared stringy and had pieces of fuzz mixed in spuradically, causing him to drop it, staring in disguest.

“Yep.” Jonathan said with a good bellow of laughter. “You’ll get used to it before long. Give it a few days and you’ll be swallowing.”

---

After eating, Jonathan continued their tour, further along, they passed the dimly lit communal showers, where two inmates were locked in a brutal scuffle over stolen soap. Fists flew in quick, wet slaps against bare skin. Dean tensed at the sight, but Jonathan simply leaned against the wall, nodding as if ticking off a box. “Standard morning entertainment,” he muttered. “Notice our cell and the cistern here are the only non-grated flooring around here.”

“Why’s that?” Dean asked, expecting that Jonathan was boating the question from him only to be met with a shrug.

Overhead, guards patrolled the second layer of catwalks with a deliberate rhythm, their heavy boots thudding in sharp contrast to the restless shuffle of prisoners below. Dean glanced up, his gaze following a pair of guards as they scanned the crowd with thinly veiled disdain. “They think they’re gods up there,” Jonathan remarked dryly. “But with strange aeons even death may die.”

The scenes blurred together, the monotony of prison life settling over Dean like a heavy fog. Yet, each moment etched itself into his mind, the unspoken rules of Ashgate becoming clearer with every step.

As they emerged into the gloom, the slang for the yard, the expanse of grated floors stretched out around them. The light filtering down from the uppermost levels was weak, dulled by the haze of clouds above and the layers of steel that rose overhead. The air carried a sharp tang of salt and rust, a constant reminder of their prison’s oceanic perch.

Dean tilted his head upward, squinting against the muted light as he studied the upper levels. The open sky beyond the grates felt close yet tauntingly out of reach. Two thin grated walkways, crisscrossing the air above, led to a twenty-foot wall topped with coiled razor wire. The wall itself, though imposing, didn’t seem particularly thick. Dean’s mind raced, his ‘tousia stirring faintly within him as he considered the possibilities.

He flexed his fingers instinctively, his body already envisioning the explosions he could create. The grates, the walkways, the wall—it wasn’t the most daunting obstacle he’d ever faced. He imagined the satisfying roar of steel crumpling and the sky breaking open, his path to freedom carved through fire and force.

Jonathan interrupted his thoughts with a low chuckle. “Don’t bother, Matroni,” he said, following Dean’s gaze. “Every drifter dreams of the sky for the first few weeks. It’ll pass.”

Dean shot him a sidelong glance. “Not sure you’ve noticed, but I’m not exactly the average ‘drifter.’”

Jonathan smirked, continuing their walk, leading Dean up a stariway on the south side of the gloom. “Oh, I noticed. But even you can’t blow through what comes next.” He gestured toward the grated ceiling with a lazy wave of his hand. “See those walkways? There’s guards on rotation, twenty-four-seven. And the moment you so much as twitch wrong, those collars will make sure you’re done.”

Dean didn’t respond immediately, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the walkways again, now finding himself on a lower one. He could make out faint figures pacing along the grates, their movements mechanical, hammered into them from training. His collar beeped softly, a sharp reminder of its presence. He rolled his shoulders, pushing back the dizziness it caused, and turned his gaze back to the sky.

“Still doesn’t seem impossible,” Dean murmured, half to himself.

Jonathan let out a soft laugh, his voice carrying a mix of pity and amusement. “Don’t let it eat you alive. The sky ain’t going anywhere, but you might. Focus on what’s right in front of you. The walkways we have are merely seven feet above the gloom, no one knows exactly what they’re meant for but we use them for ‘vantage points, to watch the yard or,” waving over to another walkways where a group rests, talking amongst eachother, one letting out a healthy laugh. “Chokepoints.”

Dean gave Jonathan a questioning look before asking, “The fuck is a chokepoint?”

“Chokepoints are the usual places for jawbreakers.” Jonathan said matter a fact, but giving out a small sigh at Dean’s continued confusion. “Jawbreakers are fights that are specifically meant to send a message. The stairs or the cisterns are usual chokepoints.” Taking a moment to take something out of his pocket, they watched as the inmate on the other walkway who had been laughing just previously was attacked by one of the members in his circle before the whole group quickly joined in, beating him. “Never go in neither alone or you’ll be seen as a Driftwood… Someone aimless.. looking to be swept away by the tide of trouble.”

Before Dean could reply, a sudden hiss of hydraulics cut through the levels of the gloom. His attention snapped downward, toward a heavy door on a lower level grinding open on the west side. A handful of guards stepped out, flanking a small procession of inmates. Their collars beeped in unison as they shuffled forward.

“That,” Jonathan said, nodding toward the commotion, “are the hollows making their debut. Inmates in solitary. They get gloom time every few days, on rotation, but they usually look fairly broken down, hence…”

Dean’s eyes followed the group as they moved into the yard, his gaze lingering on a man with strikingly pale features. The prisoner’s hair was bleach-blond, bordering on white, and his red eyes glinted faintly in the dim light. He carried himself with a detached calm, his movements deliberate and unhurried.

As the man stepped further into the yard, his gaze lifted, locking directly onto Dean’s. The intensity of it was like a blade, sharp and unyielding. Dean felt the weight of those crimson eyes before Jonathan’s voice broke through the moment.

“That’s the Red Surgeon,” Jonathan said, his tone suddenly devoid of humor. “Best stay out of his way.”

Dean leaned casually against the railing of their walkway, his eyes following the commotion a few levels below. The gloom buzzed with energy, the noise bouncing off steel walls and grated floors in a chaotic symphony of voices, footsteps, and distant clangs. Jonathan stood beside him, arms crossed, his expression torn between amusement and mild disdain with a white stick now resting in his mouth as they both watched the scene unfold.

Suddenly, a loud nasally voice echoed past the other inmates as a man arrived at the bottom of the steps from one of the walks on the fifth level. “A’ight, listen up! All you so-called white people!”

Peaking both Dean’s and Jonathan’s attention, though for separate reasons. “And we have a stitcher.” Jonathan breathed, a bit of smoke escaping his nostrils. “One of the guards are using him for entertainment. Probably Polar.”

“Always thinkin’ you own the damn world! But I’m here to tell y’all it’s different in here! Y’all think y’re safe but imma teach you!” The slim black man called out loud enough for all the levels to hear him.

“Thought you said the new inmates are all found up here? He was on the plane with me, got here just last night.” Dean questioned.

“Like I said, Polar likes to do this sort of thing from time to time. Drags a drifter to the lower levels to tangle with the Gravestones.”

Dean can only assume why they’re called Gravestones, but he’s sure it’s likely something to do with death.

As Xubruce continues his racial rant, Jonathan gives a shrug before blowing out a puff of smoke and saying as he rolls his neck, letting out a series of cracks. “Skin don’t mean much here. I’ve heard other prisons are separated based on that. This ain’t like you’re average prison. Cliques aren’t about race or even some dumb ideology. It’s all abilities and experience. Who’s got the most power, who’s survived the longest—those are the only things that really count. Small groups come and go, nothing ever really stays group wise. Best to get yourself set up with a few characters and work your way around everyone.”

Dean nodded absently, his gaze fixed on the lissom figure of Xubruse strutting along the floor three levels below. The man’s loud voice carried sporadically upward, rising above the background noise just enough for them to catch snippets of his rant.

“My people built kingdoms while y’all were still crawlin’ in the dirt! My people taught you how to bath!”

Jonathan snorted. “That’s a new one.” Releasing a small puff of smoke as another man on their level approached from the side.

“You can always tell the new guys—they get real loud, try to make a name for themselves fast.” A man with shallow cheeks and dark circles under his eyes said. “Doesn’t usually work out the way they think it will.”

Dean tilted his head slightly, ignoring the new inmate. “What’s his deal?”

Jonathan shrugged. “Who knows? Probably got something to prove. Bet you a week of trays he’s dead or in solitary by the end of the day.”

Neither Dean nor the new inmate didn’t take the bet. Instead, he continued watching as Xubruse spun around, addressing the yard like he was giving a sermon. Stopping and starring at a figure with pale hair, Jonathan shook his head.

“You sittin’ there like some kinda demon king, with your freak-ass eyes and that dead-man stare.” He said stepping closer to the Red Surgeon.

But the man remained rooted in his place, having not moved too far from the hydraulic doors that he came from.

Dean leaned forward slightly, his interest piqued. “That pale guy—what’s his story?”

Jonathan let out a low whistle as the new inmate explained. “Maxwell Baxter. They call him the Red Surgeon. He’s not like the rest of us. Hell, some say he’s not even human anymore. If you’re smart, you’ll keep your distance.”

Dean frowned as Jonathan let out another puff of smoke. “And if you’re not?”

Maxwell’s hand shot out suddenly with terrifying precision, gripping Xubruse’s wrist. The wiry man tried to pull away, his bravado replaced with visible panic as his arm convulsed. Maxwell’s other hand rested gently on Xubruse’s chest, his movements almost tender in contrast to the agony painted across Xubruse’s face.

The yard fell into stunned silence as Xubruse suddenly gagged, a wet, choking sound escaping his throat. His body spasmed violently before collapsing to his knees. A thin trickle of blood seeped from the corner of his mouth, pooling on the grated floor. Maxwell stood slowly, his crimson eyes scanning the crowd, his expression as calm as ever.

From above, Dean and Jonathan and stranger exchanged a glance. Dean’s brow furrowed as he leaned closer to the railing, trying to make sense of what he’d just witnessed.

“What the hell did he do to him?” Dean asked, his voice low.

Jonathan shook his head. “Whatever it was, you don’t wanna be on the receiving end of it.”

The stranger gave a small chuckle, saying, “Dude has seemingly total control over a persons body.”

Dean’s gaze remained fixed on Maxwell as two guards approached the pale-haired man. Unlike the chaos that usually erupted after a fight, they didn’t rush in with batons drawn. Instead, they stopped a few feet away, their postures hesitant.

“And just like the rest of us,” Jonathan muttered. “They’re scared of him. One of the only inmates in here that require a Dog to follow him at all times.”

Dean didn’t reply, his mind racing as he tried to piece together what he’d just witnessed. Below, Maxwell turned away from the fallen Xubruse, his crimson eyes flicking up to meet Dean’s once more. For a brief moment, the two men locked gazes, and Dean felt an unsettling chill creep up his spine.

“Yeah,” The stranger said quietly, as though reading Dean’s thoughts. “Welcome to Ashgate.”

Dean’s eyes lingered on the unsettling figure of Maxwell Baxter as the man walked away, leaving Xubruse crumpled on the grated floor. The faint metallic clanging of his boots against the steel reverberated upward, mingling with the hushed murmurs of the surrounding inmates. The spectacle left an impression on everyone watching—but it was clear this wasn’t the first time Maxwell had made such an example of someone.

The stranger beside Jonathan let out a low, knowing chuckle. “Maxwell doesn’t do things without reason. That fool—” he motioned toward Xubruse, who was now being dragged away by a pair of guards—“must’ve really annoyed him.”

Dean finally turned toward the man. “And who the hell are you?”

The stranger smirked faintly, tipping an invisible hat. “Walter B. Stokes. And no, before you ask, no relation to your pal here.” He gestured toward Jonathan, who snorted at the mention.

“Not even close,” Jonathan quipped, rolling his eyes. “This guy’s all class and manners. Me? I’m the better Stokes.”

Walter chuckled, his tone smooth and unhurried. “Better at running your mouth, perhaps.” His sharp features held a distinct refinement, his clean-cut appearance and carefully tailored demeanor standing out starkly against the rough edges of Ashgate. His clothes were noticeably cleaner than most, his posture upright, almost regal. Neatly combed back hair and of slender, almost sickly physique.

Dean crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow. “And what’s your deal, Walter? You seem… different.”

Walter smiled, the kind of smile one might expect from a practiced negotiator. “Oh, I’m many things to many people. But primarily, I’m someone who listens—a rare commodity in a place like this.” He glanced toward Jonathan with an amused expression. “Your friend here could probably use my services, but he’s far too stubborn.”

Jonathan scoffed. “Don’t need therapy from the likes of you, Walter. I’m doing just fine.”

“Of course you are,” Walter replied smoothly, his voice carrying a hint of dry humor. “But others aren’t so fortunate. In a place like Ashgate, a listening ear can be a lifeline. Guards, inmates, anyone willing to talk—I make it my business to understand them.”

Dean leaned back slightly, studying Walter. “So, you’re what? A therapist for hire?”

Walter spread his hands in a mock display of humility. “You could say that. But I prefer the term ‘facilitator.’ I bridge gaps, smooth over conflicts, and provide a little clarity in the chaos.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “And what’s in it for you?”

Walter’s smile turned faintly wry. “Let’s just say I’ve learned that survival here isn’t about brute strength or violence. It’s about influence. And information is power.”

Jonathan took a long drag from his stick, exhaling a thin plume of smoke before pointing it at Walter. “He’s not lying. Walter here knows everyone’s business—guards, inmates, even some of the investors. If there’s a secret in Ashgate, he probably knows it.”

Dean tilted his head, his interest piqued despite himself. “And you’re just… handing that information out?”

“Not quite,” Walter said, his tone soft but firm. “Information is currency, and I don’t deal in charity. But, I’m also not unreasonable. If you need help, and you’re willing to pay the price, I might just have what you’re looking for.”

Before Dean could respond, a commotion to their left drew their attention. A small figure darted through the crowd, her blonde hair wild and her fists clenched. It was Sydney, her prison jumpsuit slightly disheveled as she charged at a much larger inmate with reckless abandon.

“What the hell is she doing?” Dean muttered, leaning forward to get a better look.

Jonathan let out a bark of laughter. “Looks like Blondie’s decided to make a statement. Let’s see how that works out for her.”

Walter’s expression shifted, his brow furrowing as he watched Sydney throw a poorly aimed punch at the larger man. “A woman? In here? And already picking fights? This won’t end well.”

Dean couldn’t help but crack a smile as she yelled at the larger, heavily tatted inmate. “You’re nothing but a punk who probably cried for his mommy the second he got locked up! You think those inked-up arms mean anything? Pathetic.”

“Ten to one she gets her ass handed to her,” Jonathan said, grinning as he leaned against the railing.

Dean smirked. “I’m not taking that bet. She’s got guts, though.”

Walter, however, shook his head, his tone disapproving. “Guts won’t save her from a beating. Someone should step in.”

As if on cue, Sydney lunged at the man, clocking him with a haymaker strong enough to make his teeth clink, a sound that could be heared echoing through the levels of the gloom.

Jonathan chuckled darkly. “I’ll give her this—she’s got spirit. Stupid, reckless spirit, but spirit.”

Dean’s laughter joined his, though it carried an edge of unease. “She’ll learn. Everyone does.”

Walter’s frown deepened as Sydney hit the floor and was mounted by the tatted man who proceeded to wail-on her. “At what cost? There’s no honor in letting this happen.”

Jonathan waved him off. “Honor doesn’t mean shit here, Walt. You know that as well as anyone.”

Walter gave a disagreeing “Hmph.”

“She’ll be fine,” Jonathan said dismissively, turning away. “Probably. Come on, Matroni. Let’s finish the tour before someone decides you’re the next entertainment.”

Dean hesitated, glancing back at Sydney as she laid beaten and bloody on the ground as the inmate that she had attacked was now being brutally beaten by several guards. Her defiance lingered in his mind, a flicker of rebellion in the heart of Ashgate’s oppressive chaos. Then, with a small shake of his head, he followed Jonathan, leaving the gloom’s chaos behind.

---

Jonathan led Dean through a narrow corridor, its grated floor rattling faintly under their boots. The air was heavier here, tinged with the sour stench of burning chemicals and metal. Faint orange light spilled out from a distant doorway, flickering like the breath of a beast lying in wait.

“Welcome to the Inferno,” Jonathan said, gesturing ahead with a theatrical wave. “Where Ashgate’s fine labor force makes the magic happen. Or so the guards like to pretend.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, his instincts prickling as they stepped into the cavernous room. The Inferno was a sprawling industrial space, its walls lined with ancient, rusting machinery that looked barely functional. Overhead pipes hissed and groaned, leaking steam that mingled with the haze of smoke and chemical fumes. Inmates moved about in slow, methodical rhythms, their faces slick with sweat and streaked with grime.

The noise was oppressive—a constant dissonance of clanging metal, the hum of generators, and the distant hiss of torches. Dean’s gaze darted to the various workstations scattered throughout. Some inmates pounded on metal sheets with improvised hammers, while others poured viscous liquids into molds, their faces twisted in concentration.

“This is where they keep the drones,” Jonathan said, his voice raised to be heard over the din. “Not the literal kind, though I wouldn’t put it past ZerdinTech. These are the inmates too broken or dumb to know better than to follow orders.”

Dean scanned the room, his eyes settling on a line of inmates feeding scrap metal into a hulking machine that spat out razor-edged fragments. Their collars beeped faintly, a subtle rhythm that matched their subdued, mechanical movements.

“They actually make us work here?” Dean asked, his voice laced with disbelief.

“Not everyone,” Jonathan replied with a smirk. “Just the ones who owe favors, pissed off the wrong people, or don’t have enough brain cells to argue. But it’s not all bad. The Inferno’s also where you’ll find the fences.”

Dean frowned. “Fences?”

“Minor ones,” Jonathan clarified. “People who can get you the small stuff. Clicksticks, maybe a pack of ramen or a fizzler if you’re lucky. This place may look like hell, but it’s where a lot of deals get done. Desperate people will pay a lot to make this shitshow more tolerable.”

As they walked, Jonathan gestured toward a corner where a wiry inmate leaned against a stack of crates. His face was gaunt, his eyes sunken, but a sly grin tugged at his lips. He held a small pouch in one hand, shaking it slightly as another inmate approached, their voices low but animated.

“That’s Fletch,” Jonathan said. “A runner. Moves contraband around the prison. He’s good if you’re looking for smokes or something to trade, but don’t expect anything too flashy.”

Dean gave a faint nod, his attention shifting as they passed another group. This one was huddled around a makeshift table cobbled together from scraps of steel. The air around them was thick with the sharp, chemical scent of something being cooked. Dean’s nose wrinkled as he watched one of them carefully pour a neon-blue liquid into a series of tiny vials.

“Drugs,” Jonathan said, his tone neutral. “Mostly painkillers or something to keep you up during a long shift. But every now and then, someone tries to make something a little more… fun.”

“And the guards let this slide?” Dean asked, his skepticism evident.

Jonathan shrugged. “Depends on the guard. Some turn a blind eye for a cut. Some crack heads the moment they catch a whiff. Either way, someone’s always cooking. It’s the only way some of these guys can survive this place. Most understand that and let it happen. They know how hard it is and when we’re doped we can’t do much against them, not that most of us would try anyways.”

They moved deeper into the Inferno, the heat intensifying with every step. Dean’s shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat. The punitive environment bore down on him, each breath feeling heavier than the last. Jonathan, by contrast, seemed unfazed, his hands tucked casually into his pockets as he navigated the chaos.

“Over there,” Jonathan said, nodding toward a shadowy corner. A lone figure stood, their back to the room, working on something at a small workstation. The rhythmic tap-tap-tap of a hammer against metal echoed faintly through the din.

“Who’s that?” Dean asked.

“Vick,” Jonathan said. “She’s quiet, but she’s got a knack for fixing things. If you ever need something repaired—shivs, locks, even collars—she’s your girl. Just don’t expect her to chat.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, watching as Vick adjusted the goggles perched on her face and continued working with laser focus. Her hands moved deftly, assembling a small device that Dean couldn’t quite make out.

“Impressive,” he muttered.

“Yeah, she’s one of the few in here with a brain,” Jonathan replied. “Which is why the guards like to keep her busy. They’re not above exploiting talent when it suits them.”

As they rounded another corner, they nearly collided with a guard. He was broad-shouldered, his uniform stretched taut across his chest, and his baton rested casually against his shoulder. A smirk played on his lips as he eyed Jonathan and Dean.

“Well, if it isn’t Stokes and a new guy,” the guard drawled. “Enjoying the sights?”

“Just giving him the grand tour, Polar,” Jonathan said smoothly, his tone laced with sarcasm.

Polar’s smirk widened. “Good. Maybe he’ll learn something useful before he gets himself killed.” His eyes flicked to Dean, cold and assessing. “You got a death wish, Two-Fifty-Six? Or are you just stupid enough to think you’ll survive this place?”

Dean met Polar’s gaze evenly, his jaw tightening. “Guess we’ll find out.”

Polar chuckled, tapping his baton against the grated floor. “Careful, newbie. Confidence has a funny way of turning into arrogance. And arrogance? That’s just another word for dead.”

Without waiting for a response, the guard turned and strode away, his heavy boots echoing against the metal.

“Charming guy,” Dean muttered.

Jonathan smirked. “Polar’s not the worst of them, believe it or not. But he’s definitely someone you don’t wanna piss off. He’s got a way of making people disappear. He’s the one I suspect that sent that new guy down to level five to die. Probably told him to start a fight too.”

“Why?” Dean questioned only to be met by a shrug from Jonathan as he led the drifter through another grated corridor, the sound of their footsteps blending into the constant hum of Ashgate’s machinery. The path ahead was dimly lit, the sparse overhead lights casting long shadows that danced across the walls. The scent of stale air mixed with something metallic lingered, a constant reminder of the prison’s oppressive atmosphere.

“It’s about time for lunch,” Jonathan said, stretching his arms lazily as if the grime-coated surroundings were a five-star hotel. “It’s the closest thing you’ll find to a social club in here. Just don’t expect decent conversation.”

Dean followed, his gaze wandering as they passed more groups of inmates. Some leaned against the walls, trading low whispers, while others huddled in tight circles, their eyes darting around like prey wary of predators. It was a strange, tense ecosystem, one that Dean was still piecing together.

They rounded a corner, and Dean’s steps faltered. Above them, a massive, circular structure loomed—an enclosed platform surrounded by reinforced glass walls. At its center, faint shadows moved, silhouetted by the glow of monitors and faint blue light.

“What’s that?” Dean asked, tilting his head as he stared up at the strange tower.

Jonathan glanced up, his expression momentarily darkening. “That, my friend, is the Crow’s Nest. An observation room, set up like a Panopticon.”

“A what now?” Dean asked, raising an eyebrow.

Jonathan smirked, shaking his head. “You’re not much of a reader, are you? Alright, let me break it down. A Panopticon is a type of surveillance setup. The whole idea is that whoever’s inside it can see everything, but you can’t see them. It’s all about control—making you feel like you’re always being watched, even when no one’s paying attention.”

Dean squinted at the structure, his jaw tightening. “So, they’re just sitting up there, watching us like we’re rats in a cage?”

Jonathan let out a low chuckle. “More like puppets on strings. That’s where all the camera feeds go, along with the real-time monitoring. Guards sit up there, drinking bad coffee and deciding who gets to live another day.”

Dean frowned, his gaze lingering on the glowing platform. “That’s… unsettling.”

Jonathan shrugged. “Welcome to Ashgate. If the collars don’t remind you who’s in charge, that thing sure will.” He started walking again, motioning for Dean to follow. “And before you ask—yeah, there are cameras everywhere. Even in places you wouldn’t expect. You’d be amazed how many poor bastards get caught sneaking shivs into their cells because they thought a blind spot existed.”

Dean followed reluctantly, his eyes drifting back to the Panopticon as they moved further down the corridor. He could feel its presence, like an omniscient eye boring into the back of his skull. It wasn’t just the physical structure—it was the idea of it. The knowledge that someone, somewhere, was always watching.

“You ever been up there?” Dean asked as they turned another corner.

Jonathan barked out a laugh. “Me? Hell no. That’s reserved for the guards and their techies. Even if you could get close, those doors are reinforced like a damn vault. Trust me, nobody’s getting in—or out—without their permission.”

Dean grunted, his fists clenching briefly at his sides. The thought of being so utterly powerless gnawed at him, a sharp reminder of just how far he’d fallen. But he pushed it down, filing the information away for later. Every system had a flaw, and Dean Matroni was nothing if not a man who found them.

As they approached the canteen, the sound of voices grew louder, a discordant blend of chatter, arguments, and laughter. A rackety of clattering trays, shouted conversations, and the low hum of tension that permeated every corner of Ashgate. Dean and Jonathan found a spot at a dented steel table near the center of the room, their food trays offering a sad assortment of unidentifiable slop and a stale frozen moldy piece of bread.

Dean poked at his food with his spoon, the prison offered the inmates no forks or even sporks, his eyes scanning the room before landing back on Jonathan. “Alright, Stokes. Spill it. How’d that Surgeon guy manage to do… whatever the hell that was? Aren’t these collars supposed to stop us from using powers?”

Jonathan took a slow bite of his bread, chewing thoughtfully before answering. “They are. For most of us, anyway.” He glanced at Dean, a sly grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But there’s always exceptions to the rule, mate. Some folks are just so damn attuned to their abilities—or just plain powerful—that the collars can’t completely shut them down.”

Dean leaned back slightly, raising an eyebrow. “So what? The guy’s just so good at heart-popping that the collar lets him slide?”

Jonathan chuckled dryly, leaning forward as he lowered his voice. “Let me give you a little education in Ashgate’s finest, Matroni. Take Mitchel Carradine, for example. Poor bastard flakes skin like a bad case of dandruff, but his flakes? They’re like crack—literally. People lose their damn minds sniffing it. Doesn’t even have to try, the stuff just falls off him naturally. Collar can’t stop that.”

Dean wrinkled his nose. “That’s disgusting.”

“Yeah, well, welcome to the freakshow,” Jonathan said with a shrug. “Then there’s Cupcakes.”

Dean blinked. “Cupcakes?”

Jonathan nodded. “Real name’s God-knows-what, but that’s what everyone calls him. Big guy, kinda quiet. His ‘tousia lets him grow these little pastry-like things—look and taste just like cupcakes. He trades ’em for favors, clicks, whatever he needs.”

Dean snorted, barely suppressing a laugh. “You’re telling me there’s a guy in here baking cupcakes with his bare hands? That’s gotta be the most—”

“Don’t say it,” Jonathan warned, though his smirk betrayed his amusement.

“Gay,” Dean finished, a grin spreading across his face. “That’s the most gay thing I’ve ever heard.”

Jonathan shook his head, his tone mock-serious. “You laugh now, but wait until you see the line of guys begging for one of his pastries. Even the toughest bastards in here’ll trade their mother for a taste.”

Dean leaned back against the cold metal bench, letting out a short laugh. “Alright, so there’s a crack-flaking guy and a cupcake-baking guy. But what’s the deal with the Surgeon? Why didn’t the guards throw him in solitary or beat the crap outta him for killing that loudmouth?”

Jonathan’s grin faded slightly, his eyes darkening. “Maxwell Baxter doesn’t get punished like the rest of us. He’s got… a reputation. Whatever his story is, the guards are just as afraid of him as the inmates are. You saw how they handled him—like he’s a damn bomb waiting to go off.”

Dean frowned, turning his attention back to his untouched food. “So what? He’s untouchable?”

“More like they don’t wanna poke the bear unless they have to,” Jonathan replied. “Rumor is, they’ve got plans for him—something down in the lower levels. Until then, they let him do his thing.”

Dean chewed on that for a moment, his mind working as he mulled over Jonathan’s words. The Surgeon, the collars, the powers, the unisex—Ashgate was turning out to be even stranger than he’d imagined.

“Stick to the middle ground,” Jonathan said, breaking Dean’s thoughts. “Remember that. This place’s got enough crazies without you trying to poke your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Dean glanced at Jonathan, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Middle ground, huh? Doesn’t sound like my style.”

Jonathan laughed, leaning back in his seat. “Yeah, I figured as much. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you, Matroni.”

As Dean and Jonathan finished their conversation, the ambient chaos of the canteen was interrupted by a figure approaching their table. He was a thin, stringy man with bleached-blond hair, shaved close on the sides but long enough on top to curl awkwardly. His movements were jittery but purposeful, not too far from a snake on speed, his sharp eyes darting around the room like a bird scanning for predators. He wore the same prison uniform as everyone else, but his collar was caked with faint smudges of powdered sugar, a hint of his peculiar trade.

In each hand, he held a small, perfectly-formed cupcake—frosted and everything. The juxtaposition of the dainty pastries in such a grim setting was almost surreal.

“Yo,” the man said, his voice a rapid-fire drawl that was both intense and oddly melodic. “You boys new? I’m Cupcakes. Welcome to my domain. First one’s free, after that, you’re payin’. Take it or leave it.”

Dean stared at the cupcakes for a moment, then up at the man, raising an eyebrow. “You gotta be kidding me.”

Cupcakes narrowed his eyes, leaning forward slightly. “Do I look like I’m kidding, boy? These ain’t your cafeteria slop. This is premium-grade, gourmet-ass treats. Don’t act like you’re above it.”

Dean snorted, smirking. “Gourmet-ass treats? In here? You running some kind of prison bakery now? What’s next, you gonna make me a candlelit dinner?”

Jonathan stiffened slightly, a warning look in his eye, but Cupcakes didn’t back down. Instead, his jittery energy exploded.

“Bitch, I’ll kill you!” he shouted, his voice cracking as he thrust a cupcake at Dean like it was a weapon. “You don’t even know who you’re talking to! I’m the reason half these fools don’t rip each other apart every damn day. You wanna play games with me?”

The sudden outburst drew attention. Dean looked around and noticed several inmates standing up or shifting their weight, their eyes fixed on him. These weren’t just random prisoners—these were loyalists, people who clearly saw Cupcakes as more than just a baker.

One particularly burly inmate cracked his knuckles, his glare boring into Dean as if daring him to say another word. Another leaned against a wall, casually flipping a shiv between his fingers. The room felt heavier, the tension rising with every passing second.

Dean raised his hands slightly, feigning innocence. “Alright, alright. Chill out, Cupcake. Didn’t mean to ruffle your frosting.”

Cupcakes glared at him for another moment before pulling back, his energy still crackling but controlled. He shoved a cupcake onto Dean’s tray and muttered, “You’ll thank me later,” before walking off in a series of sharp, twitchy movements.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Dean leaned toward Jonathan, his voice low. “What the hell was that?”

Jonathan smirked, shaking his head. “That, Matroni, is why I told you not to underestimate Cupcakes. He’s got more backup than the guards in this place. You’d better eat that cupcake—or at least pretend to—unless you wanna be on their bad side.”

Dean looked down at the pristine pastry, the absurdity of the situation making him laugh under his breath. “This place just keeps getting weirder.”

Jonathan chuckled, leaning back in his seat. “Welcome to Ashgate, my friend.”

The canteen’s dull hum of conversation was suddenly drowned out by the crackle of the intercom system. The familiar, grating voice of Major Gordon filled the room, laced with the same cold authority that had greeted them on arrival.

“All new inmates,” Gordon’s voice barked, “are required to participate in tonight’s rounds of Ultimate Prison Fighter. Details are irrelevant; your participation is mandatory. Guards will provide further instruction if needed. That is all.”

The intercom clicked off, leaving a heavy silence in its wake. Around the room, heads turned toward the new arrivals, a mix of pity and amusement flashing across the faces of seasoned inmates. Dean glanced toward the guards stationed along the walls, their expressions stony and unreadable.

One of the other new inmates—a wavy man with shaky hands and a nervous energy—stepped toward a guard, his voice trembling as he asked, “Excuse me, sir, can you—”

The response was swift and brutal. Without hesitation, the guard jammed a tazer into the man’s side, sending him convulsing to the grated floor. He writhed in pain, gasping as the crackle of electricity subsided. The guard leaned down, his voice low but dripping with malice. “Don’t ask questions.”

Dean’s jaw tightened, his gaze shifting back to Jonathan, who shook his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

“Classic rookie move,” Jonathan muttered, stabbing at his food with his fork. “They don’t want to hear from you unless you’re bleeding or dying. Even then, it’s a gamble.”

“What the hell is this fight about?” Dean asked, his voice low.

Jonathan leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms. “It’s just a sparring night. Nothing big. They throw the fresh meat into the ring to see who’s got any bite. No major fighters, no names anyone knows. It’s mostly for show.”

Dean frowned. “And if I don’t?”

“You don’t get a choice.” Jonathan chuckled, his tone dry. “They’ll come grab you right after lights out. Lock the cells, then march you down to the pits. Standard procedure.”

“And on bigger nights?” Dean pressed.

Jonathan shrugged. “That’s where the real action is. The twenty-seventh of every month—unless the Warden’s feeling dramatic, then it might be postponed a few days. They bring out the heavy hitters. Big names, big powers, real bloodbaths. Rules depend on the match type, but usually… anything goes.”

Dean’s mind was already racing, piecing together what little he’d seen of the facility. “Can I use my ’tousia?” he asked, feigning nonchalance.

Jonathan smirked. “Oh, you can. They’ll turn the dampeners off in the ring. It’s part of the show. But be smart about it. They’re watching for what you can do—and how much of a threat you might be.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed as his thoughts churned. The fights weren’t just entertainment; they were a test. A way for the Warden and his goons to size up the inmates, to see who could be controlled and who needed breaking.

Jonathan leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Don’t overthink it, mate. Just get in, throw a few punches, and get out. No one’s expecting a masterpiece tonight.”

Dean nodded, but his mind was far from the conversation. His focus was on the fights, on the dampeners, on the possibility of using his ’tousia without restriction. A glint of determination sparked in his dark eyes.

Jonathan chuckled again, shaking his head as if he could read Dean’s thoughts. “Welcome to Ashgate, my friend.”

Sydney

After Major Gordon’s introduction speech, the guards barked orders, corralling the new inmates into a sterile intake chamber. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, their harsh glow reflecting off cold steel walls that seemed to close in around them. A line of figures—guards and some seated inmates—watched impassively from the shadows beyond a grated divider.

“Strip,” a female guard ordered, her tone sharp, devoid of any humanity.

Sydney froze, her throat tightening. “What?” she managed, her voice trembling despite her attempt to sound assertive.

“You heard me,” the guard snapped, stepping closer. Her baton tapped ominously against her palm. “Clothes off. Now.”

Sydney’s eyes darted around the room, her pulse quickening. Beyond the divider, she caught sight of inmates leering, their predatory gazes fixed on her as if she were some kind of spectacle. A knot formed in her stomach, hot and twisting. Her thoughts raced. {This can’t be happening. Elenai help me, this isn’t real. What did I do to deserve this? I didn’t even do anything!}

Another guard shoved her forward, the motion forcing her into the center of the room. “Don’t make us repeat ourselves, blondie.”

Her cheeks burned with humiliation as she hesitated, her fingers fumbling with the edges of her prison-issued shirt. Every movement felt like an eternity as she peeled it off, exposing her skin to the cold air and the even colder stares of her onlookers. She crossed her arms over her chest instinctively, her breath shallow and rapid.

“Everything,” the female guard barked, smirking faintly at Sydney’s pathetic attempt to shield herself. “We don’t do half-measures here.”

Sydney’s hands shook as she removed the rest of the coarse jumpsuit, her bare feet scraping against the grated floor. The steel beneath her toes was unforgiving, the chill seeping into her bones. She stood there, stripped of her dignity, stripped of her defense, the bristly hairs on her arms standing upright as her skin prickled with a mix of shame and fear. The muffled laughter of the inmates beyond the divider grated against her ears.

“Look at her,” one inmate called, his voice full of mockery. “Bet she’s a real tough one, huh?”

Another joined in, his voice oozing sarcasm. “Blondie’s first day, and she’s already the highlight reel.”

Sydney’s eyes stung with unshed tears, but she blinked them away furiously. {Don’t cry. Don’t let them see you cry. You’re stronger than this. You have to be stronger than this.}

The female guard circled her slowly, looking her up and down with clinical disinterest. She gestured to another guard, who approached with a handheld scanner. He waved it over Sydney’s body, the device emitting faint beeps as it passed.

“Spread ’em,” the female guard ordered, her tone brisk and impatient.

Sydney hesitated, her body trembling. “I—”

“Do it, inmate,” the guard snarled, her voice cutting through Sydney’s protest like a blade, her eyes showing a delight in her torture of the girl. “You want to spend your first night in the crowded rooms? A bunch of other inmates instead of a celly?”

Humiliation coursed through her veins as she complied, spreading her legs slightly and raising her arms. The scanner traced over her body again, pausing at her ankles and wrists. The guard’s gloved hands followed, roughly patting her down with no regard for decency or consent. Sydney flinched at the invasive touch, bile rising in her throat.

{This is dehumanizing. This is… this is hell. They can’t do this. They can’t treat me like this. I didn’t even do anything… Please, save me father.”}

When the search was finally over, the guard tossed a bundle of fabric at her. “Get dressed. And hurry up.”

The thin grey jumpsuit offered no comfort as she pulled it on, her movements jittery and shaky, her mind numb. She avoided the eyes of the guards, of the inmates, of anyone. A metalic collar-like device, specially designed with a serial number etched on it, gave a small buzz from around her neck as she zipped up the suit, the subtle vibration a constant reminder of her status here: powerless.

After nearly an hour of intaking all the new prisoners, a total of twenty prisoners went through the same process, with all the others being men of various shapes and sizes. They were finally turned and marched through a series of dimly-lit corridors, the walk hurt Sydney’s feet, being more accustomed to nicely etched woodfloors rather than the indented grated flooring that the prison’s walkways were mostly made of.

The noise of prison life slamming into her senses like a tidal wave. Voices ricocheted off the steel walls, a discordant symphony of catcalls, jeers, and laughter. The grated floors reverberated with the constant thrum of restless activity. Inmates lounged against the bars of their cells or pressed their faces between them, their eyes glinting with a mix of curiosity and malice as they watched the newcomers.

“Fresh meat!” a voice bellowed from above, drawing raucous laughter.

“Hey, blondie! Hope you like company!” another inmate shouted, his leering grin visible through the bars.

“Good Elenai, let me get between those tits!” another voice echoed, her source unknown.

Sydney clenched her jaw, keeping her eyes locked on the ground. Her pulse hammered in her ears, each step forward feeling heavier than the last. The collar around her neck buzzed faintly. A sharp nudge from the guard behind her jolted her forward, her bare feet scraping against the cold, grated floor.

“Keep moving!” the guard barked, his tone devoid of sympathy.

Sydney’s heart raced as she kept her gaze fixed on the floor, her shoulders hunched instinctively. Her pulse hammered in her ears, and each step forward felt heavier than the last. The guards’ heavy boots thudded behind her, their presence offering no comfort.

As they moved deeper into the cellblock, the voices only grew louder, the jeers and taunts coming from every direction. One inmate rattled the bars of his cell, his eyes gleaming with predatory delight. “You’ll last a day, tops,” he called out, his voice dripping with mockery.

Another shouted, “Don’t worry, sweetheart, we’ll take good care of you!”

Sydney clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. {This isn’t real. This isn’t happening. I’ll wake up, and it’ll all be over. I didn’t do anything. I don’t belong here. I’m innocent, damn it!}

A sharp nudge from the guard behind her jolted her forward, her bare feet scraping against the grated floor. “Keep moving!” he barked, his tone cold and devoid of sympathy.

She stumbled slightly but caught herself, forcing her feet to keep going. The grated floor vibrated faintly beneath her, and the air was thick with the smell of sweat and despair. Every sound, every smell, every sensation was overwhelming, threatening to drown her in its suffocating embrace.

As they approached her assigned cell, her eyes flicked upward briefly. The towering walls and layers of steel grates seemed to stretch endlessly, a grim testament to her new reality. Her knees threatened to give out, but she forced herself to stay upright.

{You have to survive this. No matter what it takes. You have to survive.}

The door slid open with a mechanical whir. The inside was stark—bare steel walls, a bunked cot bolted to the floor, and a small sink in one corner. The air was thick with the lingering scent of metal and bleach. As she stepped inside, the door clanged shut behind her, the sound reverberating in her chest like a death knell.

Her cellmate sat on the top bunk, legs spread wide, radiating a territorial air. She was a butch woman, muscular and imposing, with a serpent tattoo curling around her neck and disappearing beneath the collar around her neck. She was in no jumpsuit like the rest of the inmates, she had a t-shirt and a pair of lounging sweats. Her cropped hair was streaked with gray, and her eyes were sharp, assessing Sydney with a look that bordered on disdain.

“Newbie, huh?” the woman said, her deep voice carrying a gravelly edge. She leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. “Don’t touch my stuff and we’ll get along fine.”

Sydney nodded mutely, too tired and overwhelmed to form a coherent response. The weight of the day—Major Gordon’s menacing speech, the helicopter ride, the hostile stares—pressed down on her, and all she wanted was to curl up and disappear.

The woman snorted, leaning back against the wall nearest her and folding her arms across her chest. “Figures. You’re one of those quiet types. Let me give you some advice, blondie. Don’t owe nobody nothing. Not a damn thing. That’s how they get you.”

Sydney finally managed a faint “Okay,” her voice barely above a whisper.

“And for the love of all the Gods,” She added, her tone dropping, “stay out of the guards’ way. They don’t care who you are or what you did. One wrong move, and you’re done.”

Sydney sank onto the edge of her bunk, her hands gripping the thin, rough blanket she was handed. She glanced at her celly, who was turning to lay down, seemingly having been waiting for Sydney but unfazed by the chaos just beyond their cell door.

As the dim lights of the cellblock flickered, Sydney lay back, staring at the bottom of the bunk just above her. The hum of the collar around her neck was a constant reminder of where she was—and where she wasn’t. She turned her head to the side, catching a glimpse of her celly’s serpent tattoo in the low light as her arm dangled off the side. Its coiled body seemed almost alive, a silent warning of the danger coiled within these walls.

---

The next morning, the blare of the cellblock alarm jolted Sydney awake. Shame, she only just got to sleep. The harsh, mechanical sound drilled into her skull as the cell door slid open with a metallic grind. Her celly barely glanced her way as she stood, rolling her shoulders and adjusting the collar around her neck.

“Breakfast,” Her celly grunted. “You’re on your own, blondie. Stick to the edges and keep your mouth shut. You’ll figure it out soon enough.”

Sydney watched as her celly disappeared into the stream of prisoners flooding the corridor, joining a group of rough-looking characters with matching serpent tattoos. The ease with which her celly blended in left Sydney feeling raw and exposed. Her stomach churned as she stepped out, the sea of bodies swallowing her whole.

The corridors were a maze of grated catwalks and concrete passages, each turn identical to the last. The air was thick with the mingling scents of sweat, metal, and something acrid that burned her nose. Guards patrolled in pairs, their boots clanging against the steel floor, their eyes scanning the prisoners with thinly veiled contempt.

Sydney moved cautiously, keeping her head down as she navigated the crowded paths. Prisoners loitered in clusters, their conversations a mix of hushed whispers and coarse laughter. Every so often, she caught snippets of talk—deals being made, threats exchanged, rumors swirling about the fights held in the lower levels.

As she turned a corner, a group of men blocked her path, their predatory gazes locking onto her instantly. At their center stood a scrawny man with a disarming grin that didn’t reach his darting, feverish eyes. His appearance was uncanny—a sharp nose, slightly tousled brown hair, and an almost comedic lilt to his voice. He looked like someone who might’ve once sold bad jokes on stage, now completely unhinged.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” he chirped, his voice erratic, as though his words couldn’t quite keep up with his thoughts. “Hey there, sugar plum, you lost or just lucky?” His entourage snickered, hyped by his energy.

Sydney stiffened, her pulse quickening. “Just passing through,” she muttered, her voice carefully neutral.

“Passing through?” His eyes widened dramatically, as if she’d just told him the punchline to a joke he didn’t like. “Oh, sweetheart, you don’t ‘pass through’ Big Mitch’s corner. Nah, nah, nah.” He scratched at his arm absentmindedly, flakes of his skin drifting to the grated floor. “You see, this here’s my turf, my little slice of paradise, and you, doll, you look like you’d fit right in, or should I say… look like I’d fit right in—you.”

The entourage burst into laughter, egging him on. Sydney instinctively stepped back, her shoulders pressing into the cold steel wall. Her mind raced for an escape, but the path behind her was blocked by more inmates who had stopped to watch the spectacle unfold.

One of the bystanders whispered, “Big Mitch is at it again. Poor girl.”

Mitchel’s grin widened, his erratic energy bordering on manic. “Here’s the deal, sweetheart. You come with ol’ Mitch, and I’ll take real good care of you.” He licked his lips with exaggerated slowness, the scar that bisected his upper lip being his stopping point, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “We’ll make it a party. I’ve got plenty to share.”

Sydney’s stomach twisted, a cold, nauseating knot forming deep inside her as Mitchel’s grin widened. {Oh Elenai. Oh no. This guy is unhinged. He’s not just gross—he’s dangerous.} Her mind raced as he licked his lips, the scar on his face pulling in a way that made her skin crawl. His words felt like oily tendrils wrapping around her, each syllable dripping with sleaze.

Her gaze followed his gesture to his cell, and the knot in her stomach tightened. The sight inside was worse than anything she could have imagined. The dim light barely illuminated the cramped, filthy space, but it was enough. Enough to see the bodies—men and women alike—lying scattered like discarded puppets. Their glassy eyes stared into nothing, their faces slack, as though life had been drained from them.

{What the hell is this? Are they drugged? Are they dead?} Sydney’s breath quickened, her chest tightening as panic clawed at the edges of her mind. One of the figures shifted slightly, their hollow gaze meeting hers for a fleeting moment before sliding away. The sheer emptiness in their expression sent a chill down her spine. {They look… broken. Like they’ve given up.}

Her pulse pounded in her ears as she forced herself to look away from the horrifying tableau, her eyes darting back to Mitchel. His grin hadn’t faltered; if anything, it had grown wider, more predatory. {Don’t freeze. Don’t show fear. He’ll pounce on it.}

Sydney squared her shoulders slightly, trying to suppress the trembling in her legs. But the buzzing collar around her neck felt heavier than ever, its hum a cruel reminder of her powerlessness. {I can’t do this. I can’t be one of them. There has to be a way out of this.}

She swallowed hard, her voice catching in her throat as she struggled to find the right words. But Mitchel’s expectant gaze bore into her, his manic energy practically crackling in the air between them. {Think, Clarke. Think. How do you get out of this alive?}

Sydney’s voice hardened, saying steadily despite the fear knotting in her chest. “Not interested.”

Mitchel’s grin faltered for a split second before snapping back, even sharper. “Oh, you will be,” he said, his voice carrying an unsettling sing-song quality. He stepped closer, his entourage closing ranks behind him.

Sydney’s heart pounded as she scanned the corridor for an escape route. The surrounding prisoners either turned away or watched with morbid curiosity, none of them willing to intervene.

But before he could move further, a sharp clang echoed down the corridor. A guard struck his baton against the railing, his voice booming. “Carradine! Back the hell off!”

Big Mitch froze mid-step, his expression flipping to one of exaggerated hurt as he looked toward the guard. “Aw, c’mon now, Officer Buzzkill,” he said, throwing his hands up dramatically. “We were just chatting. No harm, no foul, right?”

The guard’s glare hardened, his hand resting on the stun gun at his hip. “Move. Now.”

Mitchel held his hands up in mock surrender, backing away slowly. “Alright, alright, don’t get your knickers in a twist.” He turned back to Sydney, his grin returning with a sinister edge. “Catch you later, sunshine.”

The crowd began to disperse, the tension dissipating but leaving an uncomfortable residue. Sydney exhaled, her breath uneven, her body trembling as the tension dissipated. Slipping away quickly, she passed the lingering onlookers and hurrying toward the main corridor, putting as much distance as she could between herself and Big Mitch’s territory.

Just before rounding a corner, her gaze flicked back. Mitchel was already lounging against the bars of his cell, gesturing animatedly to his entourage. The figures inside the cell shifted, some moving closer to him, while others remained frozen in eerie silence. Sydney shivered and quickened her pace, vowing to stay far away from Big Mitch’s domain.

As she ventured further, the oppressive atmosphere only deepened. She passed by a section where inmates lined up along a grated walkway, their hands outstretched through the bars as others traded scraps of food, contraband cigarettes, and even crude drawings. One of them—a gaunt man with wild eyes and yellowed teeth—leered at her as she passed.

“Hey, pretty thing,” he crooned, his hand snaking through the bars to grab at her arm. Sydney jerked away, her heart hammering.

“Watch yourself,” another prisoner muttered from behind her, his voice low. “Everyone here wants something, and you’ve got plenty to offer.”

She nodded stiffly, quickening her pace.

---

By the time she reached the cafeteria, her nerves were raw. The din of the room was overwhelming—voices shouting over one another, trays slamming against the tables, and the constant hum of machinery in the background. She hesitated at the entrance, scanning the packed room for a place to sit. Her eyes landed on a table in the far corner, unoccupied save for a small man hunched over his tray.

Sydney moved toward it, weaving through the chaotic mass of bodies. She set her tray down cautiously, the man glancing up at her with watery eyes and a suspicious expression.

“New?” he asked, his voice barely audible over the noise.

She nodded, sitting down. “Yeah.”

He shrugged and returned to his food, muttering something under his breath. Sydney forced herself to eat, the bland slop on her tray barely registering as food. Her hands trembled slightly as she gripped the fork, the events of the morning still racing through her mind.

She paused, the fork hovering mid-air, and drew in a slow, measured breath. {Get it together, Clarke. Weakness is blood in the water.} The trembling subsided as she steeled herself, her gaze sharpening. She began to take in her surroundings, forcing herself to focus on details rather than the overwhelming weight of fear pressing on her chest.

The cafeteria was a chaos of voices and movement, but patterns quickly emerged. Groups formed distinct clusters—gangs, loners, and those desperately trying to blend into the background. The guards patrolled with the detached air of zookeepers, their batons swaying at their sides like pendulums, a warning with every step.

Her eyes drifted to a group of women seated a few tables away. Their postures were rigid, their faces hardened, but they spoke in hushed tones as though strategizing. {They don’t look like they’re here to make friends. Potential allies? Maybe. But they’d eat me alive if I made the wrong move.}

Across the room, a larger group of men jostled one another, their laughter brash and pointed. One of them glanced her way, his grin stretching into something feral before turning back to his conversation. {That’s trouble waiting to happen. Keep your head down, don’t give them a reason.}

Her fork clinked against her tray as she deliberately forced another bite. The flavorless food was irrelevant—this was about control. {You need to think, not panic. Use your assets. You’ve always known how to turn heads, and now it’s not just for fun—it’s survival. Play it right, and you can keep the vultures circling instead of swooping.}

Sydney’s thoughts turned to her cellmate. The older woman had the air of someone who’d seen it all and survived to tell the tale. {She’s got a crew. If I can figure out where she stands, maybe I can stay under her umbrella for a while. But that’ll cost me. Nobody does anything for free here.}

She shifted her gaze to the guards. Their patrol routes were consistent, their eyes scanning the room without truly seeing it. {They don’t care about us beyond keeping the chaos manageable. But there’s a hierarchy here, even among them. The right one could be useful—if I can figure out who pulls the strings.}

Her grip on the fork tightened as a sense of determination settled over her. {This isn’t a sprint. It’s chess, and I need to start positioning my pieces. Step one: don’t let them see fear. Step two: find someone who can help me figure out the rules. Step three: make them play by mine.}

The cafeteria began to quiet as groups finished their meals and filed out. Sydney kept her head down, feigning indifference while her mind cataloged every movement, every interaction. She caught snippets of conversations—codes, threats, alliances forming in plain sight for those who knew how to read them.

{I’m not here to survive. I’m here to win.} With that thought burning in her mind, she took another bite of the unappetizing slop, her expression calm and controlled.

---

Sydney leaned against the cold metal wall of a shadowed corner in the larger, open yard, her eyes scanning the chaos before her. The grated floors above and below created a symphony of echoes—voices, footsteps, and the occasional clang of a fist on metal railings. She’d tucked herself away, unnoticed for now, her heart still racing from the day’s events. Her gaze shifted downward, catching the tail end of a scene she couldn’t quite process.

Maxwell Baxter, the pale-haired inmate she’d noticed earlier, was walking away with two guards flanking him, their expressions unreadable. He looked calm, almost bored, as if being escorted by guards was no more exciting than a walk to the mess hall. But Sydney knew better—she’d seen what he’d done.

Her mind replayed the scene: the lean Zenzawian man, Xubruse, ranting and posturing, his voice carrying across the levels as he shouted obscenities and claimed dominance. She hadn’t caught everything, but his body language was unmistakable—arrogance and aggression. Then, with just a few moves, Maxwell had reduced him to a bleeding, lifeless heap. The precision, the ease—it was as though he’d flipped a switch and shut Xubruse down without breaking a sweat.

{What the hell was that?} she thought, her fingers nervously tapping against the wall. She had heard murmurs about ‘eaftousia’ earlier—something the guards and other inmates spoke of in hushed tones—but no one had explained it. Was that what Maxwell had used? Some kind of power? Sydney bit her lip, her curiosity flaring alongside a strange, unbidden interest in the man. There was a businesslike fascination—he was clearly dangerous, and knowing dangerous people could be useful. But beneath that practicality lay something else, a faint spark of intrigue that made her stomach flutter against her better judgment.

Maxwell disappeared into the hallway with the guards, leaving the yard buzzing with murmurs and speculation. Sydney leaned further into the shadows, muttering under her breath, “This place just keeps getting stranger.”

Xubruse’s earlier rant echoed in her mind—how race didn’t seem to matter here, how the typical divides she’d read about in prisons didn’t apply. It was a stark contrast to everything she thought she knew. She glanced around the yard, her eyes flicking from group to group, noting the dynamics that were quickly becoming clear.

On one level, she saw a cluster of men huddled together, their attitudes tight and defensive. They weren’t gang members—at least, not yet. They were like her: newcomers, drifters as she heard, sticking close to others who shared the same uncertainty. Sydney’s gaze shifted upward to the grated layer above her, where a group of older inmates sat against the far wall, their conversation muted but intense. They carried themselves differently, as though they’d long accepted the rules of this brutal ecosystem and learned how to bend them to their will.

Her eyes wandered up again, to the open sky visible through the final layer of grating. There was only one level above hers, and it was sparsely populated. The prisoners there looked almost serene, walking leisurely as if the chaos below them didn’t exist. {The model prisoners,} she thought, narrowing her eyes. {Is that the reward for good behavior? Or are they just the least dangerous?}

Her attention shifted downward, to the levels below her. The noise there was harsher, the movements more frenetic. Inmates argued and fought openly, their aggression unchecked by the guards who stood by like indifferent spectators. {If the upper level is the safest, this must mean the lower levels are where they throw the worst of the worst. But who could be more dangerous than that albino guy who can kill with a touch?}

Sydney folded her arms, leaning her head back against the wall. The sheer complexity of Ashgate was overwhelming. The cliques and hierarchies weren’t based on race or territory but something else entirely—something she hadn’t quite pieced together yet. Her gaze drifted back to the layers of the yard, and she began systemizing the groups she’d seen so far.

There were the muscle-bound brutes who roamed in packs, the silent watchers who stayed to the edges, and the gangs with their tattoos and coded gestures. Every group seemed to have its own rules, its own unspoken contracts. Then there were the loners—like Maxwell—who moved through the chaos untouched, their presence enough to command space without a word.

Sydney’s lips pressed into a thin line. {I need to figure out where I fit into this. Or at least who I can align myself with. There’s no surviving this place alone.} Her thoughts lingered on Maxwell for a moment longer, her mind juggling the possibilities. Then, with a quiet exhale, she shifted her attention back to her level, observing, calculating, and waiting for her chance to make a move.

Spending a few minutes analizing everything she’d seen—the power dynamics, the cliques, the wandering eyes that never seemed to stop following her. Even the newcomers, those who had entered Ashgate only hours before alongside her, were starting to stare too long, their intentions clear.

{I can’t let them see me as prey,} she thought, her heartbeat quickening but her resolve hardening. {If I don’t make a move now, I’ll be a target forever. I need to show them I’m not some easy minx. I need to—}

Her eyes locked onto one of the new arrivals, a heavily tattooed guy, likely from the Caidanadian Concentration, standing with a couple of others from their intake group. His face was etched with a permanent scowl, his neck inked with crude, almost tribal patterns that climbed toward his jawline. He wasn’t the biggest guy, but he carried himself like he thought he was, leaning against the railing and laughing obnoxiously with the others.

{Perfect. A fight always gets you put in solitary, right? Give me a few days to think about things. A few days of peace.}

Sydney pushed herself off the wall and made a beeline toward him. Her stomach churned, her nerves fraying with each step, but she shoved the fear aside. She couldn’t afford hesitation. By the time she reached him, her expression had hardened into a mask of righteous fury.

“You!” she snapped, pointing a finger at him. “You think you can just stand there, looking tough, like you’re something special? What, those stupid-ass tattoos make you think you’re a king in here?”

The guy blinked, caught off guard, but his confusion quickly morphed into irritation. “The hell you talkin’ about?” he said, his voice low and threatening.

“You heard me, you piece of shit!” Sydney shouted, drawing the attention of several inmates nearby. “You’re nothing but a punk who probably cried for his mommy the second he got locked up! You think those inked-up arms mean anything? Pathetic.”

The tattooed man’s friends took a step back, smirking, clearly entertained. The man pushed himself off the railing, towering over her now, his eyes narrowing. “You better shut that mouth before I shut it for you.”

“Try me, bitch!” Sydney spat, adrenaline surging through her as she swung her fist without warning. Her knuckles connected with his jaw, a sharp crack echoing in the yard as her hand felt like it just shattered. She never punched a person before. The man staggered but didn’t go down, his expression darkening as he lunged forward, swinging wildly.

The fight was a blur. Sydney ducked one punch but failed to avoid the next, a blow to the side of her head sending her stumbling as he kicked her in the abdomen, sending her to the floor where he proceeded to jump onto her, wailing a rain of fists, pounding like an intense hail storm before suddenly she felt a numbness run through her body, forcing it to tense up.

Guards were on the guy before she even understood that she was even on the ground, the numbness as she was now finding out was them cracking him with the electricity of their batons, occasionally kicking and stomping him with their boots.

Rolling to her stomach, hair sticks to her bloodied and swelling face as she let out a few coughs, wanting nothing more than to let out a howling cry, but knowing that was the absolute last thing she should do.

She felt a hand run down her back, which she twitched at but found herself unable to fully react to it before she was forcibly rolled back over, where a pair of guards stood above her, it wasn’t until she say their mouths moving that she realized they were talking.

“Stop!” Wasn’t something she could hear, but she could tell that’s what one was saying, his hand pressing her shoulder into the steel frame that supported them as another knelt down with latex-gloved hands inspecting the side of her head.

“Lucky… didn’t split.. open.” Was all she could make out of what the guard had said, his tag read ‘Grast, Reyes’ and his accent was a latent Tamitan.

The guards had a small conversation as she felt the hand of the first lift from her shoulder to where it was just tickling her before slowly carressing down to her chest, hovering over her breast just enough that she could feel it, with a wide, toothy smile he she heard him ask “Should we take her.. Check that there was no lingering damage?”

Reyes however gave a shake of the head with a dissapointed look before standing. “DM-693… Warden won’t like this.”

The ringing finally beginning to die out, Sydney peered her surroundings, hoping that her move had gained some form of admiration, but instead she was met with looks of disgust and disdain, the kind you would give to an animal who had shat itself.

“What? Did… Did I.. I did it?” she asked, the words feeling strange in her mouth, her lips felt fat and her tongue was swollen and thick, not quite forming the words correctly, causing her to have to repeat the question before she could understand her own words.

“C’mon.” Reyes said as he motioned for a few more guards to come over, as the group of four roughly picked her up,

grabbing her arms and legs as if she weighed nothing. Sydney’s body protested every jarring movement, pain flaring from her ribs and head with each step the guards took. They carried her like cargo, their grips unyielding and mechanical, dragging her limp form toward the corridor leading out of the yard.

Her head lolled to the side, her gaze catching on the cluster of inmates she’d left behind. The tattooed man was being hauled away too, though he seemed to be putting up more of a fight despite his injuries. Sydney noticed the sneers of the other inmates as they watched her go. There was no respect in their eyes, no nod of acknowledgment. Instead, they regarded her with the same cold disinterest they might show to a piece of trash being removed from their space.

{What the hell was I thinking?} she thought, her mind a whirlwind of regret and self-recrimination. {I literally just saw someone get killed for mouthing off, and I thought I’d be the exception? That I’d be different? Gods, I’m so stupid.}

Her vision blurred for a moment, tears welling up but refusing to fall. She blinked them away angrily, unwilling to let herself cry in front of these men. {This isn’t me. I’m not supposed to be here. I’m not supposed to be like this.}

The corridor they entered was dimly lit, the flickering fluorescent lights casting long shadows across the cold steel walls. The faint hum of machinery somewhere deep in the prison filled the air, a constant, oppressive reminder of the facility’s unyielding power. Each step the guards took echoed hollowly, a rhythmic march that seemed to stretch endlessly.

As they moved deeper into the labyrinthine halls, Sydney’s thoughts spiraled. {What did I expect? That a fight would somehow get me out of this mess? That I’d earn some kind of respect, maybe scare people enough to leave me alone?} She winced as the guard holding her legs jostled her roughly, the pain in her ribs flaring again. {Stupid. So, so stupid. Now I’m just a bleeding, broken idiot who made a scene for nothing.}

The stretcher came into view ahead, a plain, steel slab on wheels with a thin, stained mattress. Sydney’s stomach churned at the sight. {God, what’s next? Are they going to dump me in solitary? What if they send me to the infirmary? Or worse? What if—}

Her spiraling thoughts were interrupted by the voice of one of the guards, the one who had been leering earlier. “She’s not much of a fighter, huh? Thought she’d be more exciting.” His words were casual, almost bored, as if discussing the weather.

Another guard chuckled. “Yeah, that was pretty pathetic. Can’t believe she even tried. Should have just went and become a slave.”

Sydney’s face burned with humiliation, but she bit down on her lip, refusing to react. {They’re trying to get a rise out of me. Just keep quiet. Keep your head down.}

The group reached the stretcher, and the guards unceremoniously dropped her onto it. The impact sent a jolt of pain through her body, but she managed to stifle a cry, clenching her teeth tightly. She lay there, her breaths shallow, as the guards began strapping her down with thick leather restraints. The cold, sticky sensation of blood pooling at the back of her neck made her stomach turn.

Reyes leaned over her, his expression unreadable. “You’re lucky you’re on the gold plan. Otherwise, you’d be in worse shape right now.” His voice was gruff but devoid of malice, almost like a teacher scolding a student for failing a test.

Sydney turned her head slightly, wincing at the movement. “I—” she began, but her voice cracked, weak and hoarse. She swallowed and tried again. “I didn’t mean…”

Reyes raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t mean what? To get your ass kicked? Or to waste our time hauling you out of there?”

The other guards laughed, their voices bouncing off the steel walls like cruel echoes. Sydney closed her eyes, wishing she could disappear. {Why did I do this? Why didn’t I just stay quiet? I could’ve found another way to survive. I could’ve…}

But she didn’t have an answer. The only thing she knew was that she was in over her head, and every misstep felt like another nail in her coffin. The stretcher began to move, its wheels squeaking as the guards pushed her further into the depths of Ashgate.

Dean

The clang of steel echoed through the cellblock like a judge’s gavel, rousing Dean from a fitful half-sleep. His cell door slid open with a harsh, mechanical groan, the dim light of the corridor spilling onto his cot. He barely had time to rise before the guards appeared—hulking figures, their black uniforms gleaming faintly under the flickering fluorescent lights. One of them stepped forward, his baton tapping menacingly against the frame holding the beds.

“Matroni,” the guard barked, his voice sharp and clipped. “On your feet.”

Dean hesitated, his eyes narrowing as he weighed his options. But the guard wasn’t waiting. He lunged, grabbing Dean by the arm and yanking him upright. Another guard joined in, twisting his other arm behind his back before securing the cuffs. The cold steel bit into his wrists, a cruel reminder of his captivity.

“Let’s go,” the first guard growled, shoving him toward the corridor. A beep escaped his collar.

The hallway outside was alive with activity—prisoners being dragged from their cells, some resisting, others shuffling obediently with heads bowed. The air was thick with tension, a palpable dread that settled over the line of inmates like a suffocating blanket. Dean was shoved into the formation, his bare feet scraping against the grated floor as the line began to move.

The guards wasted no time asserting their dominance. They walked alongside the inmates, spitting insults and occasionally swinging their batons. One guard struck an inmate in the ribs, sending him staggering against the wall. Another grabbed a straggler by the collar and hauled him forward, snarling something unintelligible.

“Pick it up before I unfuck you!” a guard shouted, his baton striking the grated floor with a deafening clang.

Dean kept his head low, his mind racing. The corridors were dimly lit, the overhead lights spaced too far apart to banish the shadows. In the intermittent darkness, his senses sharpened, picking up the subtle details others might miss—the faint hum of the collars around their necks, the scuff of boots on steel, the low murmur of a distant conversation.

As the group descended deeper into the facility, the air grew heavier, colder. The polished steel walls of the upper levels gave way to something more sinister. Rust streaked the surfaces, mingling with dark stains that could have been water—or something worse. The faint smell of mildew and decay grew stronger with each step, clawing its way into Dean’s nostrils and settling in the back of his throat.

The guards seemed unaffected, their movements brisk and efficient as they herded the inmates through the maze-like corridors. But Dean noticed the subtle glances they exchanged, the way their hands lingered near their weapons. Whatever lay ahead, it wasn’t just for the inmates to fear.

The group passed a series of doors, each one sealed with heavy locks and adorned with cryptic warning symbols. One door stood ajar, its faintly glowing edges pulsating with an unnatural light. Dean caught a glimpse inside—rows of mechanical arms whirred and clicked, their skeletal frames dipping into vats of bubbling liquid. The air around the door seemed to shimmer, distorting the view like heat waves rising from asphalt.

“What the hell is that?” someone whispered behind him, but the guards offered no answers. Instead, one of them turned and struck the inmate with his baton, silencing any further questions.

“Eyes forward!” the guard snapped, his tone brooking no argument.

They moved on, the corridor narrowing until it felt more like a tunnel. The lights grew dimmer, the shadows deeper. Dean’s gaze flicked to the walls, where faint scratches marred the surface—marks left by desperate hands clawing for escape. A chill ran down his spine as he noticed a faint, rhythmic tapping sound coming from somewhere up ahead.

The descent continued, the group navigating a series of steep staircases. The grated steps clanged underfoot, the sound echoing endlessly in the confined space. Dean’s muscles ached as they were forced to move faster, the guards barking orders to hurry. The air grew colder still, and the smell of rot became almost unbearable.

They passed another set of doors, these lined with intricate mechanical seals that hissed faintly as the group approached. Through one partially open door, Dean saw a flash of movement—something hunched and misshapen, its silhouette illuminated by a flickering red light. It moved with a jerking, unnatural gait, disappearing into the darkness before he could get a better look.

“Keep moving!” a guard barked, shoving him forward.

Dean stumbled, his bare feet slipping on the damp floor. The cold steel sent a jolt up his spine, but he caught himself before he fell. He glanced over his shoulder, catching sight of the inmate behind him—a gaunt man with hollow cheeks and eyes that darted nervously, like a cornered animal searching for an escape. His subtle shake of the head carried a desperate warning, his expression begging Dean to keep his gaze forward and not invite further trouble.

The line finally came to a halt in front of a massive, rusted door. The metal was pitted and corroded, its surface streaked with dried blood and blackened handprints. The faint outline of a symbol—a jagged spiral—was barely visible beneath the grime. The door groaned as it slid open, revealing a room bathed in sickly yellow light.

Dean’s stomach churned as he stepped inside. The floor was slick with a mix of water and something thicker, the smell of iron and rot clinging to the air. The walls were adorned with hooks and chains, some of which still held tattered scraps of fabric—or flesh. The faint hum of machinery filled the space, punctuated by the occasional hiss of steam escaping unseen vents.

In the center of the room stood a table, its surface stained dark with old blood. Surrounding it were a series of mechanical instruments, their sharp edges glinting ominously in the flickering light. A faint, almost imperceptible vibration ran through the floor, as if the entire room were alive, breathing.

Dean’s gaze flicked to the walls, where faint shadows writhed and twisted, forming shapes that seemed almost human before dissolving into nothingness. The sound of distant screams echoed faintly through the vents, rising and falling like the tide.

One of the guards stepped forward, his expression unreadable as he addressed the group. “Welcome to your new reality,” he said, his voice laced with mockery. “Consider this your inauguration.”

Dean’s fists clenched as he forced himself to breathe. The air was thick, suffocating, but he couldn’t afford to show weakness. Whatever this was, he’d survive it. He had to.

The guard, identified by the name tag gleaming under the dim lights as Heller, Jon, smirked, his teeth flashing like a wolf about to pounce. “Let the fun begin,” he sneered, gesturing theatrically toward the wall ahead.

A mechanical hiss filled the air as the wall in front of them began to rise, steel grinding against steel with a grating roar. The sound reverberated through the damp chamber, making a few of the inmates flinch instinctively. Light poured in, brighter than anything Dean had seen since arriving at Ashgate, momentarily blinding them all. As his vision adjusted, the scene beyond the rising wall took shape—and it was nothing like he had imagined.

The space opened into a vast, arena-like expanse, its floor a mixture of cracked concrete and rust-streaked metal plates. Surrounding the core of the facility was a massive-caged enclosure, rising in tiers like a stadium. Rows of seats stretched upward, separated by jagged, welded bars that created a labyrinthine barrier. Dean could easily imagine the spectators filling the cage: leering inmates who had earned privileges, guards enjoying the carnage, and, if the rumors were true, the elusive “investors” who funded this hellhole. The entire structure exuded an eerie, industrial brutality, as though it had been cobbled together by someone with no regard for anything but suffering.

“We call it the pit,” Heller drawled, stepping to the side so the prisoners could see the arena in all its grim glory. He spread his arms wide, the gesture mockingly grand. “Tonight’s just a little warm-up, nothing fancy. You lot”—he jabbed his finger at the group of trembling inmates—“are going to give us a show. Ten of you against one of our ‘all dayers.’”

The term lingered in the air, heavy and ominous. Dean’s mind flicked to Jonathan’s offhand remark about Ashgate’s fighters, the ones who made bloodshed an art form. He scanned the room again, calculating, just now realizing only ten inmates were in the room, him included, forcing him to wonder what happened to the other inmates as there were certainly more than ten led deep into the facility.

Heller caught the movement and chuckled, his tone dripping with amusement. “Don’t think about bolting, Matroni. Doors behind you? Sealed. And these walls here?” He rapped his knuckles against the metal plating on either side of the group. A low, almost imperceptible hum resonated in the air. “They’re letting out a constant vibration. Get too close, and you’ll be introduced to a nice dose of vertigo. Drop you right on your ass. Long enough for us to chain you back up. Trust me, it’s hilarious to watch.”

One of the other inmates, a burly man with tattoos snaking up his neck, muttered a curse under his breath, his fists clenched. Heller’s smirk widened, and his hand shot to his side, pulling out a sleek black remote. He held it up, the dim light reflecting off its polished surface.

“Now, here’s the fun part,” Heller said. He pressed a button, and the collars around their necks emitted a faint click before falling away with a dull thud to the floor. Several inmates instinctively reached up to touch their throats, the absence of the weight foreign and unsettling. Heller gathered the discarded collars and placed them on a rusted table at the side of the room with deliberate care.

Dean’s hand twitched, his fingers curling into a fist. The guard wasn’t more than ten feet away, his baton hanging loosely from his belt, his back partially turned. For a brief, tantalizing moment, Dean considered it—charging the guard, snapping his neck, and seeing how far he could get without the collar restricting him.

But he stopped himself, his instincts overriding the impulse. {Not yet,} he thought, his eyes narrowing as he studied the remote in Heller’s hand and the guards positioned around the room. {I don’t know the layout. Don’t know their rotations. Hell, I don’t even know if there’s a roof I can climb out of. Not that planning is my usual style, but still. This isn’t the time.}

Dean relaxed his posture, tilting his head slightly as though he were merely bored. Heller turned back toward them, the smirk never leaving his face.

“There we go. No collars, no restrictions. You’re free to fight, free to bleed, free to die. But here’s the kicker,” Heller said, pointing a finger like a teacher giving a lesson. “This isn’t just about survival. It’s about making an impression. We’re always watching, always evaluating. You put on a good show? Maybe you earn yourself a few points in the system. Fuck up?” He shrugged, the gesture as indifferent as tossing out a broken toy. “Well, no one’s going to miss you.”

The guard’s laughter echoed in the chamber, mingling with the low hum of the vibrating walls. Dean glanced at the other inmates, their faces a mix of fear, confusion, and anger.

Among them, something caught his eye—a short woman, barely over four feet tall, standing with her arms crossed and her sharp gaze darting from the guards to the surrounding inmates. Dean blinked, trying to process what he was seeing. Not only was she a woman—a rarity in itself in this grim pit of testosterone and violence—but a dwarf. It struck him like a punch to the gut. The odds for survival here already seemed slim, but for her, they were microscopic.

{What the hell is she doing here?} he thought, his brow furrowing.

The dwarf woman caught him staring and shot him a glare so fierce he almost took a step back. Her fiery brown eyes practically dared him to say something. Dean quickly shifted his gaze, masking his surprise with a nonchalant expression.

“Hey,” one of the inmates spoke up, his voice trembling with barely concealed fear. He was a lanky man with hollow cheeks and a tattoo of an anchor on his neck. “If the collars are off, what are the rules? Are we… Are we supposed to kill each other, or what?”

Heller turned slowly, his smirk widening. He clapped his hands together, the sound echoing ominously. “Rules? Oh, sweet summer child, there are no rules for this round. Just try not to die.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. The lanky man’s face drained of color, his anchor tattoo seeming to sink deeper into his skin.

“Now,” Heller continued, pointing toward the pit below, “you lot are going to jump down there. Nice and simple. Let’s see who’s got the guts for a fifteen-foot drop.”

Dean stepped closer to the edge, scanning down into the pit, cataloging its layout: the cracked floor littered with dark stains he didn’t need to guess at, the faint shadows cast by overhead lights, the metal grates overhead providing a slim, distant glimpse of freedom. If he has to fight, it would be here. But if he had to escape… that was a problem for another time, for now he looked to the drop he would have to do, the distance wasn’t impossible to handle, but it would still jolt the knees on impact—especially if you didn’t know how to land.

“Fifteen feet?” one of the inmates muttered, a stocky man with a shaved head and a deep scar running from his temple to his jaw. “You trying to kill us before the damn fight starts?”

Heller grinned. “What’s the matter? Afraid of a little jump? Don’t worry, the concrete’s softer than your skulls. Well, maybe not yours, Matroni.” Heller gestured mockingly, eyeing Dean as he stepped back from the edge. After a minute of hesitation from the group, Heller shouted, “Come on, ladies, I haven’t got all night!”

The scarred man with the shaved head went first, his movements deliberate. He crouched slightly, pushing off with a grunt and landing heavily in the pit below. The thud of his heels echoed off the concrete, but he stayed upright, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the height.

Dean followed, barely sparing a thought for the others. He leapt with practiced ease, bending his knees on impact and tucking into a roll. The rough concrete scraped against his arms, but he rose fluidly, scanning the pit. His gaze briefly locked with the dwarf woman’s. Her sharp eyes were keen and calculating, though her face remained impassive. She was observing everything—just like he was.

“Are you lot always this slow, or is today special?!” Heller snapped, his grin turning to a sneer as he gestured impatiently to the next inmate in line. “Or should I push you in myself?.”

The gangly man hesitated at the edge, his lips moving in a silent prayer. His hollow cheeks twitched as he tried to steel himself. When he finally jumped, his landing was far from graceful—his feet slipped out from under him, sending him sprawling onto the cracked floor with a yelp. Dean didn’t bother helping him up, instead stepping aside as the next inmate prepared to jump.

“Ignitha, did they recruit you from the ballet?” Heller drawled, leaning forward with mock interest. “You land like that in the fight, and we’ll have to scrape you up with a spatula.”

The gangly man scrambled to his feet, his face flushed with embarrassment. Another inmate muttered under his breath, “This is bullshit,” his voice low and venomous. Dean barely glanced at him. Allies weren’t his concern; survival was.

The dwarf woman stepped forward next, her small frame dwarfed by the edge of the pit. She looked down, her lips pressing into a thin line as she calculated her jump. Heller’s laughter rang out, sharp and mocking. “What’s the matter, tiny? Need a booster seat? Should we lower a rope for you?”

Before she could retort, the scarred man quickly ran back up the wall with the help of another inmate, climbing up to help. His voice was gruff but not unkind. “Come on. I’ll lower you.”

Her eyes flicked to him, suspicion flickering across her face. “I don’t need your help,” she snapped, but the hesitation in her voice betrayed her.

“Sure you don’t,” the man replied, his tone steady. “But you’ll break something if you fall wrong. You’ve got a better chance in there than up here with this asshole.” He jerked his chin toward Heller.

After a beat, she sighed and nodded begrudgingly. Climbing onto his shoulders, she braced herself against his head. “If you drop me, I’ll bite your damn ear off,” she warned.

The scarred man chuckled dryly. “Fair enough.”

He crouched at the edge, flipping to hang off it, carefully holding on while she climbed down his muscular body until she too dangled from his feet, after a moment, she let go and dropped the last few feet into another inmate’s arms with a grunt, whom she gave a sharp glare, as if to say “how dare you” with her eyes. Getting sat on the ground, she dusted herself off and shot a second glare back to both men as the bald one landed back in the Pit once more. “Don’t get any ideas about being my knights in shining armor.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” the bald one replied, clapping his hands together and stretching his fingers.

The rest of the group followed, their landings a mix of clean execution and painful mistakes. A stocky man with tattoos grunted as he hit the floor, rolling onto his side with a grimace. Another inmate hesitated too long and had to be shoved by the guards, landing awkwardly and cursing as he clutched his knee.

Dean ignored the chaos, his attention fixed on the pit itself. The air felt heavier here, the smell of rust and blood saturating his senses. He could feel faint vibrations beneath his feet, like the thrum of a distant machine. The walls loomed high above, jagged metal cages enclosing the arena like a mouth of iron teeth. Scattered around the Pitt were piles of debris, scraps, metals, bricks. Odd objects to be found and what he could only assume would be used for fights. Fair fights didn’t seem to be their goal.

“Lovely,” Dean muttered under his breath, his gaze shifting to the grated levels of the stadium above. Nothing but shadows for now, the only things watching them in here were a handful of guards and cameras which he could now see stationed along the Pit.

Heller’s voice snapped him back to the present. “Alright, everyone’s down. Try not to look so thrilled, yeah? You’re making me feel unappreciated.” His grin was sharp and humorless as he gestured towards the opposite side of them. “Here he comes.”

Dean followed Heller’s gesture toward the far end of the pit. The shadows seemed to deepen there, pooling unnaturally as if the light itself refused to venture closer. The air grew thick with an eerie silence, broken only by the distant hum of machinery and the faint shuffle of feet.

The other inmates shifted nervously, forming a loose circle in the center of the pit. Some muttered prayers, others curses, their voices low and trembling. The dwarf woman, who had been steadfast in her defiance moments before, now scanned the shadows with a hawk’s intensity, her small frame taut like a coiled spring.

“What the hell’s supposed to happen?” one inmate whispered, a lanky man with a chipped tooth. He glanced around wildly, his breathing erratic.

Before anyone could answer, a sound like a heavy thud reverberated through the pit. The lanky man staggered, his head snapping back as if struck by an unseen fist. He hit the ground with a grunt, clutching his nose, blood seeping through his fingers.

“What the hell?” another inmate yelled, stepping back as if to escape an invisible force.

The air shifted again. This time, a stocky man with a crude snake tattoo on his forearm was sent sprawling to the ground, a red mark blooming on his jaw. He sat up dazed, his mouth opening and closing as though he couldn’t comprehend what had just happened.

Dean narrowed his eyes, scanning the dimly lit arena. The other inmates scrambled to make sense of the chaos, their panic mounting with every hit. Another man crumpled to the floor, clutching his stomach, the sickening sound of a rib cracking audible even over the frantic murmurs.

Dean’s mind worked furiously. There was no weapon, no projectile, no visible attacker. Then he noticed it—a faint ripple in the air, almost imperceptible, like heat waves rising from asphalt. His eyes followed the distortion as it weaved between the inmates, striking another before disappearing into the gloom.

“An invisible fighter,” Dean muttered under his breath, his voice carrying a note of reluctant admiration.

The revelation sent the group into disarray. Inmates swung blindly at the air, their movements frantic and uncoordinated. The dwarf woman sidestepped one of the flailing punches, her expression darkening as she hissed, “Watch it, moron! You’re going to take out your own people.”

Another ripple, another hit—this time the bald man who had helped the dwarf down earlier. He staggered but managed to stay on his feet, his teeth bared in frustration. “Where the hell is he?” he shouted, his voice echoing off the jagged walls.

Dean’s gaze remained locked on the subtle distortions. It wasn’t perfect; the attacker’s movements betrayed him when he shifted too quickly or came into contact with the light spilling from above. And then it clicked—he wasn’t invisible all the time. There was a pattern, a rhythm.

“He’s holding his breath!” The dwarf snapped. “That’s his trick. He can’t stay invisible if he exhales.”

“Lovely,” Dean muttered, his lips curving into a faint smirk. His mind raced, weighing options.

“The hell is the elf on about?” An inmate quetioned, not able to see the occasional ripple, however he was even more confused when Dean placed his hand on his back, a pop coming from it with what felt like a cigerette burn causing the inmate to step away from him and ask “The hell are you on about?!”

{Shit.} Dean thought as he looked down to the palm of his hand, not even a small bit of smoke coming from it, completely clear of the normal effects pre-incarcaration. Pre-humming collar. He could have turned the tables in seconds—one touch was all it would have taken, he could have catapulted his teammate into the rippled air, straight into the bastard. But the familiar spark of power wasn’t there. His frustfration flared. {Still suppressed, or maybe it needs time to reset after the collar. Either way, I’m flying blind.}

Another inmate went down with a sickening crunch, his arm bent at an unnatural angle. The invisible assailant was toying with them, picking them off one by one like a predator thinning a herd.

“Shit,” Dean growled, his fists clenching. He glanced at the others, their terror palpable. {I can’t rely on this bunch of scared rabbits. If I don’t figure this out, we’re all dead.}

Then came the moment he’d been waiting for—a shimmer, just at the edge of his vision, betraying the attacker’s position as he prepared to strike. Dean’s voice cut through the panic.

“On me! Now!” he barked, his tone sharp and commanding.

The inmates hesitated, their eyes darting between him and the ripple in the air. The dwarf woman was the first to move, sidling up beside him, her fists raised. “What’s your plan, genius?” she demanded, her voice low.

Dean didn’t answer immediately. His eyes locked onto the shimmer as it darted closer. He pointed to the bald man, who was clutching his side but still standing. “You,” Dean said. “Take a swing at the air. Ten feet out, right there.”

The bald man blinked, confused, but obeyed. His punch connected with nothing, but it forced the shimmer to shift. Dean’s lips twitched into a grin. “There,” he said, jerking his chin toward the distortion. “Aim for the ripple.”

Another inmate took a swing, and this time there was a faint grunt—proof they’d hit something. The group began to rally, their panic giving way to determination as they focused their efforts.

The invisible assailant growled, a deep, guttural sound that sent a chill down Dean’s spine. Then, with a burst of movement, the attacker revealed himself—a towering man, his muscular frame glistening with sweat. His skin was crisscrossed with scars, and his eyes burned with a feral intensity.

“You’re smarter than you look,” the man snarled, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. “But it won’t save you.”

Dean’s smirk didn’t waver. “Maybe not,” he replied, his tone casual causing the assaliant to laugh.

The fight began in chaos, a storm of fists, shouts, and fear. The towering assailant—visible now—charged like a bull, his heavy frame moving faster than seemed possible. His first swing connected with the lanky man, whose anchor tattoo had barely caught the dim light before he was sent flying. The crack of bone snapping echoed through the pit, and the man crumpled, his chest caved inward, motionless.

The remaining inmates scrambled, scattering to avoid the assailant’s unstoppable momentum. Dean ducked low, rolling behind a pile of debris to avoid being crushed under the brute’s charge. {Holy fuck}. The bald man followed, his eyes darting between Dean and the assailant as he tried to catch his breath.

“His punches,” the bald man muttered, wiping blood from his lip, “they’re not normal.”

“No shit,” Dean growled, peeking out from cover. The assailant had turned, his massive shoulders heaving as his gaze scanned for his next target. His skin glistened unnaturally, almost like polished stone. One of the remaining inmates, a wiry man with a makeshift shiv, lunged at the brute’s side, aiming for the ribs. {We’ve been here a day, how the hell did he get a shiv?} Dean thought as the blade snapped as if it had struck steel.

The assailant grinned, his teeth bared like an animal’s. He turned and delivered a backhanded blow that sent the wiry man skidding across the pit, his shiv clattering uselessly to the floor.

The air in the pit was stifling, heavy with the mingling scents of sweat, blood, and rust. Each time the brute’s fists connected with flesh or concrete, the sound reverberated like a hammer striking an anvil, sharp and jarring. The dim light from above flickered erratically, casting jagged shadows that seemed to dance along the cracked walls. Every shout, grunt, and crash echoed unnervingly, amplified by the hollow metallic hum of the enclosure.

Dean ducked behind a pile of debris, his breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. The ground beneath him trembled faintly with each step the brute took, a rhythmic vibration that seemed to sync with the pounding of his heart. Around him, the scattered inmates scrambled for cover, their movements a frantic ballet of survival.

“It’s not just the invisibility,” Dean muttered. “When he’s visible, he’s… indestructible.”

The dwarf woman, crouched nearby, narrowed her eyes, her sharp gaze flitting between the assailant and the scattered inmates. “No, not indestructible,” she said, her tone clipped but measured. “Only when he’s breathing. Didn’t you see? He flinched when that guy punched him earlier, when he was invisible.”

Dean frowned, recalling the shimmer and the grunt. “You think he can only be hurt when he’s holding his breath?”

She nodded, her expression grim. “Yeah. That’s his weak point. We just have to make him invisible.”

“Great,” Dean said dryly, “all we have to do is fight an indestructible giant until he decides to hold his breath. Perfect.”

The assailant roared, charging another inmate—a young woman with cropped hair and wild eyes. She tried to sidestep, but his hand shot out, grabbing her by the neck. With a sickening crunch, he hurled her into the nearest wall, her body crumpling lifelessly to the ground, though it’s questionable if she was even alive when she hit the wall or if she died from the force of the throw on her spine.

The dwarf woman cursed under her breath, her fists clenching. “We don’t have time for sarcasm. Baldy, what can you do?”

The bald man hesitated, then extended his hand. A faint shimmer of heat rose from his palm, like the distortion above a flame. “I can make stuff really hot. Not fire or anything, just heat.”

The dwarf’s sharp eyes narrowed. “Good. Heat his damn lungs when he’s invisible. Force him to breathe out.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Not a bad plan, but how do we keep him busy while Baldy here gets in range?”

“You,” she snapped, her tone brooking no argument. “You’re fast. Distract him. I’ll help where I can.”

Dean glanced at her, then at the bald man, before sighing. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

The assailant had turned his attention to another inmate, a burly man trying to fend him off with wild swings. The brute caught the man’s wrist mid-punch and twisted it until the sickening snap of bone filled the air. The man screamed, only to have his head smashed into the ground moments later.

“Now!” the dwarf hissed.

Dean darted forward, staying low as he weaved through the debris. The assailant caught sight of him and roared, his fists slamming into the ground where Dean had just been. Dust and shards of concrete exploded upward, but Dean didn’t stop. He darted around the brute, throwing rocks and debris to keep his attention.

The dwarf woman moved in tandem, keeping to the shadows and using her small size to stay unnoticed. She picked up a shard of metal and hurled it at the assailant’s head. It clanged harmlessly off his temple, but it was enough to make him glance her way, giving Dean a moment to dart behind him and deliver a hard kick to the back of his knee. The brute stumbled but didn’t fall.

“Baldy, now!” the dwarf shouted.

The bald man had crept close, his hand outstretched. The air around him shimmered with heat as he focused on the assailant’s chest. The brute’s expression twisted, his massive chest rising and falling erratically. He let out a guttural growl and turned to swing at the bald man, but Dean darted in, not thinking, going purely on instinct, throwing his hand on the assailant’s bicept that was rearing back to swing and…

BOOM!!

The bald man found himself being tossed off his feet nearly a meter, a hot force having shoved the breath out of him. Gasping, he peered back, curious what had just happened to find Dean in the place he and their opponent had been but their opponent wasn’t there. He too had been tossed nearly a meter back, himself.

“Blood?” The dwarf questioned as she too stood shocked, not sure what to do, having seen the red liquid fly around the three when the explosion occured.

“Fuckin’ finally!” Heller let out with scoff.

“AUGHA!” The assailant raored as he arched his back for a moment before falling into a fetal possition, holding onto his arm. His skin singed on his chest and face, his hair half burned off, and his bicept, where Dean had touched him, was gone, his arm only hanging on by some sinew and the bones, all the flesh seemingly gone.

“Ugha! Fuck yeah!” Dean called out, doing a celebritory hip thrust. “We’re about to be bitchin’ now!”

“You.. Could just blow him up that whole time?” The dwarf questioned, confused by why this wasn’t brought up a moment ago during their planning.

Dean turned to her, still grinning, but the smirk quickly faded as he opened his mouth to respond and stumbled, his legs wobbling beneath him. A wave of nausea rolled over him, and he caught himself against a jagged piece of metal sticking up from the floor.

“I… didn’t know I could,” Dean admitted, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. His eyes darted to his hand, which was trembling uncontrollably, a faint red glow pulsating from the palm. He flexed his fingers, feeling a strange, residual warmth. “Guess the collar suppressed it too much. First time it’s come back.”

The dwarf raised an eyebrow, her arms crossed as she glanced between Dean and the smoldering, writhing brute. “Well, it’s nice of you to figure that out now, but maybe try giving us a heads-up next time before you go playing bomb squad.”

Dean groaned, pushing himself upright. “Not like I had time to workshop it. I saw a chance, and boom—literally.”

The bald man staggered to his feet, coughing and shaking his head. “You could’ve warned me! I thought I was dead! What the hell was that?”

“Eaftousia,” Heller said with a bemused smirk, leaning casually on the edge of the pit above them. “Guess Matroni here’s got himself a nice little party trick. You all should be grateful—you’d be paste if it wasn’t for him.”

“Grateful?” the dwarf snapped, her hands clenched into fists. “That blast almost took us all out!”

“Hey, I didn’t ask to be the hero here,” Dean retorted, shrugging. “It’s not my fault this guy”—he gestured toward the fallen assailant—“didn’t get the memo about me being a ticking time bomb.”

The assailant let out another guttural growl, his ruined arm twitching as he struggled to push himself upright. Blood pooled beneath him, soaking into the cracked concrete, but his eyes burned with fury and pain.

“Oh, come on,” Dean muttered. “How is he still alive?”

The dwarf clicked her tongue, glaring at the brute. “He’s holding on by sheer spite. That’s the only explanation.”

Heller’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. “Oh, he’s not done yet. Let me make this crystal clear, kiddos: you don’t stop until the bastard stops breathing. Permanently.”

The assailant’s breathing was labored, each wheezing gasp rattling in his chest. Yet he still moved, his remaining hand gripping the floor as he dragged himself toward the nearest piece of debris.

The bald man’s eyes widened. “He’s trying to grab something—stop him!”

Dean and the dwarf exchanged a glance. She nodded sharply and darted forward, her small frame moving with surprising speed. Dean followed close behind, his legs still shaky but functional, surpassing her quickly. The brute swiped at the ground, his fingers curling around a jagged shard of metal.

Before he could wield it, another inmate leaped onto his back, wrapping her arms around his neck and locking her legs against his torso. “Get the hell down!” she snarled, pulling with all her migh, though it appeared to be in vain.

Dean seized the opportunity, planting his foot against the brute’s ruined arm and shoving hard. The assailant roared, the combination of pain and pressure forcing him onto his side. The shard of metal clattered from his grip before he raised it into his side, peircing through himself and stabbing the woman that had jumped on his back.

Dean hesitated upon seeing this, his mind racing, almost gaining respect for someone willing to sacrifice themselves for the win. The power coursing through him was wild and unpredictable—he had no idea how to control it, let alone aim it. But there wasn’t time to think. If the brute regained his strength, they were all dead.

He crouched, placing his hand firmly against the brute’s chest.

“Finish it.” The impaled woman whispered as Dean’s heart thudded in his chest, locking eyes with the her. Her sharp gaze darted from him to the brute and back, her lips pressing into a tight line. The bald man crept closer, his hands raised, heat radiating faintly from his palms. The air crackled with the promise of violence, every sound heightened—the rasp of the brute’s breath, the plaps of feet on concrete, the distant hum of the walls.

The brute staggered forward, blood oozing from the mangled stump of his arm. His chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, each gasp of air rattling like the final notes of a broken instrument. Dean could see the fury in his eyes, a primal determination to take at least one more life before the fight ended.

Dean clenched his fists, his gaze flicking to the bald man, who gave a curt nod. The brute inhaled sharply, his hulking frame trembling with effort as he prepared to charge.

“Wait,” Dean muttered under his breath, holding up a hand to stay the others. His eyes locked on the brute’s chest, timing the rise and fall of each breath. The seconds stretched, every sound around him falling away as he focused. One beat. Two. The brute sucked in another breath, his muscles coiling like a spring.

“Now!” Dean roared, launching himself forward. The heat surged through him again, brighter and more intense than before. This time, he gritted his teeth and focused, willing the energy to stay contained until the last possible moment.

The explosion was more controlled this time, but it was no less devastating. Dean felt the surge of power radiate from his palm, the heat searing through his arm like liquid fire. The blast hit the brute square in the chest, collapsing it inward with a sickening crunch. The force sent a spray of blood and bone fragments into the air, splattering the nearby walls and coating the cracked floor.

For a moment, the pit was silent, save for the faint hiss of steam rising from the smoldering wound. The brute’s body convulsed once, twice, before falling still. His eyes, once burning with fury, glazed over as his massive frame slumped against the ground, having squashed the impaled woman on his back like a tube of paste with bits of internals escaping from her orphaces.

Dean staggered back, his legs trembling as he fought to stay upright. The remaining inmates stared in wide-eyed horror, their faces pale and streaked with grime. Above them, the dim light flickered, casting erratic shadows that danced like ghosts on the blood-streaked walls.

Heller clapped slowly, the sound echoing through the pit. “Well, well, Matroni. Looks like you’re not just dead weight after all. Shame about the others, though.” His grin widened. “Guess you’ll have some vacancies in your little crew. Better choose your friends wisely.”

Dean glared up at Heller, his body aching, his breaths ragged. “Did I win?” he muttered, the words barely audible. His lips curled into a faint smirk, but the effort it took to stay upright was draining fast.

Heller’s slow clap echoed like a hammer in Dean’s skull. His grin widened, teeth glinting in the dim light. “Don’t go thinking this is over. You’ve still got a long way to fall.”

Dean’s knees buckled. The pit tilted sideways, the flickering light overhead dimming into darkness. The last thing he heard was the faint hum of the vibrating walls, almost like laughter, as his vision faded completely.

Sydney

Sydney’s body moved on autopilot, her mind racing as the stretcher rolled along the endless, twisting corridors. The occasional jolt over uneven grated floors made her wince, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the suffocating weight of dread building in her chest. Each new level they descended seemed to peel back another layer of sanity, revealing horrors that gnawed at the edges of her comprehension.

The guards’ voices, gruff and monotone, occasionally cut through the oppressive silence. “Keep it tight,” one barked as the stretcher bumped down another level. The faint echoes of screams, mechanical whirs, and guttural growls filled the air like a distant symphony of despair. The smell was unbearable now—a thick miasma of sweat, rust, and something sweeter, more nauseating, like rotting fruit mixed with charred meat.

{Where am I going? Where are they taking me? The doctor shouldn’t be this far away, why are we going down so many stairs?} Sydney’s thoughts spiraled, her vision blurring as panic crept in.

The stretcher came to a halt as a set of heavy, reinforced doors hissed open. Sydney craned her neck, trying to make sense of her surroundings, but the dim light and narrow slits in the walls offered little clarity. She thought she saw movement—shadowy figures darting just out of sight—but the guards seemed unfazed, their boots clanking rhythmically as they pushed her through.

{This can’t be real. It has to be some kind of nightmare, right? I passed out from the punches?} Her thoughts were interrupted as the stretcher bumped forward, jarring her ribs and making her groan. The guard nearest her glanced down, his visor obscuring his face, but she felt the weight of his scrutiny. He said nothing, simply returning his attention forward.

The air was colder, biting at her now exposed skin, her jumpsuit had been unzipped and lowered by the guards along their journey, they claimed it was to make sure she wasn’t bleeding, but she figured better by the way they occasionally looked down at her, and the lighting was almost nonexistent. What little she could see was washed in a sickly green hue that seemed to pulsate faintly, like a heartbeat. The walls were no longer smooth metal but textured, almost organic, with dark, fleshy patches that glistened under the sparse light.

The group descended again, the steps groaning under their weight. The air thickened, the stench of rot now accompanied by a bitter, chemical tang that stung Sydney’s nostrils. Her stomach churned, bile rising in her throat as the sounds around her changed. There were whispers now—low, guttural murmurs that seemed to come from the walls themselves. She couldn’t make out words, but the tone was unmistakably malicious.

The first door they passed was ajar, and Sydney’s breath caught as she glimpsed the interior. A figure—barely human—was suspended in the center of the room. Mechanical arms bristling with needles and scalpels worked in perfect synchrony, peeling back layers of skin to reveal sinew and bone. The figure’s eyes were wide, its mouth stretched in a silent scream as tubes pumped a viscous black fluid into its veins.

{Oh god, oh god, oh god.} Sydney squeezed her eyes shut, the image burning into her mind regardless. The guards pushed her onward, their pace unrelenting, and she forced herself to focus on breathing—inhale, exhale, repeat. Anything to drown out the sounds of metal slicing flesh and the wet, gurgling noises that followed.

Another door stood open farther down, and this time Sydney couldn’t tear her gaze away. Rows of tanks filled the room, their contents shrouded in a murky, greenish fluid. The shapes inside were barely human—some grotesquely stretched, others compressed into fetal positions. One figure floated close to the glass, its skin translucent and pulsing with dark, web-like veins. Its head twisted unnaturally, empty sockets locking onto Sydney as she passed. She choked back a sob, her entire body trembling.

The guards seemed to notice her reaction. One of them leaned down, his voice brimming with ridicule. “You getting scared yet, beautiful? This is just the appetizer.” After which, he gave her an affectionate pinch to her arm, his touch feeling alien and unwanted.

Sydney didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Her throat felt like it was closing, her lungs struggling to draw in air. {Stay calm. Don’t give them the satisfaction.} But the mantra felt hollow, a fragile barrier against the rising tide of terror.

The corridor twisted again, and this time the walls seemed to breathe. Dark, sinewy cords pulsed periodicaly, veins of some unknown material threading through the steel like an infection. The whispers returned, louder now, distinct words forming in a language she didn’t understand. But the tone was unmistakably malicious, each syllable slicing through her mind like a razor.

At the next junction, they passed a glass chamber. Sydney forced herself to look, hoping for some reprieve from the horrors, but her stomach turned at the sight. Inside was a creature unlike anything she’d ever seen. It was massive, its body a grotesque fusion of flesh and machinery. Mechanical arms jutted from its back, tipped with claws that dripped a dark, viscous substance. Its face—or what was left of it—was a patchwork of human features and metal plating, its mouth a jagged maw of exposed gears and teeth.

The creature turned its head, and Sydney swore it looked directly at her. A guttural growl rumbled from its chest, and it slammed its clawed appendages against the glass. The entire chamber shook, and the guards quickened their pace, muttering curses under their breath.

“What the hell is that thing?” Sydney croaked, her voice barely audible over the ringing in her ears.

One of the guards snorted. “That? Just one of our little projects. Hope you don’t end up in the room next to it.”

The words sent a chill down her spine, her body tensing involuntarily. {End up next to it? What does that even mean? Are they—no, no, no.} Her thoughts spiraled, panic clawing at the edges of her mind. She glanced at the guard, hoping for some sign of humanity, but his visor reflected only her own pale, terrified face. Her fear engulfing her to the point of not even realizing the guards never had a chance to grab helmets, especially the tight fitting masked ones they all now seemed to be wielding.

As they descended yet another staircase, the air grew thicker, heavier, until it felt like she was breathing through a wet cloth. The lighting shifted to a deep red, casting eerie shadows that danced across the walls. Sydney’s mind reeled, each step deeper into this hellhole stripping away her sense of reality.

{What do they want with me? What are they going to do to me? How did they create that… MONSTER!?} The questions looped endlessly, unanswered and unrelenting. She felt like she was drowning, her own thoughts dragging her under.

The stretcher came to a halt, and the guards exchanged a few terse words. One of them leaned over her, his gloved hand gripping her shoulder tightly. “Welcome to the bottom, sweetheart,” he said with a distorted voice through his mask, his tone laced with cruel amusement. “This is where the real fun begins.”

The cold metal beneath her felt like ice against her skin, but it was nothing compared to the oppressive weight of fear bearing down on her chest. Her face still throbbed with pain, the swelling from her earlier fight making it hard to see clearly. Her left eye was nearly swollen shut, and her split lip pulsed in rhythm with her pounding heartbeat. Her breathing came in shallow, ragged gasps as the guards left her stretcher in the open alcove.

{What the hell is happening? What are they going to do to me?} Her thoughts raced, a raucousness of fear and confusion that she couldn’t quiet. She craned her neck, desperate to take in her surroundings, but the dim red lighting offered little clarity. The walls were smooth and featureless, except for the occasional dark streak she didn’t want to identify. The air felt heavy, oppressive, like she was buried under layers of earth instead of steel.

Her throat tightened, and her chest heaved as she struggled against the straps holding her down. The restraints dug into her wrists and ankles, leaving angry red marks against her skin. “Let me go!” she shouted, though her voice cracked and wavered, the words bouncing off the walls and dying in the oppressive silence. “What do you want from me?!”

The only response was the faint hum of machinery in the distance, a rhythmic, mechanical drone that seemed to vibrate through the very walls. Sydney’s head fell back onto the stretcher, her body trembling as tears blurred her vision. She had never felt so small, so helpless. {I shouldn’t have fought back. I shouldn’t have done anything. I’m going to die here. Alone. Daddy…}

Her spiral was interrupted by a sudden hiss from above. Sydney froze, her breath catching in her throat as she squinted upward. The faint red light glinted off a nozzle extending from the ceiling, its purpose unclear until—

A fine mist sprayed down, covering her exposed skin in a cool, damp layer. For a brief second, she thought it might be water, some kind of disinfectant. But then the burning began.

It started as a prickling sensation, like thousands of tiny needles pressing into her skin, but it quickly escalated. Her body erupted in searing pain, the sensation like acid eating through her flesh. Sydney screamed, her body arching against the restraints as she thrashed in desperation. The burning was everywhere—her arms, her legs, her face. Her already battered skin felt like it was being peeled away layer by layer.

“Stop it! Stop it!” she screamed, her voice raw and desperate. She could feel the tears streaming down her face, mixing with the burning mist and amplifying the pain. Her vision swam as her body writhed uncontrollably, every nerve ending alight with agony.

The mist stopped as suddenly as it had started, leaving Sydney gasping for air. Her skin felt raw and tender, every movement sending fresh waves of pain coursing through her. She sobbed quietly, her body trembling as she tried to regain control of her breathing.

A loud clang startled her, and she turned her head weakly to see the wall in front of her sliding open. Blinding white light flooded the alcove, making her squint against its intensity. A shadowy figure emerged from the light, its shape resolving into that of a rotund man dressed entirely in white. His surgical mask obscured most of his face, but his small, gleaming eyes and the way he licked his lips behind the mask, shifting it, made her stomach churn.

Without a word, he grabbed the edge of the stretcher and began pulling her forward into the light. The stretcher’s wheels squeaked and rattled as he dragged her into a room so brightly lit it felt otherworldly. The red shadows and oppressive darkness of the prison’s lower levels were left behind, replaced by an immaculate, sterile environment that seemed to pulse with artificial light.

Sydney blinked rapidly, her swollen eye barely opening as she tried to make sense of her surroundings. The room was massive, its walls and floors gleaming with a mirror-like cleanliness. Figures in lab coats moved with purpose, carrying clipboards and murmuring to one another in hushed tones. The sound of beeping monitors and the occasional mechanical whir filled the air, a stark contrast to the screams and moans she had heard earlier.

Through glass walls lining the corridor, she caught glimpses of other rooms. One held a lecture in progress, with rows of people seated before a whiteboard covered in complex equations and anatomical diagrams. Another contained rows of cylindrical tanks filled with a clear liquid, each housing a suspended body in varying states of modification. Some were humanoid, others monstrous, their shapes blurred by the refracting light of the liquid.

{This isn’t a prison. It’s a lab. What the hell is this place?}

Her heart pounded as the man in white pushed her stretcher down the corridor, past rooms filled with equipment she couldn’t begin to name. Every detail was hyperreal, overwhelming her senses—the faint smell of antiseptic, the soft hum of machinery, the muffled conversations in languages she didn’t understand. She felt like a lab rat, being wheeled toward some horrifying experiment she had no hope of escaping.

“Please,” she croaked, her voice hoarse and barely audible. “What are you going to do to me?”

The man didn’t respond. He didn’t even look at her. His focus remained on the path ahead, his hands gripping the stretcher with a detached precision that made her stomach churn.

Sydney’s mind raced, every possibility more horrifying than the last. {They’re going to dissect me. They’re going to turn me into one of those… things. Or worse, they’ll…} She couldn’t finish the thought, the possibilities too grotesque to entertain.

Finally, the stretcher came to a stop in a smaller, enclosed room. The walls were bare except for a single monitor displaying her name and a series of indecipherable readings. The man in white stepped back, adjusting his gloves before tapping on a panel beside the door.

“Wait,” Sydney begged, her voice trembling as she struggled against the restraints. “Please, just tell me what’s happening!”

The man paused, his head tilting slightly as though considering her plea. Then, without a word, he turned and exited the room, the door hissing shut behind him. Sydney was alone once more, the hum of the monitor the only sound in the sterile, suffocating silence.

Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she stared at the ceiling, her mind a storm of fear and confusion. {This can’t be real. This can’t be real. Wake up, Sydney. Wake up.} But no matter how tightly she closed her eyes or how hard she wished, the nightmare didn’t end.

Her mind spun, trying to piece together the horrors she had witnessed in the corridors outside and the cold, clinical detachment of this lab. Her body trembled with the effort to suppress the rising panic.

The hiss of the door opening snapped her out of her spiraling thoughts. A figure entered, his presence immediately commanding attention. He wasn’t dressed like the others she’d seen in their pristine white lab coats. Instead, he wore a tailored suit of deep crimson, the color so vibrant it seemed to bleed into the sterile whiteness of the room. His ghostly pale skin was almost translucent, veins faintly visible beneath the surface. Crimson eyes, sharp and unyielding, scanned the room with an intensity that made Sydney shrink into herself. His hair was nearly white, a striking contrast to the red suit.

Sydney’s heart skipped a beat as recognition struck her. {It’s him. The man from the yard. The one who killed that loudmouth… Xubruse? The Surgeon, they called him. But he’s a prisoner, isn’t he? Why is he here? Why isn’t he wearing a collar?}

Her confusion deepened as he moved with purpose, his footsteps echoing faintly against the polished floor. He carried himself with the detached confidence of someone who belonged here, who owned the room despite its alien sterility. He approached a console at the side of the room, his long, pale fingers dancing across the holographic interface as he read the information displayed.

“Curious,” The man murmured, his voice smooth yet carrying an edge that hinted at a lifetime of control and precision. He didn’t look at her, his attention fixed on the screen. “Sydney H. Clarke. Daughter of Jonathan H. Clarke.”

Sydney stiffened at the mention of her father, her mind reeling. {How does he know that? What does my father have to do with any of this?}

His crimson eyes flicked briefly in her direction, his gaze cutting through her like a scalpel. “Signed in automatically on a gold plan. Very curious indeed.”

He returned his focus to the console, his expression unreadable. “Gold plan entrants are rare. Very rare. Reserved for those with substantial resources or influence. And yet here you are, a self-proclaimed ‘nobody,’ shackled and bleeding in the depths of Ashgate.” His tone was clinical, detached, as if he were dissecting her life like a frog on a table. “Fascinating.”

Sydney’s throat tightened, her voice caught somewhere between fear and indignation. “What are you talking about? What plan? I’m not supposed to be here!” It was only now that she caught a name tag on his jacket, a silver-plated etched name: Dr. Baxter.

Baxter ignored her protests, continuing his analysis. “Blood type: AB-negative. Statistically rare. A genetic match for several compatibility indices flagged in your intake.” He tilted his head slightly, as though cataloging her features. “You’re listed as being convicted for the crime of altering critical ZerdinTech files. A federal offense with severe implications. Yet…” His gaze finally met hers, sharp and penetrating. “Even this seems… off.”

His words hung in the air, a chill settling over the room. Baxter folded his hands behind his back, his posture rigid but relaxed in its control. “Your psyche evaluation paints a picture of a young woman who is inexperienced, naive, and utterly unsuited for the environment she’s been thrust into. A curious pawn in a game far larger than she understands.”

Sydney felt her breath quicken, her mind scrambling to process the rapid fire of revelations. “I don’t belong here,” she managed, her voice shaking. “I didn’t do anything. I didn’t—”

Baxter cut her off with a wave of his hand, a gesture that silenced her as effectively as a blade to the throat. “Spare me the denials. Your guilt or innocence is irrelevant in this place. What matters is what you are—and what you may become.”

He stepped closer, his crimson eyes narrowing as he studied her. His expression shifted, a faint sneer curling his lips. “But I must say,” he drawled, his voice low and harsh, “it is difficult to look at something so unsightly.”

Sydney flinched as he leaned over her, his fingers deftly grabbing a section of her torn prison pants. With a single sharp motion, he tore away the fabric, exposing her leg. Her breath hitched, a fresh wave of humiliation and vulnerability washing over her.

Baxter’s pale, ghostly hand hovered over her bare skin for a moment before he placed it firmly against her thigh. The touch was cold, clinical, yet it sent a jolt of searing pain through her body. Sydney’s back arched involuntarily as the sensation spread, her muscles locking up as though electricity coursed through her veins.

The pain intensified, radiating outward from her leg and crawling up to her face. Sydney screamed, her voice raw and ragged as her swollen features contorted. The broken skin and bruises on her face began to shift unnaturally, the swelling subsiding with each agonizing second. Her nose, which had been cracked and bleeding, realigned itself with a sickening crunch. The gash on her cheek knitted itself together, the pain so sharp it made her vision blur.

Every nerve in her face burned as the process continued, her skin stretching and reshaping with excruciating precision. It felt as though her flesh was being peeled away and reassembled, layer by layer. Tears streamed down her cheeks, her cries echoing off the sterile walls.

And then, as abruptly as it began, the pain ceased. Sydney collapsed back onto the stretcher, her chest heaving as she gasped for air. Her face felt strangely numb, the absence of pain almost as disorienting as the agony itself. She blinked rapidly, her vision clearing enough to catch her reflection in the polished metal surface of a nearby monitor.

Her face was… perfect. Smooth, unblemished, as though the fight had never happened. Too caught up in her face, it was only now that she realized the heavyness and burning in her chest and stomach had also subsided.

Baxter straightened, his expression unreadable as he regarded her. “There,” he said coldly. “Much better. Now I don’t have to avert my eyes.” He turned away, returning to the console without another word, leaving Sydney to grapple with the horrific, incomprehensible reality of what had just happened.

Maxwell

Maxwell exited the observation room, his crimson suit stark against the cold sterility of the laboratory corridors. His footsteps, deliberate and sharp, echoed faintly as he approached a group of scientists clustered near a terminal. The group parted slightly as he arrived, their hushed conversation halting. Amo, Maxwell’s personal assistant and monitor, trailed behind him, his movements silent, his expression as neutral as ever behind his round-narrow gray eyes.

Although the inmates called him Amo, the lab officials referred to him as “Koma.” The name suited him in some way, Maxwell thought. The boy had a preternatural calm about him, his expression permanently neutral, his movements efficient and measured, much like Maxwell, whom he shadowed at all times of the day.

One of the scientists, a woman with steel-gray hair pulled into a tight bun, stepped forward. Her lab coat bore the insignia of the ZerdinTech research division. “Doctor Baxter,” she greeted, her tone clipped but respectful. “We’ve compiled the initial data on Patient DM-693.”

Maxwell’s pale gaze slid to the monitor she gestured to. “And?”

The woman hesitated, her eyes flicking to the others before continuing. “Her vitals are within acceptable ranges, though the psyche scans show significant volatility. Early compatibility tests indicate a high probability of rejection if further adjustments aren’t made.”

Maxwell’s lips quirked into a faint, almost predatory smile. “Rejection is merely nature sorting the weak from the strong. Let her resist. If she survives, she’ll be all the better for it.”

One of the younger scientists, a man with wide-rimmed glasses and an air of nervous energy, shifted uncomfortably. “But her psychological state—”

“Is irrelevant,” Maxwell interrupted, his tone as sharp as the scalpel-like precision of his thoughts. “You’re analyzing her as though she’s human. That’s where your perspective fails. She is no longer merely human. None of them are. They’re vessels, conduits for progress.”

Amo stepped forward slightly, his black eyes flicking to the data displayed on the terminal. “Her designation as a gold-tier intake. It’s unusual.”

Maxwell glanced at him, his interest piqued. “Indeed it is. Tell me, what do you make of that, Amo?”

The boy tilted his head, his gaze unwavering. “Gold-tier implies significant backing or influence. But the circumstances surrounding her intake are… inconsistent. Her background doesn’t align with standard parameters.”

“Precisely,” Maxwell murmured, his tone tinged with satisfaction. “Sydney H. Clarke. Daughter of Jonathan H. Clarke. A name that carries weight, even here. And yet, there are irregularities.”

He turned back to the group, his pale features illuminated by the glow of the monitors. “She was convicted of altering critical ZerdinTech files. A crime with implications far beyond the scope of her age or supposed inexperience. Either she is far more capable than she appears, or…” His gaze sharpened. “She’s a pawn in someone else’s game.”

The gray-haired scientist frowned. “You believe her placement here is intentional? Manipulated?”

Maxwell’s smile returned, cold and calculated. “This facility thrives on manipulation. Nothing is accidental within Ashgate’s walls.”

The younger scientist cleared his throat, his unease palpable. “But her condition… the beating she received before intake… Should we prioritize her stabilization?”

Maxwell’s expression hardened, his eyes gleaming with an almost unsettling intensity. “Stabilization is secondary. She has already proven herself durable, surviving both the fight and the initial phases of preparation. What matters now is whether her resilience can be harnessed.”

Amo’s voice cut through the tension, soft but firm. “And if it can’t?”

Maxwell turned to him, his smile returning, though it was devoid of warmth. “Then we’ll learn something valuable in her failure. Either way, progress will be made.”

He straightened, his crimson suit catching the light as he gestured toward the corridor leading to Sydney’s holding room. “Prepare the next phase. I’ll observe directly.”

As Maxwell strode away, the scientists exchanged uneasy glances, their whispers filling the space he left behind. Amo lingered for a moment, his expression as inscrutable as ever, before following Maxwell, his footsteps nearly silent against the polished floor.

---

Maxwell and Amo stood at the edge of a wide observation window overlooking Sydney’s preparation chamber. The dim light of the corridor cast their silhouettes sharply against the polished glass. Amo’s black eyes reflected the faint glow of the monitors, his expression as blank and unreadable as always. Beside him, Maxwell’s pale, sharp features were set in a contemplative frown.

The door to Sydney’s chamber slid open with a soft hiss, and a team of four entered, dressed head-to-toe in biohazard suits. Their movements were deliberate and practiced, the faint rustle of their protective gear audible even through the thick glass. One carried a metal case, the others pushing a cart with an array of surgical tools and vials.

“An unconventional intake,” Amo said finally, his tone devoid of inflection. His hands were folded neatly behind his back, his posture as perfect and mechanical as his voice. “Gold-tier, no prior enhancement, but exceptional compatibility ratings. Rare.”

Maxwell didn’t look at him, his focus remaining on the scene below. “Rare doesn’t begin to describe it. Cases like hers come with implications. Someone powerful placed her here, and someone else approved it.”

Amo tilted his head slightly. “Do you trust the ratings, Doctor Baxter?”

Maxwell’s lips twitched in a faint smirk. “I don’t trust anything, Amo. But I trust in opportunity, and she represents exactly that.”

The conversation lapsed into silence as one of the suited figures uncapped a syringe, its needle glinting under the sterile light. The liquid inside was an unnatural whitish green, almost luminous, like an alien phosphorescence trapped in a vial. The figure approached Sydney, whose restrained body jolted weakly as the needle pierced the vein in her arm. Within seconds, her thrashing slowed, her limbs going limp as her breathing grew shallow and uneven.

“She’s responding well to the sedative,” Amo noted, his gaze tracking the monitors displaying her vitals. “No immediate signs of rejection.”

Maxwell hummed thoughtfully. “Good. She’ll need to be as pliable as possible. The shin will resist anything less.”

Amo turned his unblinking gaze to Maxwell. “They have chosen a Diaotic entity. Why not something simpler for her first splicing? Why risk a shinmanaokimagi alignment from the start?”

Maxwell finally glanced at him, the faintest hint of amusement flickering in his crimson eyes. “Because simplicity yields mediocrity. The shinmanaokimagi are notoriously difficult to anchor, but their potential is unmatched. It’s a protective barrier around the host’s soul, granting resilience most can only dream of. If she survives, she’ll be formidable.”

“Formidable,” Amo echoed, as if tasting the word. “And if she doesn’t?”

“Then she will serve as an excellent study in failure,” Maxwell replied, his tone almost dismissive.

The suited figures began their work, meticulously unfastening Sydney’s restraints. Her drowsy, unfocused eyes fluttered open briefly, but her body was too heavy, too lethargic to resist. The figures moved with precision, stripping away the remnants of her prison uniform and discarding it onto the sterile floor. They proceeded to scrub her skin with harsh brushes and a pungent chemical solution that caused her skin to redden under their relentless movements.

Sydney whimpered softly, the sound muffled but audible through the observation room’s speakers. Maxwell didn’t flinch; his attention remained clinical, detached. Amo’s gaze lingered on the scene for a moment before he turned back to the monitors.

“Bolakuar entities are known for their… temperamental nature,” Amo said, his voice a measured monotone. “Merging with one often destabilizes the host’s psyche. Many Diaotics succumb to madness.”

Maxwell’s smile was razor-thin. “Madness is merely the human condition taken to its extremes, Amo. If she survives, she’ll adapt. If not, she wasn’t worth the investment.”

The scrubbing continued, the suited figures ensuring every inch of Sydney’s skin was cleansed. Her breaths came in shallow gasps, her eyes fluttering closed again as the sedative pulled her deeper into its grip. The figures showed no sign of discomfort or hesitation, their movements programed in their efficiency.

“What interests me most,” Maxwell mused, “is the shin’s nature. This particular entity, hailing from the fifth vein of the Kinescale Dimension, exhibits traits of cerebral augmentation. Enhanced perception, mental manipulation, even precognitive bursts. If the fusion succeeds, she’ll could become a very helpful asset.”

Amo nodded slowly, his expression unchanged. “High risk, high reward.”

“Precisely,” Maxwell said, his gaze narrowing. “And I am not in the business of low stakes.”

The suited figures finished their work, rinsing Sydney’s reddened skin with a hose that sent rivulets of water pooling on the floor. They stepped back, their task complete, and resecured her onto the gurney. Her body was limp, her consciousness flickering like a dying flame. The figures wheeled her out of the preparation chamber, leaving the space sanitized and empty once more.

“She’s ready for the splicing chamber,” Amo said, his tone as even as ever.

Maxwell straightened, his crimson eyes gleaming. “Then let us see what becomes of Sydney H. Clarke. She ascends, or she burns.”

The Strong, Silent Type

The bell above the deli door jingled as Archie Benjamin Rogers — “Arch” to his friends, “Benny” to his parents — pushed through, balancing a crate of pickles on his broad shoulder like it was filled with feathers. Inside, the smell of cured meats and fresh bread mixed with the soft hum of a radio in the corner playing classic country hits. The small-town deli was a comforting routine, a predictable little world tucked inside a town that moved at its own slow pace.

Archie ducked slightly to clear the low doorway into the stockroom, the crate knocking a lightbulb loose from its socket as he passed. He winced at the tiny clink of glass but didn’t stop moving until the crate was on the counter.

“Archie, for Pete’s sake!” came the exasperated voice of Mr. Callahan, the wiry old owner, as he emerged from the back. “That’s the third lightbulb this month.”

“Sorry,” Archie mumbled, scratching the back of his neck, his sandy brown hair sticking up in spikes where his fingers raked it. “Didn’t realize it was that close.”

“You never realize, do ya? You’re built like a bull but handle things like one too,” Callahan said with a sigh, though there wasn’t much malice in it.

Archie nodded sheepishly, grabbing a broom and muttering an apology as he swept up the glass. He’d heard it all before. Careful, Arch. Pay attention, Arch. His parents, his boss, even his friends—everyone had something to say about his “strength.” He didn’t think much of it himself. Sure, he was strong, but wasn’t everyone? He just figured other people were better at keeping it in check.

By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the small town in soft shades of orange and gold, Archie’s shift ended. Callahan handed him an envelope of cash with the usual grumble about being careful, and Archie stuffed it into his jacket pocket before stepping out onto the cracked sidewalk.

His beat-up truck was parked under a flickering streetlamp. The metal door creaked as he pulled it open, climbing in and cranking the engine. He drove to the edge of town, to the kind of place you could only find in small towns like his — a barn converted into a half-decent hangout.

Inside, Archie found his usual crowd. Chester “Chess” Wright, all elbows and glasses, was hunched over a broken CB radio, its guts spilling across the makeshift table of a warped barn door balanced on cinder blocks. Across from him, Roy “Junior” Simmons leaned precariously in a creaking metal chair, the front legs hovering inches above the ground. His hands were stuffed in his overall pockets, his smirk as permanent as the grease under his nails.

“Arch, grab me a Coke,” Junior drawled without looking up, launching a bottle cap across the barn with a flick of his thumb. It arced through the air and landed with a satisfying clink in a coffee can sitting on the floor.

Archie rolled his eyes but obliged, pulling a chilled bottle from the ancient, humming mini-fridge in the corner. He cracked it open and handed it over. “Any luck with that thing, Chess?”

“It’s not about luck, Arch,” Chess replied, not looking up as he fiddled with the delicate wiring. “It’s about precision. You wouldn’t understand. If you’d ever take the time to—”

“Let me stop you right there, nerd,” Junior interrupted, finally tilting his chair forward and taking a sip of Coke. “Nobody’s here for a lecture. We’re here to shoot the breeze and drink soda. Quit messing with that junk.”

Chess scowled but didn’t stop tinkering. “At least I do something productive with my time. What’ve you done lately? Shot a squirrel with your BB gun?”

“Better than wasting hours pretending I’m gonna build some robot army or whatever it is you’re doin’,” Junior shot back, his grin widening. “Maybe I’ll aim for a raccoon next. Gotta set goals.”

“Sure, Roy,” Chess said with mock seriousness, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Aspire to greatness. Start a whole career as a rodent sniper.”

Archie leaned against the wall, sipping his drink as he watched them bicker. It was a ritual as old as their friendship, a constant back-and-forth that neither of them ever seemed to tire of. For all their jabs, it was clear they couldn’t function without each other. They were like an old married couple—if one half of the marriage was a wiry, bespectacled genius and the other a lazy farm boy with questionable decision-making skills.

The barn door creaked open, spilling cool night air into the musty space, and a voice called out, “You boys behaving yourselves, or is Chess explaining thermodynamics again?”

It was Lena Davis, Chess’ girlfriend, striding in with a confidence that belied the exhaustion in her eyes. She had just finished her shift at the Lucky Horseshoe, the only bar in town worth mentioning. Her hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, and she tossed a small wad of cash onto the table beside Chess’ work.

“Tips weren’t half bad tonight,” she said, slumping into the seat beside Chess. “Guess old man Sanders thought his fifty-cent tips were real generous.”

“Probably trying to impress you,” Junior teased, leaning back in his chair again. “Bet he was talking up his tractor collection, huh?”

“Don’t remind me.” Lena rolled her eyes and nudged Chess’ arm. “Hey, genius, take a break. You’ve been poking at that thing for days.”

“It’s almost done,” Chess muttered, but he set the radio aside when she gave him a look.

“Thanks,” Lena said, smiling before glancing at Archie. “How’s life in deli-land, Arch?”

“Same as always,” Archie replied. “Break things, apologize, get yelled at.”

Lena chuckled. “Sounds about right.”

Junior leaned forward, an uncharacteristic seriousness settling over his features. “Hey, speaking of work, you haven’t been hanging around that Rockslay guy, have you?”

Archie frowned. “What? No. Why?”

Junior exchanged a glance with Lena, who folded her arms and nodded. “He’s bad news, Arch. Real bad. You don’t want to get mixed up with him.”

Archie shifted uncomfortably. “I barely know the guy. What’s the big deal?”

“He’s a walking mess of trouble,” Junior said flatly. “Fights, drugs, theft—you name it. He drags everyone down with him. Even folks who don’t deserve it.”

“And he’s got an ego the size of Franzo,” Lena added. “Saw him at the bar last week acting like he owned the place. Trust me, Arch, stay away from him.”

Archie sighed, feeling the familiar weight of their concern pressing down on him. He knew they meant well, but sometimes it felt like everyone in his life was trying to steer him one way or another. “Yeah, I get it,” he said, keeping his tone neutral. “Thanks for the warning.”

Chess, oblivious to the tension, perked up suddenly. “Hey, you wanna see what this thing does when I power it on? I think I got it working.”

“Nope,” Junior said immediately, standing and grabbing his jacket. “Not sticking around for you to blow the barn up.”

“It’s not going to—oh, forget it,” Chess muttered as Junior and Lena both laughed.

Archie chuckled despite himself. These moments, as chaotic as they were, were his anchor. They reminded him of simpler things—of friendship, of loyalty, of people who genuinely cared, even if they had a funny way of showing it.

---

The house stood like a relic of a better time, a boxy suburban dollhouse with peeling white paint and mismatched shutters that had once been cheerful yellow but had faded into a sickly beige. The front lawn was patchy and uneven, dotted with weeds that refused to be tamed, much like the family inside. The porch light flickered as Archie stepped out of his truck, the metallic groan of the old vehicle’s door slamming shut echoing down the quiet street.

The windows glowed dimly, a television casting blue and gray shadows on the lace curtains. Even from the driveway, Archie could hear the low hum of voices—his parents, Heather and Andrew Rogers, talking in sharp, clipped tones. No shouting, not yet, but the kind of tight-lipped argument that could curdle the air.

He hesitated at the door. The familiar knot twisted in his stomach, but he pressed forward anyway, turning the handle and stepping inside. The faint smell of reheated leftovers lingered in the air, and the living room greeted him with its usual scene: his mother perched stiffly on the edge of the couch, her arms crossed, and his father slouched in the recliner, beer bottle in hand. They both turned to look at him the moment the door clicked shut.

“Nice of you to finally come home,” Heather said, her voice cutting through the silence like a razor. Her tone was light, almost conversational, but it carried a venom that made Archie’s neck tense. “Long day at work, I assume?”

Archie didn’t answer right away. He slipped off his boots and set them neatly by the door, brushing off the lingering cold of the evening air. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Busy day.”

“Busy,” Andrew echoed, taking a lazy swig of his beer. He gestured vaguely with the bottle, his words slurring just slightly around the edges. “Busy breaking stuff, I bet. Probably cost Callahan more in damages than you made him in sales, huh?”

Archie’s jaw tightened, but he kept his face neutral. “Didn’t break anything important.”

“Didn’t break anything important,” Heather repeated, mockingly, as she leaned forward. “That’s rich. How many times are you gonna waltz through life not caring about what you ruin, Archie? Because let me tell you, it’s getting real old.”

“I do care,” Archie said softly, his voice barely above a murmur. He met his mother’s sharp glare for a brief second before looking away.

“You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” Heather snapped, standing and pacing a few steps across the room. “Do you know how embarrassing it is to have Callahan call me again? ‘Your son smashed another display case,’ or ‘Your son crushed a broom handle.’ What’s next, Archie? Are you going to tear the whole building down?”

“I said I was sorry,” Archie replied, quieter still, his hands balling into fists at his sides. He didn’t even realize he was doing it until he felt his nails dig into his palms.

“Sorry doesn’t fix things,” Andrew chimed in, not looking up from the TV. The game played on, ignored except as background noise to his commentary. “Sorry doesn’t pay bills. Doesn’t keep this house running. And you sure as hell aren’t doing much of that, are you, Benny?”

Archie flinched at the nickname, the one his father always used when he wanted to cut him down. He hated it. But he didn’t say so. He didn’t say anything.

“You’d think,” Heather continued, gesturing animatedly, “that a kid with your strength would use it for something. Roofing, construction, landscaping. But no. You’re stuck in that deli, breaking more than you’re earning.”

Archie forced himself to stand still, his hands trembling slightly with the effort of holding back. Words pressed against the back of his throat, bitter and sharp, but he swallowed them down. Arguing never worked. It only made things worse.

“You’ve got no ambition, Benny,” Andrew added with a dismissive wave. “No direction. You’re strong, but you’ve got no spine. A waste of potential. Just like your mother says.”

Heather shot Andrew a sharp look, but she didn’t correct him. Instead, she turned her focus back to Archie, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “Maybe you should think about what you’re going to do with your life, Archie. Because right now? You’re going nowhere. And dragging us down with you.”

The words hit like stones, but Archie didn’t flinch. He stood there, rooted in place, his face a blank slate. He wanted to yell, to tell them how hard he worked, how much he wanted things to be different, but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Instead, he clenched his fists tighter, his nails biting into his skin, and nodded.

“Okay,” he said softly, his voice barely audible. “I’ll… I’ll figure it out.”

“Yeah, you do that,” Heather said, her tone icy. “And while you’re at it, try not to break anything else.”

Archie turned without another word and headed for his room, his boots whispering against the worn carpet. He climbed the narrow stairs to the second floor, each step creaking under his weight. His room was small and bare, more of a storage closet with a bed crammed into it. The walls were lined with faded wallpaper, and the ceiling sloped awkwardly, giving it the feel of an attic space.

He shut the door behind him and leaned against it, exhaling slowly. His hands were still shaking, and his palms bore half-moon indentations from his nails. He stared at them for a long moment, then shook his head and crossed the room to the bed.

Sinking onto the worn mattress, he let his head fall into his hands. The house was quiet again, the muffled sound of the TV and his parents’ low voices the only reminders of their presence. It always ended like this—sharp words, heavy silences, and Archie retreating to the safety of his room.

He didn’t cry. He hadn’t in years. Instead, he sat there in the dim light of the bedside lamp, his shoulders hunched and his mind turning over the same thoughts it always did.

{Maybe they’re right. Maybe I am just a screw-up. A waste.}

Sydney

Sydney’s senses were the first to return, though she wished they hadn’t. Her head swam with disjointed fragments of memories—corridors stretching endlessly, rooms filled with horrors she could barely comprehend, and a final descent into suffocating darkness. But as consciousness fully gripped her, it wasn’t the visions that sent a spike of panic through her—it was the cold.

Her body was cold, exposed.

The first thing she registered was the clammy, slick sensation against her skin. A viscous substance clung to her like a second layer, its sickly sweet, metallic scent making her gag. Her limbs were splayed wide, strapped tightly to a cold, metal table. The restraints cut into her wrists and ankles, leaving raw impressions on her pale skin.

She tried to move, her muscles screaming in protest, but the bonds held firm. The table beneath her felt damp, the liquid pooling beneath her and trailing sluggishly down her sides. Her breathing quickened, each gasp echoing in the sterile, cavernous room. The lights above flickered erratically, casting distorted shadows across the walls, which seemed to close in around her like a predator stalking its prey.

A raw, choked noise escaped her throat as her mind pieced together her situation. {Where am I? What did they do to me?} Panic surged as she craned her neck, her eyes darting frantically across the room. The surroundings were stark, clinical, but wrong in ways she couldn’t quite define. The walls seemed to hum faintly, pulsing in rhythm with the flickering lights. Machinery stood in shadowed corners, bristling with tubing and needles, their purpose alien and terrifying.

It was then she noticed him.

A boy stood across the room, his presence startlingly out of place amidst the horror. Barely older than her, his face was a mask of neutrality, his features smooth and emotionless. His unnatural silver-blond hair hung neatly, framing piercing gray eyes that regarded her with the same indifference one might reserve for a lab rat. He stood rigidly still, dressed in a pristine white coat that seemed untouched by the filth surrounding them.

Sydney’s voice cracked when she finally managed to speak. “Who… who are you? What’s going on? What happened to me?”

The boy tilted his head slightly, as though considering her questions for a moment longer than necessary. When he spoke, his tone was devoid of inflection, each word precise and cold. “I am Dyame Koma,” he said simply, his hands clasped behind his back. “You went through the process. Your body was… prepared.”

“Prepared?” Sydney’s voice rose, her breath hitching as her mind raced. She tugged at the restraints again, harder this time, the metal biting into her skin. “For what? What the hell are you talking about?”

Koma’s gaze didn’t waver. “For your purpose,” he replied. “You are transitioning. If you survive the next few days, you will be granted an extraordinary gift. The process… must be endured.”

“Endured?” Her voice cracked as fear turned to rage. “What the hell does that even mean? What did you do to me?”

“You were chosen,” Koma said, his tone as flat as ever. “To receive something beyond your comprehension. You should be grateful.”

Sydney let out a strangled laugh, equal parts hysteria and disbelief. “Grateful? You think I’m supposed to be grateful for this?” She yanked at the restraints, her body writhing against the table. The viscous liquid clinging to her made each movement feel sluggish and unnatural. “Let me go! I don’t want whatever you’re talking about!”

Koma blinked, as though her defiance was an anomaly he hadn’t accounted for. “It is not a matter of want,” he said coolly. “It is already within you. The entity. The bond. You are now… Diaotic.”

The word landed like a blow, its unfamiliarity making it all the more ominous. “What—what does that even mean?” Sydney’s voice trembled as tears pricked at the corners of her eyes.

Koma stepped closer, his presence unsettling in its calm. “Your soul was merged with a being from another dimension,” he explained, as if reciting from a textbook. “Your body had to be… adjusted to withstand the trauma. Few survive. If you do, you will be powerful, unique. Purposeful.”

Sydney’s stomach lurched as she stared at him, her mind rejecting the words even as the sickly hum of the room seemed to validate them. She couldn’t suppress the sob that escaped her. “Why me?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“Because you were here,” Koma replied simply, as if that explained everything. “And because you could be used.”

The cold detachment in his tone snapped something inside her. Her fear boiled over into fury. “You bastard!” she screamed, thrashing against the restraints with everything she had. “You think I’m just some experiment? Some thing you can use?”

Koma didn’t flinch, his gray eyes as steady and unfeeling as the machines surrounding them. “Yes,” he said without hesitation. “And your struggle is pointless. Rest. Save your strength. You will need it.”

Before she could respond, a sharp hiss filled the room. Sydney froze, her breath catching as the sound grew louder, reverberating through the metal table beneath her. The machinery in the corner had come to life, its needles and tubes shifting with a sickening precision. Koma turned away, his attention now focused on the humming equipment.

“You will understand soon,” he said, his voice fading into the mechanical din. “If you survive.”

Sydney’s scream echoed in the sterile chamber as the lights above her flickered once more, plunging her into darkness.

You’re a Professional Now

They were back in the car not long after, gliding slow through the weathered streets of Sanish. The town passed by in sun-bleached blinks—laundromats with broken signage, liquor stores with bars on the inside of the windows, kids on cracked bikes drifting aimlessly along the sidewalks. Justin didn’t say much, didn’t hum or curse at the road; he just drove. Eventually, he eased the car into a narrow alley flanked by two graffitied brick buildings, the motel far behind them now. He parked facing away from the bank, its squat, square frame visible just down the street in the rearview mirror.

Justin tapped the steering wheel with two fingers, slow and measured. Then he turned to Sam, gaze steady as he turned the radio down. “You see the three entry points James was talkin’ about?”

Sam blinked, caught off guard. He leaned forward to look out the windshield, back toward the bank. “What? Uh… not really, no. I didn’t—”

Justin sighed, cutting him off with a small shake of the head. “I’ve circled that building twice in the last twenty minutes. Before we went in for food, and just now after. You should’ve seen them.”

Sam rubbed the back of his neck, eyes narrowing like he was tryin’ to pull the entry points outta thin air. “I mean, I saw a back alley and maybe a side door near the ATM… just didn’t realize that’s what I was supposed to be lookin’ for. Figured we’d go over it together later, y’know?”

Justin didn’t answer right away. He just looked at Sam. Not angry. Not annoyed. Just quiet in that way that meant the next words were gonna carry weight.

Then he spoke. “This ain’t somethin’ you ‘figure’ later, Sam.”

His voice had lost the lazy edge it usually carried, stripped down to something flat and professional. No jokes. No smoke.

“You’re not here for a ride-along. You’re not the mascot. You’re one of five. Five people going into a cartel-affiliated bank. One distraction. Three points of entry. Three teams. You miss one of those pieces, someone dies. Maybe you. Maybe Kabecka. Maybe me.”

He jabbed a finger lightly against the dashboard, like it was a chalkboard he was writin’ on.

“Front door’s guarded. Always. Badge and a vest, not rent-a-cops. Side door’s tucked behind a bike rack—unmarked, unchained, but reinforced steel. Service entrance’s in the alley—trash bins, keycode pad, likely a buzzer. That’s our entry. That’s where Partain wants the inside man to crawl through and flip the lights.”

He looked at Sam again, sharp now.

“You didn’t see any of that. You didn’t clock anything. So I need to know—right now, not later—are you gonna get someone killed?”

Sam’s mouth opened, then shut. He blinked hard, like trying to find a different version of himself to answer with. Finally, he muttered, “No. I’m not.”

Justin gave a small nod, not of agreement—just acknowledgment.

“Good,” he said. “Because this ain’t church camp, and there ain’t gonna be a second take.”

Shifted in his seat, gesturing with his chin toward the concrete beneath the dashboard.

“This alley? This is where me and Partain’ll pop out. Sewer grate’s right under us. Real welcoming, yeah?” He tapped the wheel once, like he was steadyin’ his own thoughts. “We come up, open the door from the inside. That’s our move.”

He pointed behind them, down the narrow lane choked with trash bins and broken fencing. “That alley there, the north one? That’s Nayati. He’ll be waitin’ for the flash. Soon as he sees the crowd scatter, he’s bustin’ through the office window. Not gonna wait for no greenlight.”

Then, he pointed over to the south, past the broken curb and onto a gravel lot spotted with oil stains. “C-Dog’s over there. Parking lot. Soon as the big bang starts, he’s runnin’ full sprint. Takes the other window. Loud and violent—his specialty.”

He let that hang a moment before turnin’ his eyes on Sam again. “And you? You got the cowboy.”

“The… cowboy?” Sam asked, brow furrowing.

“There’s always one,” Justin muttered, scratching his jaw. “Local hero. Self-appointed deputy. Might be some ex-Marine with a gut full of beer and a SIG tucked in his waistband. Maybe it’s a rent-a-cop who thinks he’s in Heat. Either way, he’s gonna be the first one to draw, and if you don’t stop him, someone’s gonna bleed.”

Sam’s eyes dropped to his lap, voice just barely there when he said, “I’ve never killed anyone.”

Justin didn’t react right away.

He just looked out the windshield, eyes tracing the cracks in the building across from them. He sighed, quiet, but not soft.

Then he spoke, calm and unflinching, but with a note of tired venom riding low in his voice.

“Y’know,” Justin muttered, eyes still on the dash, “startin’ to feel like this job’s less about robbin’ a bank and more about gettin’ me shot in the damn face.”

He let the words hang, a bitter joke, but not entirely untrue. Fingers drummed slow against the steering wheel.

“Pusher always did have a sense of humour.”

Sam gave a sideways glance, brow knitting. “You think this is a setup?”

“I think,” Justin said dryly, “that if you ever wanna get rid of somebody quiet-like, the best way’s to wrap ‘em in a plan too loud to fail.”

He sighed, rubbed a hand through his stubble, then tossed a look Sam’s way.

“So what’s your angle, anyway? You don’t talk like a crook. Don’t move like one either.”

Sam hesitated, shifting slightly in his seat, the upholstery creaking like it didn’t want to hold him.

“I’m not,” he admitted. “Or—wasn’t, I guess. I used to work trains. Conductor. Arkansas to Mississippi routes. Got furloughed last year and just… kinda drifted.”

Justin let out a noise that wasn’t quite interest, but wasn’t disbelief either. “Hell of a drift to end up here.”

Justin let out a noise that wasn’t quite interest, but wasn’t disbelief either. “Hell of a drift to end up here.”

“I came west lookin’ for someone,” Sam continued. “My unc-” Sam paused and looked to Justin, unsure if he should continue, but did once Justin gave him a nod, telling him to ignore his earlier advice. “He’s… well, kind of a working man. I’d heard he ran with some big names back in the day. Figured I’d chase it down. One lead brought me to another, and eventually I ran into Dr. Partain.”

Sam swallowed. “He said he knew Michael Santera. Claimed they were tight. Said he could introduce me.”

That made Justin freeze—not visibly, not all the way—but there was a flick, a crack in the smooth current of his posture. Like the name had tripped a wire somewhere inside.

Santera.

Justin didn’t let it reach his face. Didn’t let it twist his mouth or narrow his eyes. But the name looped once, twice. Stuck.

He gave a quiet, disbelieving huff. “Dr. James Partain. Friend of Santera. That’s rich.”

Sam looked over, uncertain. “You know him?”

Justin didn’t answer. Not directly.

Instead, he said, “And you just bought that? Hook, line, and whatever cheap bourbon bait he was drinkin’?”

Sam didn’t reply.

Justin shook his head once, slow. “Christ.”

Then, quieter: “This ain’t no fuckin’ warm-up gig, kid. It’s a door with no back side.”

He didn’t say anything else—just leaned back in his seat and fished a battered phone from his jacket. The screen was spiderwebbed but still kicking, bright enough to light the doubt in his eyes. He scrolled through his contacts like he was checking scars, then raised a hand toward Sam without looking.

“Don’t talk.”

Sam froze, posture stiff and uncertain. Justin hit the call.

Three rings.

Then the voice—low, smooth, and halfway irritated.

“Mr. Jazz.”

“Pusher.” Justin’s tone was flat steel. “Got a quick one for you. Shoot straight.”

A beat.

“This about the job?”

“Nah.” Justin’s eyes stayed forward. “It’s about the doc.”

Another pause. He could practically hear Pusher squinting on the other end.

“…Something’s wrong.”

Justin rolled his jaw. “You told me he was desperate, not cracked. But now I find out Partain’s planning to blow the fuckin’ Blackroad Dam with a bunch of washed-up comic book villains. And apparently, he’s tight with Michael Santera. That sound right to you?”

A long breath dragged through the speaker. Static buzzed in the pause.

“Stick to the job. Take the cut. And if the doc winds up choking on his own tongue, so be it. Rest ain’t your business.”

Justin’s knuckles whitened on the wheel. “Mm. Thing is, Pusher… it might be.”

Silence.

“They used to run together,” Pusher said eventually, his voice colder now. “Back when Partain still had both oars in the water. Santera bankrolled a few of his early schemes—until James pulled a fast one. Real mess. Thought he could double the take, buy forgiveness. All he bought was a shitload of enemies.”

“So he fucked him?”

“Left him to rot,” Pusher confirmed. “And now he owes damn near half the east coast and every gang from Boston to old Alberta. Man’s walking debt in a trench coat.”

Justin snorted. “You undersold his eccentricity.”

“You sound off,” Pusher said. “That fear I’m hearing?”

Justin’s eyes flicked sideways toward Sam. “Not fear. Just tired of being strung along. Thought I had more weight with you.”

Another pause. Then Pusher said, real quiet:

“Nothing to be afraid of. Santera’s dead. Remember?”

Justin looked at Sam again—longer this time. “Yeah…”

He said it like a man trying to believe his own voice.

Pusher let it hang for a second. “You’re one of my best, Justin. People got high hopes for that man’s obituary. Don’t call me again unless you’ve carved it.”

Then the line went dead.

Justin stared at the phone in his hand like it was leaking something foul.

“He knows,” he muttered, mostly to himself before clicking his tongue, slow

Sam blinked. “What?”

Justin turned, eyes colder now. “I’ve been walking through this job with one foot on the brake, but plans just changed. We’re switching roles.”

Sam blinked. “What d’you mean?”

“I mean this was supposed to be my grave, Sam.”

And before Sam could ask, Justin struck—grabbed him by the jacket and slammed his head into the dash, causing the radio to change station and turn up a notch, lowly playing out Meg Myers’ Desire , a dull thud echoing in the cramped car. Sam’s vision blurred just as cold metal pressed against the side of his skull—a pistol, snug and real.

“You got ten seconds,” Justin growled. “Who the fuck are you, and why’s Santera’s supposed nephew tagging along with a ghost like James Partain?”

Sam didn’t speak right away. Just breathed, slow and shaky, blood pounding in his ears where Justin’s grip had slammed him. The cold barrel still hugged his temple like it belonged there.

Then, he stammered, “I—look, man, I’m nobody. I was just… some fuckin’ loser, alright?”

Justin didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

“I worked trains—conductor stuff. Freight mostly. Midwest to the coast. Got furloughed when the line cut half its staff. No union, no severance. And nobody else was hirin’. Nobody.”

Justin’s eyes narrowed a sliver.

“I wasn’t lookin’ for a job in crime, I was just… I was tryin’ to find my uncle. Michael. I’d heard stories, y’know? Big-shot. Figured maybe, if I found him, he’d—he’d help me get on my feet.”

He swallowed, hard.

“Instead, I find Partain in some nowhere gambling hall. Says he knows Santera, that they go way back. Told me there was a little run needing muscle. Guard duty, easy cash, no blood. I stand and look tough.”

Justin’s expression didn’t change.

“But then I get to the motel. And C-Dog’s talkin’ about vaults and body counts like it’s a fuckin’ video game. That’s when it hit me. This ain’t no simple job.”

Sam’s breath shook. “I-I-I didn’t know what to do. I panicked. I went back to my room and stayed there. Figured if I laid low, maybe it’d fall apart before it started. None of them seem the most fuckin’ stable, y’know?”

He looked up, eyes wet but furious with fear and body shaking like an advanced form of parkinson’s. “I didn’t come here to rob a bank, man, I don’t fuckin’ know you. I didn’t sign up to get people killed. I just needed somethin’. Anything. I got a boyfriend with cancer, I gotta pay the bills.”

Justin kept the gun there for a beat longer. Then, slow as gravity, he pulled it away, resting it on his knee, but still pointed to Sam’s abdomen. His face stayed unreadable, caught somewhere between disappointment and exhaustion.

Sam let out a breath like it had been corked in his lungs.

“…I’m not your enemy, alright?” he said, voice low. “I’m just some dumbass with the wrong blood in his veins.”

Justin’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve scanned Santera’s family tree, top to bottom,” he said, calm as ever, but cold beneath it. “It’s damn extensive. Old bastard bred like a locust swarm. But he’s got no nephews named Sam. None named Ferns, neither.”

Sam slowly raised both hands, palms out like he was taming a spooked horse. “That’s ‘cause it’s not real,” he admitted. “It’s just an alias.”

Justin’s finger twitched—just enough to make Sam flinch—but the shot didn’t come. Not yet.

“…Real name.”

“Herald,” he said. “Herald Luminix.”

The silence that followed was different—quieter somehow, like the whole alley took a breath.

Justin didn’t lower the gun. “Your dad?”

Sam shook his head. “Don’t know him. Never did.”

“Mother’s name.”

“Julia,” he answered. “Julia Luminix.”

That made Justin blink.

Sam went on, voice steadier now, like saying the truth was the only way to survive. “Santera’s her brother. I never met him neither, not really—just a few times growing up. I heard stories. And then I found Partain, and he—he said he knew Santera, said he worked with him, said he could get me in touch.”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “You joined a bank heist to reconnect with your uncle?”

Sam winced, looked away. “Like I said… just some dumbass.”

“Dumbass don’t begin to cover it,” Justin said, voice low and disgusted—but underneath it, a note of something else. Something he didn’t like the shape of. Pity, maybe.

He looked out through the windshield toward the bank now, silent.

“…Herald Luminix,” he repeated, like tasting the name. “Shit.”

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Sam muttered, shaking his head slowly. “He’s dead, right? That’s what you said. You said you killed him. On the phone with Pusher.”

Justin didn’t answer straight away. Just stared through the glass at the flickering bank sign across the street from the rearview mirror, like he was watching a different scene entirely—one behind his eyes.

“He is dead,” Justin finally said, quiet but with conviction.

Sam sat with that a moment. The words didn’t quite settle right, like they were missin’ a piece—too clean for something so bloody. But after a second, he just nodded to himself, slow.

“Then I’ll go,” he said.

Justin’s brow barely twitched, but his eyes slid his way.

“I mean it,” Sam added, voice firmer now, like he was trying to convince himself just as much. “I didn’t know the full picture. Didn’t know what this job really was. Vaults? Guns? That damn dam?” He gave a dry, nervous laugh. “I’m not cool with that, man. Not even a little. And if my uncle’s gone, then… then there’s no reason for me to be here.”

He started to shift in his seat like he might get out and walk right then and there.

“I’ll just go,” he repeated. “Find some other way. A real job. Something—anything. ‘Cause I ain’t built for this.”

Justin didn’t say a word. Didn’t blink. Just let him talk.

“I mean—fuck,” Sam ran a hand through his hair, pulling at it. “Partain’s out here talkin’ about smokin’ mirrors and body counts like they’re just steps on a goddamn checklist. He says they’re not really gonna blow the dam, it’s just for distraction—but that sounds like some cultist shit, man. Like, how is that not insane?”

He looked at Justin, desperate for a sign of agreement, of reason, of someone who maybe felt the same.

“I didn’t sign up to help blow up a city. I signed up to… to maybe stand guard, maybe scare a teller if things went sideways. Not end up with blood on my hands. Not—not millions.”

A pause.

“…You believe him?” Sam asked, voice quieter now. “Partain? About the dam? That it’s all just smoke?”

Justin turned toward him, slow. His voice was level, final. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Sam blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Justin adjusted the grip on the wheel, like he needed somethin’ solid in his hands. “You think you’re just gonna walk? Maybe take a bus back to Memphis? Get a diner gig somewhere flipping eggs till your boyfriend croaks? No, kid. You’re in it now.”

“But—”

“There’s no ‘but,’” Justin cut in. “I’m stuck with Partain. I don’t like it, I don’t trust it, and I know for damn sure I’m not the only one thinkin’ about making a move when the pot hits the table. Someone’s planning a double cross. Could be C-Dog, could the indigenous twins, could be Partain himself—hell, it could be all of ‘em. Doesn’t matter. I need someone watching my back.”

Sam stared, slack-jawed.

Justin’s gaze narrowed, sharp as a scalpel. “And right now, that someone’s you.”

Sam shook his head. “Why me?”

“Because you’re not a killer. Not yet. That means you’ve got somethin’ left to lose.” Justin’s voice dipped low. “And people with somethin’ to lose tend to follow orders.”

He let that sink in for a beat before continuing. “Far as they know, your name’s Sam Ferns. That’s what it stays. You breathe the word ‘Herald’ to anyone, even once, and I’ll treat you like the liability you’ll have made yourself.”

Sam didn’t answer. He just sat there, caught between fear and something that looked a lot like acceptance.

Justin leaned back in his seat, exhaled slow. “Congratulations,” he said, his tone turning bitter and sardonic. “You’re a professional now… Let’s go back over this fucked plan.”

Liminal Sweat

The sun hadn’t risen so much as it had bled into the sky, bruised and sickly through the motel’s grime-streaked windows. It cast the Tolerance in the kind of dull amber that made everything look older, stickier—like nicotine staining the corners of the world.

Justin stood at the rusted rail outside Room 330, arms crossed over his chest, smoke curling up from the cigarette clamped between two fingers. He hadn’t slept. Not really. Just lay still long enough to remember everything he hated, particularly about this job, and by extension, Pusher, due to his assigning Justin to such an unorganized, unprofessional man as Dr. James Partain.

Below, the courtyard was a graveyard of spent bodies and half-dead intentions. A plastic lawn chair lay upside down near the pool, one leg snapped. A busted Bluetooth speaker crackled something unintelligible from under a sleeping man’s head. Beer cans glinted like spent shell casings across the cracked concrete.

The girl from yesterday—the one who barely spoke, who never looked anyone in the eye—was out early. Maybe hadn’t slept either. Barefoot again, denim skirt and an oversized flannel shirt buttoned wrong, she moved quietly between the sprawled party-goers. Her arms full of trash—bottles, paper plates, a shirt someone had bled through after getting in a fight with C-Dog. She stepped over legs and around puddles with the instinct of someone who’d done this too many mornings in a row.

Justin watched her for a long while. There was something fragile about the way she moved—not weak, but careful. Like every step had to be earned. She didn’t flinch when one of the passed-out locals stirred and muttered. She just kept on.

A door opened down the way.

Sam stepped out of Room 327, rubbing a hand over his face like he was trying to erase himself. Same cargo pants, same canvas jacket. His shirt was wrinkled, neckline tugged like he’d been rolling in it. His hair was a little more disheveled than the night before, and the look in his eyes wasn’t quite sleep-deprived—more like he’d dreamt of drowning and woke up to find he still hadn’t reached the surface.

Justin said nothing, just exhaled smoke and let the kid spot him.

Sam noticed. Raised a hand, gave a half-hearted nod. “Mornin’,” he muttered, voice rough.

Justin tipped his chin in return, slow. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Sam shook his head. “Nah. Too many people. Too many sounds.”

He leaned on the railing like Justin, arms resting over the bar. They stood there a moment, across from another, their posture and the way they carried themselves indicating they were from worlds apart.

Down below, the girl stopped by the poolside. A bloated trash bag in one hand, she crouched to pick up a snapped flip-flop, hesitated, and tossed it in the can with the rest.

Sam lingered on the railing a moment longer, squinting against the light. His breath misted just faintly in the cool morning air—barely there, but enough to remind him he was still breathing. He looked down at the girl. She didn’t look back.

Across the courtyard, Justin stubbed out his smoke on the bottom of his boot and kept watching. The kid was upright, at least. That was worth somethin’.

“You eat?” Justin called out—not loud, but it carried.

Sam blinked up, caught off guard. “What?”

“You eat,” Justin repeated, voice flat. “The pizza and whatnot?”

Sam shook his head. “No, it was gone by the time I went to grab some.”

Justin gave a nod as he looked around the courtyard, seeing none of the other job members and rightfully assuming they were long passed out somewhere. He motioned for Sam to follow him as he turned and headed down the stairs, his boots thudding lightly against the old concrete steps.

At the bottom, he passed through the remnants of the party like a ghost threading a battlefield—empty cups crushed underfoot, a pair of jeans soaked and forgotten on a chair, some scribbled message on the pavement in marker that had half-faded overnight. The girl was there again, still dragging her trash bag toward the bins at the far end of the lot. She glanced up briefly as he passed but said nothing. Justin offered no more than a glance, then disappeared beyond the rusted gate at the edge of the courtyard, vanishing between two panels of fencing like a man with somewhere to be.

Sam slowed near the stairs, hands in his pockets, hesitating. He looked toward the parking lot, unsure if he should follow—but his eyes caught on the girl again, hunched slightly under the weight of the bag. Her feet clapping the concrete and tiles, walking with careful steps to avoid the cigarette butts, used needles, and bottle shards littering the way.

He stepped off the stair.

The girl didn’t notice him at first, too focused on her chore. When he reached her, she stopped and looked up, expression guarded but not startled. The oversized flannel hung off one shoulder now, and her hair was still tied in that messy bun like it hadn’t been untangled in days.

“Hey,” Sam said, soft and slow, lifting a hand in greeting. “Uh… you okay?”

She blinked at him. No reply.

He gestured lamely at the trash bag, then at the courtyard. “That’s… a lot.”

Still nothing.

Her eyes scanned his face, cautious. Not angry. Not shy. Just… worn thin. He tried again.

“You need help?”

She tilted her head, just slightly.

Sam pointed to the trash. “Help?” Then pointed to himself. “Me. Help?”

A pause.

She stared at him like someone trying to read a weathered sign in a language she used to know.

Then, almost imperceptibly, she gave a nod.

Sam stepped forward, gently took the top of the bag from her hands, and hoisted it up with both arms. It was heavier than it looked. Rotted beer, glass, plastic soaked in sauce or blood—it all sloshed faintly. He caught the smell and winced, but didn’t say anything.

The girl gave him a short look—almost an acknowledgment—then raised her chin, gesturing faintly toward the far corner of the lot where the dumpsters sat like rusted sentinels. Without a word, she turned and moved off in the opposite direction, heading toward a tangle of scattered lawn chairs near the broken vending machine, where someone had left an overturned cooler and a trail of sticky footprints.

Sam watched her for a second, then nodded to no one and started toward the dumpsters, hauling the swollen bag with both hands. Flies buzzed lazily around the bin lids, and the metal was warm to the touch despite the early hour. He swung the top open with a grunt and launched the trash inside, the thud echoing dully in the still air.

“Sam!” a voice called.

He turned, startled.

Justin stood by a dull-green coupe parked half in the weeds past the gate, driver’s door open, one arm slung over the roof like he’d been waiting. Smoke curled from his lips, lazy and grey.

“I’m hungry,” Justin said simply, like that was explanation enough. “Let’s go.”

Sam hesitated, looking back toward the courtyard, where the girl knelt by the chairs now, folding a towel she hadn’t used. Then back to Justin.

“…Alright,” he muttered, brushing his palms off on his pants as he crossed the lot.

Justin didn’t say anything else. Just flicked the cigarette to the gravel, slid into the car, and popped the door open from inside. Sam got in without another word, the door closing with a tired clunk behind him. The engine coughed once, then turned over. 

They pulled out slow, past the ruined fence and back onto the cracked road beyond. The tires whispered over gravel, windshield catching the morning haze like a dirty lens. For a while, neither said a word. The kind of silence that wasn’t hostile—just too new to be comfortable.

Justin drove with one hand on the wheel, the other on the window ledge, tapping his fingers in no real rhythm. Sam sat hunched in the passenger seat, eyes flicking between the horizon and the glove box, like he expected either one to open up and reveal something important.

Finally, Justin reached for the radio, thumbing through the static like he was flipping past photos in an album.

First came a faint chant—low and resonant, heavy with drums and voices layered in a way that didn’t quite sound like it belonged in this century. Justin frowned, turned the knob.

More static. Then another station, clearer, but still something tribal—flutes and deep-throated harmonies humming from some distant hill.

Justin muttered, “Jesus Christ, again with this?”

He clicked past it.

Then another. This time, a woman’s voice, sharp and trembling in a language Sam couldn’t place. Justin made a face like he smelled something sour and clicked again.

Finally, something broke through the fuzz—slow guitar, dusty and hollow. A voice, worn at the edges but clear, carried across the dash like it’d been waiting for them.

Justin let it play. He gave a short, satisfied nod and leaned back in his seat.

Sam glanced toward the speakers, then to Justin. “What’s this?”

Justin shot him a look like the question itself was offensive. “Billy.”

“…Billy?”

“Yeah. Bonnie. The Prince. Billy.” He said it slow, like it was sacred. “You don’t know Billy? Will Oldham?”

Sam offered a helpless shrug. “Guess not.”

“Jesus,” Justin muttered, shaking his head. “What the hell are they teaching you kids? You get a license without a soul now?”

“I mean, I listen to stuff…”

“Oh sure, sure—lemme guess. Some social media rapper who can’t spell ‘onomatopoeia.’ Or synth shit with names like Glorpwave or Post-Sludgecore, whatever the hell that is.”

“I like guitar stuff,” Sam said, a little defensive now.

“Do you?” Justin gave him a quick once-over. “You look like you downloaded ‘guitar’ as a concept last week.”

Sam snorted, then laughed despite himself. “Alright, fair.”

Justin grinned, just a little. “Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy’s been around since before you were born. Man writes like his bones hurt. Like God tried to bury him and he clawed back out to make one last album.”

“That’s… kinda metal.”

“It’s folk, actually,” Justin deadpanned. “But I’ll let it slide. Grand Dark Feeling is one of his best”

They fell back into silence, but it was softer now. Familiar. Sam leaned back, watching the trees limp past the windows, their branches twitching in the wind like they were trying to remember how to dance.

The cracked two-lane stretched out before them, fields yawning open to either side like tired lungs. The world beyond the windshield held that washed-out clarity only found after a hard night—everything a little too sharp, a little too exposed. They passed an old billboard missing half its face, the metal frame bowing like it was ashamed to still be standing. Neither of them made note of the distance, but it was a fifteen-minute drive from the Tolerance to town, give or take. Long enough to sit in your own skin. Long enough to start wondering what the hell you were doing in a place like this.

The Bonnie ‘Prince’ crooned on, voice thin but aching with truth, and the tires hummed like a lullaby for men too tired to sleep. Justin kept one hand on the wheel, eyes flicking between the road and nothing in particular. Sam leaned his temple against the window glass, watching barbed wire fences glide by like they were stitched into the land.

As they neared the first bend where the outer edge of town began to show itself, Justin eased off the gas. The road dipped into a posted 15 mph zone, complete with a faded “SLOW CHILDREN” sign that had been pockmarked by BBs and .22s.

Justin let out a scoffing breath. “God, this place. Every town like this got the same damn flavor—just reheated different. Rust, debt, and a main street that smells like pine cleaner and broken ambition.”

Sam sat up slightly. “You’re not from around here?”

Justin didn’t answer right away. He scratched his stubble, eyes still on the road, then gave a dry nod. “Minnesota.”

Sam blinked. “Really?”

“Yeah. Real north stuff. Cold as sin winters, but clean. You could hear your own breath in the winter. Snow so white it gave you a headache. People there still believe in stuff like community watch and Jesus. Used to, anyway.”

Sam thought for a moment, then said, “So what brought you… here?”

Justin smirked without looking at him. “Poor decisions. Good money. And a guy named Pusher with too much faith in people like me.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward this time—it felt like understanding. Out the window, a sagging house passed by with a tarp nailed to one side like a bandage. A dog barked once, then gave up. Somewhere, a church bell rang even though it wasn’t Sunday.

“Looks like a lotta places,” Justin muttered. “But it always feels like dying somewhere specific.”

He tapped the brakes as they rolled past an empty lot filled with rusted cars and a single soda machine still glowing like a lighthouse for vagabonds. The town had grown up around the kind of crossroads where nothin’ really went anywhere. A single gas station sat like a forgotten relic at the corner—half the pumps wrapped in yellow caution tape, the other half probably still spitting dust into the tanks of those desperate enough to try. Next to it, a small diner crouched beneath a sagging awning, its neon sign buzzing weakly, just the letters “I-E-’S” left to fight off the morning haze.

Justin pulled in and killed the engine. The sudden quiet was heavy—like a bar had just closed or a storm was about to break. They sat there a moment, windows rolled halfway down, the scent of old fryer grease and desert air drifting in.

Sam shifted in his seat, finally breaking the silence.

“I’m from Memphis,” he said, almost too casual. “Well, just outside. Bartlett, technically. Came out this way looking for someone.”

Justin’s head turned just slightly, not all the way, like the words were a mosquito that needed deciding on swatting.

“My uncle,” Sam continued, voice picking up a little. “Weegie Luminix. I don’t know if you’ve heard the name, but apparently he also started going by San—”

“Stop,” Justin cut in, flat and hard.

Sam blinked, caught mid-thought.

Justin didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Don’t go diggin’ up roots like this is a fuckin’ therapy circle.” He finally turned to face him now, brows low, voice even but firm. “A job’s a job. You wanna get through it? You treat it like a job. That means keepin’ your story short, your questions shorter, and your emotions in a goddamn box where they belong.”

Sam looked away, jaw tight.

“I ain’t your friend, kid. None of us are,” Justin went on, still looking at him. “We’re not here to bond. We’re not here to learn about each other’s dead dogs and first heartbreaks. You get too close, you start hesitating when you need to act. Or worse—you get sentimental. That’s how people die. That’s how jobs get fucked.”

A long pause stretched between them, the silence louder than anything that’d come from the radio, which ironically was now playing Purple Mountains’ All my Happiness is Gone.

Sam gave a small nod. “Alright.”

Justin stared another beat before reaching for the door handle. “C’mon. I’m hungry.”

He stepped out, boots crunching on loose gravel, and didn’t wait to see if Sam followed. Inside the diner, the light was too warm and the coffee too old and the pot too full, sitting on a warmer that had probably been running since the Bush administration. The diner lights flickered with the kind of fluorescent hum that sounded like tinnitus made manifest. Justin and Sam took a booth near the window, though calling it that was generous—it was really just two cracked vinyl benches welded to a formica tombstone.

Justin slid into the seat with a grunt, shifting and twisting until he found the one acceptable angle for his spine. “Christ,” he muttered, eyeing the seat like it had personally offended him. “Every goddamn town this size, it’s the same. Furniture built for people who don’t slouch and menus made for folks who all grew up sittin’ at each other’s dinner tables.”

Sam chuckled once, under his breath, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

The waitress, a woman with gravity-battered features and a nametag that said “Noreen”, dropped off two waters and two sticky menus without a word. She was already taking another table’s order before they had the chance to thank her.

Outside the window, Sanish sagged under the early sun, buildings bleached pale by years of hard wind and dirty rain. There weren’t more than three real streets, two of ‘em looping through chain-link yards and prefab homes with satellite dishes like tumors on the roofs. Rusted trailers leaned against concrete blocks. Dogs without collars barked from behind broken fences. The place wasn’t dying—it had just never really lived.

And beyond it, off to the west like a scab on the horizon, was the glittering skin of the inland sea. Lake Concordia, though no one local called it that. The manmade basin stretched for miles, filled not by rivers but by the broken drainage of bomb-cracked dams and redirection projects from the Second American Civil War. From 2021 to 2027, the country had fought itself bloody a second time, and the scars hadn’t closed yet. This sea was one of ’em—a puddle formed from retreat and scorched earth. At its edge stood the Blackroad Dam, a monster of concrete and rusted turbines, silent and heavy. It powered Las Reno, the gambling heart of the new West, where old mob dreams had fused with modern tech nightmares and come out smiling.

Sam stared out at the haze-covered glint of water, thoughts spiraling around the plan Partain had pitched the night before. A bomb. A goddamn bomb at the Blackroad Dam. The kind of distraction that couldn’t be undone.

He turned back toward Justin, who was thumbing through the menu like it was a classified file.

“You really think this plan works?” Sam asked.

Justin didn’t look up. “Define ‘works.’”

“I mean… it’s a dam… The dam. Power to half the desert states, including Las Reno. You think they’ll really just… ignore that?”

Justin finally looked up, brow raised. “They won’t. But that’s not the point. You make a big enough noise, all the ears turn that way, even if it ain’t permanent. Nobody’s saying it’s smart. Just that it’s loud.”

He tapped the menu with the back of a fingernail. “Besides, if the Padawans really have the hardware to do it, that means they’re serious. And if they’re serious, that means the cops’ll be busy cleaning up after their mess while we’re sneakin’ out the back with the goods.”

Sam frowned. “Still feels like overkill.”

“Yeah,” Justin said, shrugging. “But you ever notice that overkill tends to get things done faster than finesse in this country? Finesse tends to lead to backfire.”

He went back to the menu like the conversation hadn’t just wandered into wartime terrorism.

The waitress came back without being called, pen in hand, notepad already open. She didn’t smile. She didn’t even blink much. Just stood there like a tired teacher waiting for a student to answer the last question without the typical attempt to be cool or funny.

“Two eggs, toast, hashbrowns. Extra crispy, and a sirloin, charred” Justin muttered, handing the menu back with the weariness of a man who’d ordered the same meal a hundred towns ago and never been impressed.

“Uh…” Sam glanced down at the sticky plastic sheet again. “Pancakes and sausage?”

The waitress gave a grunt that might’ve meant anything and vanished toward the kitchen.

A moment passed.

“So,” Sam leaned forward a bit, voice low, “About the—”

Justin cut him off with a raised hand, palm up like a lazy priest giving half a benediction. “Mm-mm.”

Sam blinked. “What?”

“You don’t talk about plans in public,” Justin said, tone casual but firm. “Doesn’t matter that the waitress is half-deaf or the cook’s probably sleepin’ off meth in the walk-in. This ain’t the motel. This is town. Someone’s always listenin’, even if it’s just outta boredom.”

Sam leaned back, slightly embarrassed. “Right. Yeah. Sorry.”

Justin gave a small shrug, no venom in it. “Don’t sweat it. You’re green. You’ll either learn or die. Just don’t cause mine.”

They sat in silence again, the drone of the lights above them syncing with the low clatter of pans from the kitchen.

After a moment, Sam said, “Your car’s nice.”

Justin looked over, one eyebrow ticking upward.

“Old school,” Sam added. “Pre-flight, right? Got that charm to it. Fits in out here.”

Justin snorted. “It ain’t mine.”

Sam’s brow creased. “Huh?”

Justin sipped his water. “Found it behind the motel. Keys in the ignition, half a tank of gas. Nobody around to claim it. So I claimed it.”

Sam looked like he wanted to say something but didn’t.

Justin gave a lopsided grin. “Relax. I prefer bikes. Or fliers when they’re workin’. But I figured you’d whine if I made you sit bitch on a cruiser with no back rest. You strike me as the back-rest type.”

Sam laughed once, short and uncertain, but genuine. “Yeah. Probably.”

Their food arrived with a pair of plates dropped unceremoniously on the table. The eggs were too dry, the pancakes too wet, but the smell was hot and the coffee that followed was at least not poison.

Justin reached for the ketchup, flicked open the cap with his thumb, and gave Sam a look over the rim of the bottle.

“Enjoy the quiet while you got it,” he said. “It don’t last.”

They ate in a kind of earned silence, the kind that didn’t demand conversation or apology. Sam found himself relaxing into it—not comfortable, not exactly, but uncoiled. The constant knot of needing to prove himself, to fill every pause with noise, loosened with each bite of rubbery sausage and too-sweet syrup. Justin didn’t fill the void either, and that, oddly enough, helped.

When they finished, Justin gave a vague grunt of approval and stood after clearing his throat, pulling a few worn bills from his jacket pocket and tossing them onto the table with the kind of practiced nonchalance only long-time wanderers seemed to have. No wallet, no hesitation. Just cash and motion.

Before they moved to leave, Sam lingered a moment, eyes drawn to the window beside their booth. Outside, a man in an oil-stained work coat passed by on foot, head low, a thermos tucked under one arm. He wasn’t in a rush. Just moving through the rhythm of his day, same as he probably had for years. Maybe he was headed to one of the few gas stations, or to the repair shop, or to some piss-poor factory still running off whatever the dam gave them.

Sam stared at him for a long beat, his thoughts heavier than he expected. This town, Sanish—it’d survive. A little dent, maybe, if the plan really went sideways. But Las Reno wouldn’t. The dam going would flood the entire valley below it. Wipe out the highway systems, choke the power grid, bury casinos, schools, hospitals under black water. Millions dead. And for what? Twenty grand. That was what he’d been told. Each of them, five in total, getting a twenty-thousand cut. The rest, whatever the associates had negotiated, had to be three times that. Maybe more.

He squinted a little, eyes tracking the man disappearing down the sidewalk. A town like this didn’t even feel like it had twenty thousand dollars to its name. And they were going to tear the whole state a new hole over it?

Justin stood abruptly, tossing the last of his water back before slapping a hand on the table and nodding toward the back. “Restroom.”

He disappeared with the same calm gait he carried everywhere, like he was always ten minutes ahead of everyone and just waiting for them to catch up.

Sam watched him go. Watched the way he didn’t look back. Then glanced around the diner—the flickering lights, the buzz of the cheap fan overhead, the worn booths barely holding their shape—and realized he hadn’t eaten much at all.

He shoved three forkfuls of food into his mouth in rapid succession, chewing while checking the clock above the register. He didn’t even know how long they’d been sitting.

The Doc’s Plans

A few hours later, night had folded over the Tolerance like a damp tarp, heavy with humidity and the low hum of buzzing porch lights. Justin lay stretched on the lumpy mattress in Room 330, boots still on, listening to some old alt-country track bleeding from his phone’s speaker—Lucero or something like it—while the shadows outside played tag with the rusted railings. He had just started drifting, not to sleep but to that soft, suspicious quiet you only get in places like this, when a sharp thud cracked through the wall. Then another. Followed by a guttural cheer and a louder slam. He sat up, cocking his head, just as a familiar Southern voice cut through the night like a butter knife dipped in whiskey. Dr. James Partain had arrived. 

Stepping out to finally meet the shot-caller of this job, he couldn’t help but glance down in the drained pool, beneath a string of flickering lights, C-Dog and Nayati were locked in an arm-wrestling match that looked more like a prison standoff, elbows dug into a splintered folding table while a half-circle of hangers-on jeered and hollered. Kabecka leaned against the railing nearby as seemed his usual, trading slow, quiet words with a girl no older than 16, who stood barefoot on the concrete, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Tyrique was a bit harder to find, but there he was. Sat on the hood of his busted sedan near the gate, watching it all through a haze of blunt smoke, a bag of sunflower seeds in his lap and a loaded pistol tucked beneath his thigh like a paperweight.

There were far more than the team here, a crowd Justin was oblivious of the origin. Stragglers, teenagers, hangers-on, a few twitchy locals with sunken cheeks and bandanas around their necks—half looked like they lived two blocks away, the other half like they’d never had a home to start with. Tyrique and C-Dog had drawn them in like flies to heat, offering cheap beer, blunt smoke, and the kind of spectacle only a doomed place like the Tolerance could cook up. Nobody seemed to care that a job was on the horizon. Business could wait. Tonight was about flexing, jeering, and pretending the world wasn’t already circling the drain. And as far as Justin could tell, not a single one of ‘em knew who Dr. Partain even was.

Lighting a cigarette with the flick of muscle memory and following the sound of Partain’s voice like a hound on a blood trail, Justin peered around. The doc’s drawl echoed off the cracked stucco, managing to bounce over the loud rock/rap that C-Dog was playing in the pool, as he emerged from the hole in the fence of the garden’s edge into the courtyard like he owned every decaying inch of it—hair slicked back with something too cheap to be pomade, thin grey long coat flaring slightly with each step like it remembered better days.

“Now I ain’t sayin’ I’m the second comin’, but hell, if the robe fits—” Partain grinned, arms wide as if addressing a congregation instead of a collection of thugs, killers, and burnouts as they greeted him with empty cheers.

C-Dog, cheeks puffed and lips twisted into a rabid smile, let out a groan.

“You’re strong, chief,” he grunted. “Didn’t think you had it in ya.”

Nayati snarled, veins bulging under rashed skin. “The bear never bows to the bull.”

“Yeah?” C-Dog’s grin widened. “Looks like the bear skipped arm day.”

With a sudden twist, C-Dog slammed Nayati’s arm against the tabletop. Plastic legs skidded, dust puffed into the air, earning a guttural cheer from himself and a grunt from the Shashin man, who jerked his hand back with a shake and a muttered curse. The table wobbled but didn’t collapse, though it looked damn close.

“WOOOOO!” C-Dog howled. “Ain’t no shame in it, brother!” C-Dog shouted, standing to flex like he was at a body building competition. “You got Dogged! Happens to the best!”

“Your people win with stolen strength,” Nayati muttered, wiping sweat from his palm. “You drink fake milk, shoot fake muscle. You breed like rats and feast on your children. The red man remains strong—like the eagle.”

C-Dog blinked. “Bro… what? I call that ‘advantage.’” C-Dog laughed and pointed toward the girl Kabecka was talking up. “Hey, baby, you see that shit? Big Dog wins again! We eatin’ tonight! How ‘bout you be the meal!?”

She didn’t respond, didn’t even blink. Kabecka glanced at her, then back at the doctor, giving him a nod as Partain drew near.

Justin took another drag, leaned against the railing just above, and called down, “Glad to see the prodigal son finally decided to bless us with his presence.”

Partain grinned up at him, teeth too white for the rest of him. “Well, look what the ashtray coughed up. Jazz, my man—how’s the room? Moldy enough for ya?”

“Smells like a dead cat and a broken promise,” Justin replied dryly. “But the view’s fantastic.”

“Damn right it is.” Partain looked around, arms still half-raised like he was about to announce the end times. “This—this is the kinda place you start the good stories in. Place’s got bones.”

Kabecka spoke up then, voice low. “You got somethin’ for us, doc? Or you just here to monologue?”

Partain turned to him, hand to chest like he’d been wounded. “Kabecka, my boy, would I ever waste your time?”

“Yes,” Nayati and Kabecka answered in unison.

Partain laughed, genuinely. “Fair enough. Alright. Let’s call it.” He raised his voice for the whole courtyard to hear. “Gather round, misfits and murderers—we got ourselves a job to bury and a treasure to dig up.”

The jeering dulled to murmurs, the motley crew turning toward him like dogs scenting meat. Justin flicked the cigarette off the balcony and started down the stairs. Whatever this was, it had finally begun.

Partain didn’t wait for Justin to join them before speaking again, turning a slow circle like a preacher in a broken tabernacle. “Now, some of y’all know the plan. Some of y’all think you know the plan. And some of y’all, bless your undercooked hearts, just came for the smoke and noise.” He shot a glance toward the pool crowd. One of the stragglers raised a can and burped.

“But tonight,” he went on, “tonight we get acquainted. We make nice. We talk logistics. Because come not tomorrow but the day after’s sunrise, all this…” He gestured at the flickering lights, the groaning buildings, the half-sentient couch someone had dragged out of the garden. “…ain’t gonna matter worth a shit if we don’t know which way we’re runnin’ when the shooting starts.”

C-Dog gave a loud, guttural “YEAH!” and clapped his hands like a hype man at a cage fight. Nayati just folded his arms, face carved from skepticism. Kabecka, arms still crossed, leaned over and whispered something to the barefoot girl beside him. She nodded once and vanished back into one of the rooms without a word.

Partain turned to Tyrique. “You gonna join us, my dark friend?”

Tyrique didn’t even look his way. He just cracked a fresh sunflower seed and let the shell fall between his knees. “Long as y’all keep the noise down after three, I don’t give a damn if you rob the Pentagon. And keep down with that color shit.”

“Fair enough,” Partain said with a grin, then turned back to his flock, shifting the loose tie hanging around his neck. Justin couldn’t help but laugh as he came to the conclusion that Dr. James Partain looked like a cross between a retired lounge singer and a disgraced anthropologist. “Alright, then. Welcome to the Tolerance. I do hope you all brought your favorite brand of trauma, becausewe’vegotaheistoplan.”

Justin fell in step behind him, hands in his jacket pockets, expression unreadable as the music changed to The Black Angel’s Black Grease. The faded lights through out the place turned the Tolerance’s rusted chain-link fences and scorched stucco walls a jaundiced gold.

“We’ve got two days.” Pertain stated as he peered around before raising a hand and pointing, “C-Dog, I read. Let’s make sure we have everyone else here.”

Before Partain could give out the next name, Justin cut in asking, “Is such a public event the place to be planning?”

Partain turned his head, giving Justin a look halfway between impressed and inconvenienced. “You worried about ears, Mister…?”

“Pusher’s guy, and I’m worried about mouths,” Justin replied. “Loose ones. The kind that ask questions when bodies start showin’ up.”

Partain gave a casual shrug, then tapped the side of his temple with one long finger. “I already ran recon on every drunk, dropout, and deadbeat squattin’ here tonight. None of ‘em’ll remember a lick of this unless we tattoo it on their foreheads or it interrupts their pills. They’re from Waterfront for God’s sake.”

A moment passed. Then he added, “Besides, public’s perfect. You see a man whisperin’ in a dark corner, you get suspicious. But the loudmouth in the open? You assume he’s got nothin’ to hide.”

Justin didn’t reply, but he didn’t argue either. Just gave a nod, small and tight, as if to say, you get one.

“Right,” Partain said, clearing his throat. “Now then. C-Dog’s present—visibly and violently. Kabecka, err, uhh, Redbird, you’re here, cool as ever. Redtoad… well. You’re here.” He offered a grin to the stone-faced Shashin.

“Pusher’s here.” He continued, pointing to Justin. “Who does that leave…” Pertain questioned as he looked around the group that had gathered around him.

A moment later, a figure stepped forward from the fringe of the gathering. Young, early twenties, no more than 23 at most. Thin, dressed like someone still trying to figure out what grown men wore—oversized canvas jacket, frayed collar with a white v-neck underneath, cargo pants with a few holes that weren’t put there by design. His boots were new, but scuffed at the toes, like he’d been practicing how to stand tough in ‘em.

“Sam,” the kid said, voice steady but shy of strong. “Samual Ferns.”

He gave a small nod toward Partain, then toward the rest. It wasn’t confident. It was careful.

Justin looked him over with the kind of patience most men reserved for half-read menus. Something about him rang like a half-forgotten bell. The name, the face—it itched at the back of his mind, but didn’t land anywhere solid. Familiar, but misplaced. Like hearin’ a song from the next room.

The kid didn’t look like much. Face too open, hands fidgeting in his coat pockets, posture like he hadn’t figured out what part of him was supposed to be in charge. He wasn’t scared, exactly—just raw. Like someone still waiting on permission to stop pretending.

And in that moment, Justin made a decision. One he didn’t share. Not with a look. Not with a word.

This one’s the fall guy.

When it goes south—and it will—this is the name that makes the papers. This is the one they blame in the write-up. Soft voice. Clean record. Fresh boots. Nobody misses a Sam.

“Good to have you,” Partain said, extending a hand without much ceremony. Sam shook it, a little too long. “I was beginning to wonder if our friend was gonna ghost us.”

“I wouldn’t,” Sam replied, then quickly added, “Just wanted to make sure I wasn’t oversteppin’. I mean, I know I’m new. But I’m ready to pull my weight.”

Justin lit another cigarette and didn’t look at him when he said, “Just don’t get crushed by it.”

Sam didn’t answer. He just nodded, jaw tightening slightly like he’d bitten down on somethin’ hard and didn’t want anyone to see his face twist.

Kabecka turned his head, just slightly. Watching. Measuring. But didn’t say a word.

Partain gave a soft clap of his hands, more to break the silence than to celebrate anything.

“As you all have been informed, this is my plan, but we do have sponsors. The Paledawn Padawans! They are the ones who afforded us some toys as well as will be giving us our distraction.”

It was then, just as Partain began to explain the plan, that out of the corner of his eye, Justin saw Tyrique speaking with a girl back at his car. The girl Kabecka was speaking to earlier. Short, sun-browned, hair in a tangled bun. Her movements were cautious, efficient. She didn’t speak as he began yelling at her, though his words weren’t truly heard, being drowned out between the music, party-goers, and Partain.

“Distraction?” C-Dog questioned.

“Yes, well, this particular bank we’re about to be hitting is actually none other than one attached to a well known group.”

“Cartel, yeah, we know.” Nayati exclaimed, rushing Partain.

“Exactly! So naturally, thelocalcopsareinonit. They’re going to be watching the bank very closely. So we need to lure them all away. And what’s going to do that? A bomb! A big, big bomb.”

“A bomb? We’re going from robbing a bank to terrorism?” C-Dog questioned with a hint of hesitantce.

“Us!? Absolutelynot. That’s where our sponsors are helping.” Partain placed a finger on C-Dog’s chest, continuing after a brief pause. “The Paledawn Padawans have that covered. They have a whole big thing happening over in Tonopah and Mount Jefferson that will cause the cops from our quiet town to rush over there and help out.”

“Are they blowing the mines?” Sam whispered, more to himself than the group.

Partain pointed a finger gun at him with two fingers and said very sternly, “Don’t interrupt me. So they take the local cops out of town, and we rush in, now here is the second layer. One of these bombs are going to be going off at the Blackroad Dam.”

The crowd, up until now murmuring and half-listening, went still. Even the music—blaring, distorted rap-rock from the busted poolside speaker—felt like it dipped low on cue.

“The dam?” Justin asked, eyebrow twitching just slightly as he turned back to Partain. “You wanna hit infrastructure?”

“I don’t want to hit nothin’,” Partain replied, hands lifted in theatrical innocence. “Our dear friends are just gonna give it a good scare. A puff of smoke. A whiff of flame. Enough to make the big boys scramble. Maybe a bridge collapses. Maybe a few lights go out. Maybe—God forbid—someone in a suit loses a game of golf.”

C-Dog’s arms folded again, slower this time. “You said distraction, doc. Not collapse a city.”

“And it is a distraction,” Partain snapped back, that preacher-slick mask of his cracking for just a flicker. “It’s controlled. Targeted. No one dies who doesn’t deserve it. And we’re nowhere near it when it pops.”

“Who decides who deserves it?” Kabecka muttered, more to himself than anyone, but loud enough.

Partain ignored him.

“What matters,” he pressed on, “is that it draws out the cartel’s watchdogs. You think that bank’s just holdin’ farmer loans and business deposits?” He turned, sweeping his arm like a game show host unveiling the prize. “Nah. That place is a holding tank. Cold cash. Laundered and stacked. Bills so clean you could floss with ‘em. But we only have a window while the dogs are out barkin’. Once they realize the dam’s not gone? We got maybe thirty minutes before they’re sniffin’ back home.”

C-Dog scratched his head, frowning like the math wasn’t mathin’.

“And this part…” Partain smirked. “Is where it gets beautiful. We’re not goin’ in loud. Not at first. This ain’t some Hollywood shoot-em-up. We’re ghosts at the gate. Sewer entry, multiple breach points, EMP to knock out the cams and security. Then we split into three teams, timed and triangulated, in and out.”

He paused to take a breath, eyes sweeping the crew.

“The heavy noise? That comes after. One team sets charges at the rear wall—we make it look like that’s how we entered. A blast, a dead end, and a getaway trail that ain’t ours. Meanwhile, we’re already gone. Down the storm tunnel. Van waiting a mile out on Ash and Polk.”

Partain nodded to himself, almost pleased. “And if the cops do come back early? They’ll be hunting the wrong ghosts. Got a guy in a big truck that’s going to take the trail off east. Little ol’ Plain Dan.”

Nobody spoke right away.

Sam looked down at his boots. Kabecka’s jaw clenched tight. C-Dog squinted at a beetle crawling on the table like it might answer his questions.

Justin finally exhaled.

“This smells like fire,” he said. “And we’re standin’ in gasoline.”

Partain gave a single nod, slow and smug. “Exactly. But don’t worry. I brought the matches.”

For a long moment, there was nothing but the low whine of feedback from the speaker and the hiss of someone opening a tallboy.

Then C-Dog muttered, “Man, you trippin’.”

He slapped a hand on the table that had just hosted his victory and leaned forward, eyes wide. “A dam? Like, the dam? The one holdin’ up half the town’s lights and half its water? You know what happens if we sneeze too hard on that thing? We all drown in federal charges.”

“It’s not even our damn job,” Kabecka added, voice like gravel. “That’s someone else’s play, but we catch the heat if it spills. All anyone’s gonna remember is us.”

Partain held up a hand like a traffic cop at a gospel revival.

“Now let’s not get all jumpy,” he said with that oily charm, as if someone hadn’t just accused him of inviting an apocalypse. “You boys think too small. We ain’t touchin’ the dam. We ain’t even gonna see it. We’re ghosts, remember? Spooks in the breeze. The Padawans handle the mess. We walk in while everyone’s watchin’ the smoke.”

“Terrorism, man!” C-Dog barked. “That’s not smoke, that’s a whole-ass war crime.”

Sam looked like he wanted to shrink inside his jacket. “If the feds show up, we’re—”

“Dead,” Kabecka finished. “Or caged.”

Partain chuckled, brushing off his coat like their fear was lint. “You lot are missin’ the poetry of this. You think the cops care who did what when a cartel’s hiding their retirement fund in plain sight? You think they’re gonna hand out medals for restraint? No, sir. The storm’s comin’ either way. I’m just handin’ you umbrellas with gun barrels for handles.”

“Metaphors don’t stop bullets,” Kabecka muttered.

Justin stayed quiet, eyes flicking from face to face. He was watching—not the doc, but the others. Who’d flinch first. Who’d fold. Who’d start looking for a way out.

Nayati’s voice came at last, low and even. “We do not own the storm. But we can ride the wind.”

Everyone turned to look at him.

Partain nodded solemnly. “Thank you, Chief Redtoad.”

“It is not a compliment.”

Partain grinned anyway, as if he’d won something.

C-Dog scratched the back of his head, pacing a small circle like a dog deciding where to lie. “So what—you sayin’ we just trust these Padawan dudes not to botch the blast and paint us in it?”

“You think this is my first dance?” Partain snapped, smile gone for a moment. “I’ve worked with them before. They ain’t subtle, but they’re reliable. And they’ve got skin in this too. You think they want heat any more than we do? This isn’t some anarchist wet dream—it’s a timed pressure valve. You follow my plan, and we’re ghosts with gold.”

The crew was quiet again.

Not convinced. Not rejecting it either.

Justin flicked ash off his cigarette. “If this blows up in our faces, you know you’ll be the first to catch it.”

Partain smirked. “Good thing I’m fast on my feet.”

“Good thing I’m faster with a bullet,” Justin replied flatly.

That finally got a few crooked smiles, even from Kabecka.

Partain opened his arms again, that practiced preacher flair back in his bones. “Alright, alright. I hear your doubts, and I respect ‘em. But let me sweeten the pot.”

He reached into his coat, produced a folded blueprint, and laid it across the table like a gambler revealing his last hand.

“Inside this bank? Ain’t just cartel cash. It’s vault sixty-three. Old federal install. Still active. Still dirty. They never cleared it out, ‘cause it’s hidden under the newer levels. And our friends—bless ‘em—gave me a whisper that it’s still full.”

Justin’s brow ticked. “Full of what?”

Partain’s smile returned, slow and wide. “Unmarked bearer bonds. Digital ghost accounts. Gold reserves, maybe. Point is—enough that we don’t ever have to work again. You think I’d risk y’all on some petty cash shuffle?”

That, finally, landed.

Even Kabecka straightened.

Sam looked between them all like he was catching up in a race he hadn’t trained for.

Nayati cracked his neck, once, then spoke again. “If we ride this wind, we fly far.”

C-Dog groaned, but nodded. “Fine. But if we end up on TV, I want a cool-ass mugshot.”

Partain slapped the table. “That’s the spirit!”

Justin just watched the doc, quiet and cold, the gears still turning behind his stare.

Then he flicked his cigarette and said, “You better pray they don’t turn the dam to dust, James.”

Partain grinned, eyes gleaming like wet gravel. “Oh, I don’t pray, son. I plan.”

Partain let the weight of the moment settle, the blueprint still spread across the table like a crime scene. He dragged a finger across it, not pointing to anything in particular—just drawing lines in the dirt of their imaginations.

“Alright,” he said, tone shifting, business-like now. “Let’s talk roles.”

He pointed at C-Dog first. “Muscle. Obvious, yeah, but I don’t just mean bench-pressin’ ATMs. You’re the loud one. The hammer. The guy we send in first to knock the chessboard off the table. I want you in the lobby, makin’ noise, crackin’ skulls, keepin’ heads down.”

C-Dog gave a sharp whistle and flexed both arms at once, grinning through his teeth. “Shit yeah, baby. Born for it.”

“Born for somethin’,” Justin muttered, just loud enough.

Partain’s finger drifted to Kabecka. “You’re our birdwatcher. Rooftop overwatch. Scoped eyes, scoped rifle, and all your weird quiet energy. You see somethin’ we don’t, you call it in. We need a god’s eye, not a sniper. Don’t shoot unless it saves lives or ends one.”

Kabecka didn’t react much. Just gave a slow nod and glanced toward the black starless night sky like he was already calculating angles.

Partain turned slightly. “Nayati.”

“Redtoad.”

“Right, right. Redtoad.” Partain gestured toward the center of the blueprint. “You and C-Dog go in through the lobby, but your job ain’t noise. It’s control. Crowd. Staff. Guards. You’ve got a way with posture, and they’ll listen if you don’t raise your voice. Plus, you know where to keep your aim.”

“I know where to make them look,” Nayati said, arms folded.

Partain pointed like he was clicking a slide into place. “Exactly.”

He swiveled to Sam next, and for a second you could see the tension in the kid’s shoulders tighten like a rope being pulled. He looked like a student who hadn’t read the book and just got called on in front of the class.

“You,” Partain said, tapping the blueprint gently. “Already inside.”

“Wait—what?” Sam blinked. “I thought—”

“You’ve got steady hands, Sam,” Partain lied smoothly. “That’s what we need. We need calm. Control. No heat. No joyriding. When the time comes, you pull up smooth, low profile, and you take out the guns like it’s you or them, because it will be.”

Sam swallowed and nodded. Justin caught it—the second his jaw clenched. He wasn’t mad, he was trying to be brave. He’s gonna get someone killed, Justin thought.

Partain moved on before the boy could ask more questions.

“Pusher,” he said, almost too casually. “You and me? We’re vault.”

Justin raised an eyebrow.

Partain smiled like the devil offering a handshake. “We’re the ones who make it all worth the blood. You and I go below. We crack that vault, get the prize, and get out. You’ve got brains, and I’ve got the blueprints.”

“More like a flair for bullshit,” Justin muttered, but he didn’t argue. He didn’t need to. If he was down there with the doc, he’d be close enough to shoot him first if things went sideways.

Partain clapped his hands together once. “So. C-Dog and Redtoad in the front door. Redbird on the roof. Sam’s behind the wheel. Pusher and I disappear into the vault like thieves in a bedtime story.”

He looked at them all like a proud father about to send his kids into a burning building.

“We go in lean. We go in loud. We walk out rich.”

Nobody clapped. Nobody cheered.

But nobody left, either.

With Kabecka and C-Dog seemingly happy, Justin ignored the flaws and contradictions in Partain’s plan, knowing there was more to it, anyway. He had already been given the rundown in his files by Pusher. Dr. James Partain—former academic, mid-tier chemical manufacturer turned freelance fixer—was in deep debt with several groups, from governments to gangs. Not in the dramatic, one-deadline-away-from-a-bullet kind of way, but the quiet, festering kind. The kind that didn’t kill you today because they liked watching you squirm tomorrow.

This whole job stank of desperation.

Partain didn’t need the money—he needed the miracle. And that made him dangerous. Not wild, not erratic. Dangerous like a dying animal that still knew how to fake a smile.

Justin dragged the last inch of his cigarette, ash curling near the filter, and flicked it off into the dark.

He didn’t like it. Any of it.

Nayati might’ve been playing neutral, but he was still tribal, still loyal to his own code—and Justin could see it behind those flat, glassy stares. If things turned sideways, he wouldn’t break ranks, but he would break necks if someone pushed wrong.

Kabecka was level-headed, maybe the only one with a real compass—but quiet didn’t mean passive. He’d kill you in the same breath he forgave you, and Justin knew from experience that the stoic ones always had an endgame.

C-Dog? A bomb with teeth. He followed energy like a dog followed thrown sticks, but Justin didn’t buy the act—not entirely. Nobody that loud was just muscle. There was something wired wrong underneath all that bravado.

And Sam…

Sam was the easy piece. Clean. Green. Planted.

If Justin didn’t know better, he’d think someone handed Partain the kid like a gift-wrapped liability.

Which meant the whole crew was either unstable, compromised, or both. And he was stuck smack in the middle of it—caught between loyalty to Pusher, a job he didn’t ask for, and a creeping suspicion that everyone here was playing a different version of the same game.

And worst of all? He still hadn’t figured out what he wanted out of it.

He turned away from the group, thinking on it all. His eyes drifting towards the parking lot, where Tyrique still sat on the hood of his car, one leg propped, one dangling, as if the whole world bored him to death. The girl was walking back over to him, hands tucked behind her back. She’d ran an errand and already returned during Partain’s half-baked, charisma laden spiel.

Justin’s brow furrowed.

Tyrique shifted, turning toward her with a lazy sneer. He said something—too low to hear from this distance. The girl didn’t react.

Then he raised a hand.

Not dramatically. Not theatrical. Just calm. Measured. Like he was used to it. Like this was the rhythm of things.

Justin’s jaw clenched.

The moment held—

—but a shout pulled him back.

“Alright then!” Partain boomed, re-snaring the courtyard with one final preacher-flourish, clapping his hands like he’d just sold a tent revival full of sinners their salvation. “We rest up tomorrow, we gear up the day after. Make sure you’re sober enough to shoot straight, and mean enough to do it when the time comes.”

“Cheers to that,” C-Dog barked, cracking open a warm beer from someone else’s cooler.

Kabecka didn’t say anything, but he didn’t walk away either. That was answer enough.

Nayati had already melted back into the dark, wordless, watching.

Sam looked around like he’d just stepped off a ride he didn’t remember boarding.

Partain turned his back to the group, pulling a pack of gum from his coat like it was a cigar box, popping a stick between his teeth as he strolled back toward his room, humming something that might’ve been gospel or might’ve been Johnny Cash. Justin couldn’t tell.

He turned back toward Tyrique just in time to see the man lower his hand. The girl hadn’t flinched. She didn’t move, didn’t look at him, didn’t even blink. Tyrique just muttered something and slouched back, cracking another sunflower seed and spitting the shell into the gravel.

Justin held onto the tension in his shoulders a moment longer, then let it go.

Not yet. But soon.

He turned, heading inside, door creaking shut behind him as the muggy heat of the courtyard gave way to the musty dark of Room 330.

Nothing but Tolerance

Justin pulled off the main road, gravel popping beneath the tires of his Yamaha as it rolled onto a cracked stretch of concrete that looked more like a forgotten war zone than a parking lot. The buildings ahead barely resembled a motel—two long rectangular husks of rotted stucco and decaying plywood, running parallel around a sunken, dry swimming pool. No sign, no name, no neon. Just chainlink fences, graffiti-tagged walls, and a general sense that the cops had given up on this place decades ago.

This was the Tolerance Motel. God help anyone who asked why.

He slid his bike into a space half-covered by the shade of a leaning chainlink gate. Across the courtyard, weeds clawed their way up through broken slabs, reaching toward the rusting frame of a pool that hadn’t seen water since before the war. In the center of the pit were three plastic lawn chairs, one cracked in half and one turned upside down. An old folding table leaned to one side like it was waiting to be put out of its misery.

Justin killed the engine and dismounted, slipping off his helmet and shaking out his hair with one hand, cigarette already dancing between his lips with the other. He took a drag and scanned the building. Bars on every window. No cameras—too poor for that. No sign of movement, but the place watched him. Places like this always did.

To the north of the courtyard, within the fence line, was a pitiful garden. Rows of dead squash and discolored tomatoes, long since abandoned to the sun and the rats. Someone had made an attempt once. Now it was just a rotting memorial to good intentions. A moldy ruined couch seated among them.

Room numbers were painted in cheap black stencil, years of wear making them look more like suggestions. 100s on the ground floor, 200s up top, 300s on the third. Twenty-four rooms in total, and every one of them was probably a crime scene.

As Justin approached the office door, it creaked open on a half-hinged welcome. A large black man stood behind the check-in counter—shirt half-buttoned, eyes half-lidded, arms like a gorilla’s crossed over a wide gut. His skin had the oil-slick sheen of someone used to long days in broken air conditioning, and his gaze was one of immediate judgment.

Sitting still, focused on the instrumental of music unfamiliar to Justin, until he saw the cover of Godspeed You! Black Emperor’s F♯ A♯ ∞ album. Tyrique Tavian. Owner of the motel.

Justin exhaled, a long, thin stream of smoke curling into the dusty air, thinking about the miracle of a pre-war CD and player still playing properly, though if one were to find such, it would be in a place like the Tolerance..

“You Partain’s boy?” Tyrique asked, voice deep, molasses-slow and thick with spite. He didn’t look up from the tattered ledger in front of him, though Justin wasn’t sure he was reading it.

“Depends who’s asking,” Justin said, giving the room a cursory scan. Bullet holes in the drywall, mildew in the ceiling tiles, a flickering light that sounded like it was dying a slow death from the wide open fridge behind the man.

Tyrique finally raised his head. His eyes were narrow, dry, contemptuous. “Ain’t no boy of mine. But you ain’t got the look of law, and you sure as hell ain’t DEA—too pretty. So, I’m assumin’ you’re with the doctor.”

Justin smirked. “That how you treat all your guests?”

“This ain’t a bed-and-breakfast, Mr. Designer Denim. This is Tolerance. You pay cash, keep quiet, don’t bleed on the furniture, and maybe, just maybe, you don’t get stabbed on your way out.”

He handed over a rusted key labeled ‘330.’ Justin took it, brushing a smear of something he hoped was grease off the fob.

“Third floor, dead center. No neighbors. No maids. You get visitors, I don’t want to hear ‘em. You get dead, I ain’t cleanin’ it up.”

“Charming place,” Justin muttered.

Tyrique finally cracked something that might’ve been a grin. “Don’t get it twisted. I ain’t charming. I’m necessary.”

Justin stepped back out into the courtyard and lit a fresh cigarette, the last one barely a stub. As he passed near the base of the building, he heard heavy footsteps above — then a deep thud against the brick wall. Again. And again. In tune with the radio that played from the room they were outside, playing Grinderman’s Bellringer Blues.

He looked up, more curious of the characters to be his teammates than the song, though the music was a bit more his taste.

A tall, lean man stood on the second-floor walkway, his silhouette thrown long by the dying sun. Wild black hair, deeply tanned skin, muscles tight under a sleeveless shirt. His boots kicked against the wall like it owed him money.

Another man leaned against the railing nearby, arms crossed, watching him. This one was broader, calmer. A strong jaw, tighter cropped hair, and a more patient stillness.

The kicker snarled as he paced.

“White!? That bitch fuckin’ painted me white!? When we go back, I’m skull-fuckin’ her, Kabecka!”

Kabecka barely blinked. “Probably saved our skins.”

“She scrubbed the red right off us, man.” Nayati spat. “Put us in the mouths of these white-news bastards like we were just some meth-head crackers from the basin. Took Shashin out the story.”

“She took herself out the story,” Kabecka replied. “Same as we did. Government gets one sniff o’ tribal blood in that mess, and they’d have drones over the Res by noon. She made it clean.”

“She made it cowardly.” Nayati’s boots cracked against the concrete. “Let her husband choke to death on his own belt while she smiled at us from the stairs. Watched the boy cry and didn’t lift a hand. Then had the gall to look me in the eye like she’d done us a favor.”

“None of that happened. But she did do us a favor.”

Nayati froze, eyes sharp as a hawk. “Say that again.”

Kabecka shifted his weight, voice slow and even. “She did us a favor. Took the blood and made it blank. Paper don’t mention Rez. Don’t mention debt. Don’t even mention the gang. Just ‘three white men in black masks.’ That buys us time.”

“It buys her pearls,” Nayati hissed. “You saw that fuckin’ bath? Marble so white it hurt my eyes. I thought it was a damn tomb.”

“Turned into one.”

For a second, neither moved. The only sound was the creak of rusted metal, the hum of a bug zapper failing at its job.

Then Nayati laughed — bitter, breathless. “You always were the poet.”

Kabecka shrugged. “You always were the executioner.”

Justin listened from below, the smoke in his lungs curling tight. He hadn’t known these two longer than a shadow’s stretch, but he could already feel it — they weren’t muscle. They were missions. And mission was always messier than mercenaries.

After all, mercenaries didn’t care. You paid ’em, they pointed a gun, then vanished into the smoke. Simple. Efficient. Safe — in a professional sort of way. But the Shashin boys? They didn’t come for cash. They came to make a point. These two didn’t move like hired guns — they moved like scripture. Like every bootstep was ink on a story they’d already carved into their bones. Justin had worked with men like that before. Ideologues. Patriots. True believers. And while they bled easy enough, they rarely died quiet.

“Hey! Hey whats you doin’ mothafucka‽” Tyrique’s voice burst out like a shotgun with a crooked barrel, echoing from the motel office doorway as he stepped into the courtyard, shirt clinging to his chest with sweat and spite. 

Nayati kicked the wall again, not stopping. If anything, his boot came down harder.

“The fuck I tell you about beatin’ on my damn building?” Tyrique hollered, pointing up. “This ain’t your mama’s drum circle, Red!”

Nayati snarled and turned, his voice sharp enough to skin bark. “Then maybe your mama should’ve built something worth standing still for.”

“Boy, I’ll knock you back into your tribal test scores.”

Kabecka chuckled, arms still crossed. “That’s it, T. Go for the racism card early. Real dealer of peace, you.”

Tyrique just shook his head and spat into the weeds. “Y’all been up there a week, sulkin’ and stompin’ like kids off Ritalin. Get your minds right before I start chargin’ rent by the tantrum.”

“We got our minds right,” Kabecka said, finally pushing off the railing, knowing he might have to hold Nayati from jumping down and fighting depending on Tyrique’s next few lines. “Ain’t about that. We’re just still stewin’.”

Nayati muttered something in Lakota under his breath, pacing away from the edge, fists clenched.

Tyrique turned back toward his office, waving them off. “Next time you dent my wall, you can take it up with the whole damn foundation when I bury your monkey-asses.”

Kabecka caught Justin’s gaze as Tyrique disappeared back inside and offered a small shrug. “He’s not wrong. We’ve been off.”

Justin took another drag of his cigarette, then flicked the ash in the same direction Tyrique had spat. “Job go sideways?”

Kabecka gave a slow nod. “Let’s just say… the widow lied. Claimed we were white boys. Said it was Aryan mercs what did it — painted it like a hate crime, all to keep the heat off her and hers.”

Nayati spun back around, fire still dancing behind his eyes. “She let that bastard mayor die. Let her own son burn up next to him. All for a payout.”

“Turned the whole story into some racial scare piece towards semites for the evening news,” Kabecka added. “Now the feds ain’t looking for Shashin. Just the usual boogeymen.”

Justin whistled low. “That’s cold.”

Nayati’s voice was quiet now. Low and rough. “Not cold. Just white.”

Justin took one last drag, then tapped the cigarette out on the sole of his boot.

“Well,” he said, voice like dry gravel, “guess I’ll go hang myself in the laundry shed.”

Kabecka barked a laugh. Even Nayati cracked the barest smirk, though he didn’t let it reach his eyes.

Justin raised his hands slightly in mock surrender. “Don’t mind me, boys. Just your resident ghost of colonialism, loiterin’ with intent.”

Kabecka shook his head, still chuckling. “You ain’t wrong, but hell—least you know how to listen.”

Nayati finally exhaled through his nose, the heat behind his glare dimming a degree, easing his sharp face, scarred from too many back-alley fights. “Words weigh different comin’ from the ones who carry ‘em.”

Justin nodded once. “Yeah. And some of us carry with a limp.”

Kabecka adjusted his weight against the railing, arms still crossed. He gave Justin a long once-over—not hostile, just… measuring.

“You with Partain?” he asked.

Justin nodded, slipping the stub of his cigarette into his pocket rather than flicking it. “For now.”

Kabecka grunted. “Guess that makes two of us.”

There was a pause. Not awkward, just coiled. Justin reached down and rested his hands in his jacket pockets.

“Name’s Justin,” he said, tone flat but not unfriendly. “Friends call me Jazz. Not-friends tend to say it with a little less teeth.”

Kabecka arched a brow before jumping from the second floor balcony, then held out a calloused hand. “Kabecka.”

The handshake was firm, brief. A soldier’s grip. Not a gangster’s. Justin felt it.

“Shashin muscle, yeah?” Justin said, squinting slightly against the sun as he peered back up to Nayati for a brief moment.

Kabecka nodded once. “We don’t wear patches. But yeah. Been ridin’ with Red Toad since we were boys.”

Justin glanced toward Nayati, who now leaned over the railing, boots still tapping out twitchy frustration against the iron bar.

“He always that poetic?” he muttered.

Kabecka smirked. “Only when he’s pissed. Otherwise he just sings old songs and carves animals into soap.”

Justin raised a brow at that. “Seriously?”

Kabecka nodded. “Deer, mostly. Bison sometimes. Won’t admit it, but he’s got a real steady hand.”

“Guess everyone needs a hobby,” Justin said. “Mine’s not dyin’.”

Kabecka’s grin widened. “Then don’t cross Partain. Simple as that.”

Justin chuckled, dry as cracked earth. “That ain’t the hard part.”

They stood there a moment, two professionals from very different worlds, staring across the same dead courtyard.

Then Nayati muttered, “You two done holding hands?”

Kabecka rolled his eyes. “Easy, brother. This one’s got manners.”

Nayati didn’t reply, but he didn’t press either. He just watched Justin with that same wary tension, like a man studying the wind before the hunt.

Justin met his gaze with a flicker of something unreadable.

“Looking forward to working with you both,” he said, voice low.

“Mm,” Kabecka replied. “We’ll see if you mean that in two days.”

Taking out his keys, Justin gave a quick chuckle and a quick expression of agreeance before beginning to walk towards the stairs, wanting to head up and see his set up for the next few days. “So… am I the last pretty face to join this circus, or we still waitin’ on someone worse?”

Kabecka was about to answer when a door slammed open just behind Justin as he hit his fourth step, sharp and final.

Room 150.

A woman staggered out first—heels wobbling, one strap of her dress twisted halfway down her arm, face smudged with mascara and something less poetic. She moved quick, like she’d learned not to look back. But her gait told the story—limp in her left leg, right shoulder hunched defensively. Her face didn’t wear shame. Just exhaustion and contempt.

Behind her lumbered a mountain of flesh and bad decisions.

C-Dog.

Six-foot-six, sleeveless shirt stained with sweat and powder, gym shorts clinging to thighs like sausages in shrink-wrap. His neck was red, face flushed, blond hair buzzed so short it looked like the skin never cooled beneath it. He carried a shaker bottle in one hand and a towel slung over his shoulder, like he’d just finished bench pressing the girl.

He stepped into the sunlight, squinting with the expression of a man allergic to empathy.

“The fuck’s with all the noise?” he grunted, cracking his knuckles one by one. “Some of us are tryin’ to decompress.”

The girl didn’t say a word. She just hobbled past the pool and vanished around the corner.

Justin watched her go, then glanced at C-Dog. “Decompress, huh?”

“Yeah.” C-Dog sniffed, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. “Bitch bit me.”

Kabecka didn’t respond, but his jaw tightened—just slightly.

C-Dog looked up at the balcony, locking eyes with Justin. “You the new guy?”

Justin exhaled slow. “You the entertainment?”

C-Dog grinned like a pitbull finding a new chew toy. “You’re funny. That’s good. We’re all gonna get along just fine.”

He leaned back against the sun-warmed brick, stretching like a man preparing for absolutely nothing.

Kabecka gave Justin a side glance. “Yeah. That’s the full roster now.”

Justin flicked his cigarette over the railing as he got to the second floor, proper. Sarcasm tainting his voice, he adds to the conversation as he approaches the stairs for the third floor. “Great. A poet, a carver, and a bull on bath salts, by the way, should I assume you’re Jake?”

The big man below let out a wet snort, all lungs and loathing. “Do I look like I wear fuckin’ khakis?”

He stepped into full view, sunlight catching on the sheen of old bruises and newer tattoos. One across his chest read C-DOG in block letters that looked like they were scrawled by a prison pen-pal with too much time and not enough talent.

“Nah,” he said, slapping his meaty chest like it owed him money. “You’re lookin’ at C-Dog, baby. That’s me. Capital C, hyphen, D, O, G, Dog. Like the beast.”

Kabecka didn’t even blink. “He insists on spelling it out. Every time.”

Justin raised an eyebrow. “Noted. I’ll be sure to include that in the police report.”

C-Dog gave a loud chuckle, halfway between amusement and warning. “Keep that sense of humor. It’s cute. Might even save your ass.”

Justin looked past him toward the upper floor across the courtyard. “From you, I’m sure. Tyrique said I had no neighbors, is there anyone in the west wing?”

Kabecka gestured with his chin. “Room 340. Top floor, middle right. Hasn’t come out since check-in. Brought his own bag, barely spoke. Just nodded when Tyrique handed him the key. Pertain called him Sam.”

C-Dog scratched his neck. “I even threw a barbeque out here last night and his little ass didn’t come out. I think he’s scared. Scared to come out into the D-O-G pit!” As C-Dog says this, he gives a quick flex as he looks back and points to Justin, causing Kabecka to give out a laugh as Nayati shakes his head, his face showing nothing but peer disdain for the man’s boisterous personality.

Justin chuckled, more out of disbelief than amusement. “Jesus, man. You do that before or after brushing your teeth in protein powder?”

Three o’ Kind

The alley behind the redbrick complex stank of motor oil, wet copper, and the distant funk of rotted grain from the port. Justin stood still for a moment, soaking it in, listening to the faint lyrics of Beck’s Pay No Mind that escaped from a nearby apartment window. He didn’t stand and absorb the world out of sentiment—he wasn’t that kind of man—but because the wind had teeth here, and he liked to know which way it was biting.

He sparked a match against the wall, shielding the flame with a leather-gloved hand, and lit a cigarette so smooth it could’ve been silk. The match fluttered to the ground, hissed in a shallow puddle. He exhaled and pushed open the metal door.

Inside, the stairwell buzzed with a faint electric hum, and the walls bore peeling paint in shades of long-dead mint. He took the steps two at a time, moving with a fluid confidence—controlled, easy, but the kind that says he knows exactly how many exits are in the building.

Apartment 3C. A paper sign taped crooked over the peephole read: Don’t Knock Unless You’re Losing.

Justin knocked.

The door cracked open, just wide enough to reveal a sliver of a young face, too fresh for how still his eyes were.

“Jazz Man,” the boy said, lips twitching with a crooked grin. He stepped aside. “Come on in. Cards are hot, and the sharks are bleeding.”

The apartment had the thick, honeyed reek of cigar smoke, slow jazz, and under-the-table politics. The living room had been hollowed out to house a poker table bathed in red light, the air charged with cigar ash and the scent of body heat and burning ambition. Folded bills lay stacked high, mixed with lines of coke on mirror shards and scattered shot glasses with the residue of fizzled pills still circling their bottoms.

Around the table sat the city’s rot in full bloom. Mickey Downs, greasy and grinning, wiped his forehead with a twenty-dollar bill. Some kid from Pontiac with twitchy hands held a busted flush like it was a lottery ticket. And in the back, near the window, one-eyed Sal leaned forward, slow and deliberate, licking his thumb before dragging a fat stack of chips to the center.

Justin walked through the din with the casual air of a man who’d already decided whether or not he was killing someone tonight. He gave Mickey a nod; Mickey gave him one back, no less cautious.

The crime lords of the surrounding counties spoke of recent events, cracking jokes on each other and of life.

“You hear what happened in the Texahoma Strip?” Sal muttered, pushing chips with that one good eye narrowed like a squinting hawk. “Some batshit preacher blew up a trade train. Claimed it was deliverin’ cloned meat from the Old World.”

Mickey snorted. “Preacher? That weren’t no preacher, that was that eco-nut from the Dust Saints. The ones what paint their foreheads green and hump cactuses.”

The kid from Pontiac blinked. “They still around? Thought the Confederacy torched their stronghold.”

Sal shook his head slow, like the weight of the world had rusted into his bones. “Which Confederacy, kid? You got the New Confederacy sittin’ on top of the Old South like a drunk uncle. Got their own flag, anthem, even their own version of Jesus. And then you got the Outer Rim Confederates, all desert rats and propane bombs. They’re not torchin’ rebels. They’re makin’ ‘em.”

Mickey laughed around a lit match, lit his stubby cigar, and leaned back. “I tell ya, that whole Southwest’s a goddamn cookin’ pot. Lone Star’s got nukes pointed both ways, Cascadia’s buildin’ seawalls against ghosts, and the Appalachian folks are still arguing over whether the earth’s flat or haunted.”

“T’ain’t mutually exclusive,” Sal muttered.

The kid chuckled nervously. “Least we got peace here in the Lakebones.”

That shut ‘em up for a beat. Even Mickey’s smirk dulled like someone pissed in his whisky.

Sal leaned in, voice a low grind. “We got silence. Silence ain’t peace, boy. It’s just the part in the middle where everyone sharpens their knives.”

The kid stared at his busted flush, hands starting to tremble.

“Play or fold,” Sal growled.

From the corner, someone muttered, “No feds, no flags, no mercy,” like a prayer.

And that’s when Pusher’s voice rose from the hallway, slow and theatrical as ever.

“Someone say mercy? Thought I heard someone say mercy…”

Across the room, beyond a threadbare curtain hung like a suggestion of privacy, was the kitchen. It had once been lime green—maybe in the ‘90s. Now it was dim, sour, and all stainless steel shadows.

Pusher sat at the kitchen table, legs crossed like a man waiting for dessert. Silk shirt. No jewelry but a crucifix and the glint of gold in his molars. A low flame licked the bottom of a kettle on the stove. He didn’t look up as Justin entered.

“I heard you were dead,” he said.

“I heard the same about you.”

Pusher cracked a grin, eyes still on the stove. “Funny how the dead keep gettin’ things done.”

“Three o’ kind,” Sal muttered outside the curtain, dragging the pot toward him. “Same hand I used to bury my third wife.”

Justin smiled as the table chuckled and gasped with disappointment, closing the curtain behind him.

The kettle whined like a whisper from the dead. Pusher reached out, fingers painted silver with heat and steel polish, and flicked the burner off. He poured the water into a pair of mismatched mugs—one with chipped enamel, the other boasting a cartoon shark with its tongue out. He handed Justin the chipped one.

Justin sniffed the steam. Chamomile.

“You offering me a lullaby, or just tryin’ to disarm me?”

“It’s the only leaf I trust this far north,” Pusher replied, sitting back down. His chair creaked under the weight of his poise. “Also keeps the nerves from trippin’ during blood deals.”

Justin leaned against the counter, setting his cigarette on the sink, cupping the mug but not drinking. His eyes scanned the window—a greasy black void beyond the slats of crooked blinds.

“Santera’s gone, then?” Pusher asked casually, as if asking about a winter coat misplaced last season.

“Yeah,” Justin murmured. “Split him clean. Like slicing windpipe from spine.”

“You didn’t bring me a souvenir.”

“Didn’t want to send a message. Job was to shut ‘em up.”

They sat like that a moment, tea fog rising between them.

Pusher finally leaned forward, dropping his voice. “Then I got something. An old friend of mine, used to work border-side, real educated, real twitchy. Goes by Dr. James Partain.”

Justin raised a brow. “Doctor?”

“PhD in pharmaceuticals. Also a head full of ants. Smart bastard though. Knows how to pick locks with words and doors with wires. He’s setting something up in Nevada.”

Justin set the mug down, now mildly intrigued. “Reno?”

Pusher nodded. “Sanish, actually. Small town off Route 6. North-east of Warm Springs. He’s got a crew coming together. Backed by a local gang. Big job. Dirty bank. Needs muscle that ain’t gonna flinch when things get noisy. I thought of you.”

Justin smirked. “That why you buttered me up with herbal tea and jazz?”

“Nah,” Pusher said, flashing gold teeth. “That’s just foreplay.”

Justin’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You trust this guy?”

“No,” Pusher said without hesitation. “But I trust his desperation. That kind of man only reaches out when he’s already knee-deep in something sticky. I figure you go in, take the cash, and if he gets funny… well, you know what to do.”

“And you want me to run the kill?”

“After the payout. Make sure he hands the goods first, don’t need them coming up here. Then you cash out his cut.”

Justin exhaled through his nose, picking his cigarette back from the edge of the counter. He tapped it against the sink but didn’t relight.

“Michael Santera didn’t scream,” he said quietly. “Just looked me in the eye and laughed. Said I was too late. That make you nervous, Pusher?”

Pusher didn’t blink. “Santera always liked drama. If he’s got fingers still twitchin’, I’ll burn the rest of him myself. You do your job, Jazz Man. I’ll clean up the encore.”

Justin finally smiled, the real one this time—not the mask, not the poker bluff. “All right then. Set me up with your boy.”

“Already did,” Pusher said. “Ticket’s in the glovebox of your bike. Head out in the morning. They’re expecting you at a place called the Tolerance.”

“That a joke?”

Looking down at his watch, Pusher put his glass down, “Owner thinks himself a comedian. You’ll see. They’re different down there.”

The curtain peeled open again with a slap, and the living room roared back into focus—smoke, laughter, and tension strung tight between sips and suspicion. Justin stepped through and caught the eye of a waitress weaving her way around the poker table—her tray held a rusted tin ashtray, a bottle of bourbon, and an unopened condom still in its wrapper.

The waitress was dressed like she’d lost a bet—denim shorts that hadn’t seen fabric past the thighs in years, fishnets full of cigarette burns, and a cropped T-shirt that read “Drink Up, Daddy” in flaking neon font. Her lipstick was smudged just enough to suggest she hadn’t reapplied since her last kiss, and her eyes were painted like she’d tried to win a fight with sleep and lost.

As she leaned across the table to set down the bourbon, Mickey Downs reached out and gave her a sharp little pinch just above the thigh. She didn’t flinch—just poured the drink and said, “You touch me again, I’ll twist off that pinkie ring and wear it as a nipple clamp.”

Mickey laughed through his nose like a man who hadn’t been hit hard enough lately. “Feisty. Bet you bite.”

“Only when paid,” she said, spinning the tray to her opposite hip and drifting toward the kitchen like smoke.

The kid from Pontiac stared after her a bit too long. Sal caught it.

“She’s got more scars than your ma’s C-section,” the old man growled. “Keep your eyes on the goddamn game.”

“Y-yeah,” the kid muttered, coughing into his sleeve. “Sorry. Just tired, is all.”

“Don’t apologize for lookin’,” Mickey said, downing his bourbon. “Apologize for not tipin’. Girl’s walkin’ around here dressed like a fire hazard just to pay off her daddy’s smuggling debts.”

The boy blinked. “She’s Pusher’s?”

“Pusher’s adjacent,” Sal muttered. “Her old man used to run radios for the Light Brotherhood. Got caught ferryin’ signals across the Great Divide, so now he’s got half a face and a full tab. Girl’s workin’ it off.”

Just then, the kid who’d let Justin in—probably no older than nineteen—sidled up to the table and refilled ashtrays with all the ceremony of a priest wiping blood off an altar. His name was Clip. Least that’s what people called him, and no one knew if it was for his fast talk, his limp, or the gun he never stopped fidgeting with.

“Anyone need ice?” he asked, glancing around.

“You got any that ain’t piss-warm?” Sal muttered.

Clip smiled without showing teeth. “Yes, sir!”

Mickey tossed him a chipped shot glass. “Just keep the bourbon flowin’. And next hand, if I catch Sal lyin’, you’re the one gettin’ skinned.”

“I don’t lie,” Sal said, dragging another card. “I bluff with divine clarity.”

Clip chuckled and stepped away, muttering something about needing hazard pay.

Pusher followed Justin out, clapping twice. The music lowered.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “The house is pleased to provide tonight’s additional amenities. Keep your hands clean and your wallets open.”

The door to the hallway creaked open. Three women entered—each one dressed like a different sin. The first wore an evening dress stitched tight as skin, cigarette dangling from her red lips like punctuation. The second, all legs and glitter, blew a bubblegum pink kiss to the room. The third—taller, meaner—carried a bottle of mezcal in one hand and a brass-knuckled grin in the other.

The room let out a collective growl.

Justin didn’t move for a while. He lit his cigarette again, leaned against the wall, watching.

“You ain’t joining in?” Pusher asked, plucking the mezcal from the third girl’s hand like it was his by birthright.

Justin smiled, eyes narrowing through the smoke. “I’ll warm up. Got anything smooth that don’t taste like garbage fire?”

Pusher nodded to a hookah pipe in the corner. Already lit, already bubbling. A mix of hashish, opium, and something floral.

Justin walked over, took a seat on a velvet beanbag that had seen too many sins and not enough soap, and drew in deep.

The haze hit his lungs like midnight static. Slow and silky, but hot around the edges. His mind wandered—to Santera’s last laugh, to the smell of desert sand and blood, to whatever waited at this so-called Tolerance.

As the girls laughed and sat in laps, as the men toasted to losses like they were wins, as Pusher whispered secrets in one woman’s ear and slid his dark fingers into her bra—Justin watched.

Always watching.

His cigarette burned low, the hookah gurgled, and somewhere across the room, One-Eyed Sal swore he saw God in a flush.

Justin closed his eyes.

Nevada tomorrow.

Toys and games tonight.

Burn it All Down

The wallpaper was red and gold, gaudy in the way that wealth often becomes when it forgets humility. Kabecka pressed his boot into Mayor Rafferty’s back, grounding the man into the fibres of his own overpriced rug. A guttural wheeze escaped the mayor’s lungs as he twisted in vain, zip ties biting into his wrists like plastic manacles of justice finally served.

“You remember Margo Thompson?” Kabecka asked, voice low and deliberate, the way one might whisper a bedtime story to a restless child. He traced the blade of his hunting knife slowly across the mayor’s left earlobe. Not cutting—yet—but teasing.

The mayor tried to speak, but all that came out was a desperate gargle. His eyes flicked to the doorway, then to the stairs, hoping, praying that someone, anyone, might intervene.

Kabecka smiled. It was not a warm expression. “Of course you do. The pretty little thing who ran your charity gala. Had her arrested for “misuse of funds,” when it was your nephew who skimmed the pot. You remember now?”

A muffled sob echoed from the hallway. Rafferty’s wife—white blouse stained with spilled wine and streaks of mascara—lay crumpled against the wall, breathing fast, wild-eyed. One of the kids was in the guest bathroom, door locked, trying to hold back a scream, with him was a small radio that played Johnny Cash’s Mercy Seat.

“You ruined her life,” Kabecka continued. “Said she’d be ‘an example.’ Said you ‘had to keep appearances.’” His lips curled back slightly. “Well here’s your goddamn example.”

He shifted, pulling the mayor’s head up by the hair and forcing his gaze toward the burning cigar still smoldering in the ashtray nearby.

“Pick it up.”

Rafferty whimpered.

“Pick. It. Up.”

The mayor’s trembling fingers reached for the cigar. He hesitated. Kabecka brought the knife down hard—just into the floor, an inch from Rafferty’s pinky.

“Now burn it into your palm. BURN IT!”

The man screamed. His fingers closed around the glowing embers. The sizzle of flesh filled the room, and scorched skin drowned out the cologne-heavy air. The mayor collapsed again, sobbing into the floor.

”That’s what your legacy feels like.”

From across the room, Nayati’s voice cut through like a whip. “Yo, Kabecka, you done makin’ art? We still got half a house to redecorate.”

Kabecka stood slowly, flicked bloodless dust off his jacket, and gave the mayor a parting pat on the cheek. “Don’t bleed too much. We ain’t got the rights to your death yet.”

He turned and walked out of the room, leaving Rafferty moaning on the rug like a broken animal, unsure why he lied to the man.

Outside, firelight licked the horizon through drawn curtains, and Nayati was already making his way upstairs.

The staircase creaked beneath Nayati’s boots like a guilty conscience. He moved with purpose, eyes scanning the ornate fixtures and framed photographs lining the wall. Each one showed the same porcelain smiles, the same glowing skin tones in country club tans. The deeper he climbed, the more the air changed—less smoke, more perfume. Cloying. Artificial.

He turned left at the top, entering what looked like a sitting room designed solely for the display of wealth. One of those places people didn’t actually live in. They preserved it, like a shrine to their own taste. Nayati ran his fingers along the edge of a glass coffee table, then with a flick of his wrist, upended it. The crash echoed like a war drum.

He continued on, kicking open doors with theatrical disdain. Guest bedrooms. Linen closets. One room with a dumbwaiter shaft that smelled like mothballs and forgotten birthdays. He was half-hoping for a gun safe. Maybe a stash of pills. Something that said, we knew this day would come. Something he could sell.

Finally, the master bedroom. The air was cooler here, quieter. The thick curtains blocked the rising orange glow outside. He stepped in slowly, pistol drawn, and swept the room.

Empty.

Nayati relaxed, then made a beeline for the walk-in closet. It was enormous. He grabbed an armful of evening gowns and flung them across the room, laughing.

“Kabecka, your boy likes sequins!”

He turned, just as something caught his eye—a barely concealed panel along the baseboard. Subtle. Almost clever. He crouched, pressing his fingers into the groove. A mechanical click responded.

A hidden wall safe.

He grinned, pulled out his phone, and shouted downstairs.

“Hey! K! Your boyfriend got himself a panic box! Gonna need the code.”

A few moments passed before a choked voice responded. Not Kabecka. The mayor.

“It’s… it’s my birthday.”

“Yeah? When’s that, champ? Speak up, I don’t keep your calendar.”

“March 9th, 1962. Please…”

Nayati keyed it in. 03-09-62.

The safe hissed open. Inside: a handgun, a bundle of cash thick as a dictionary, two passports, fakes, and a small velvet pouch. He snapped a picture and took all of it. Slid the pouch open. Something gold glinted from within, but he didn’t bother inspecting it.

“Guilt money,” he muttered. “Fuckin’ cowards always plan an escape.”

He pocketed it all, then crossed the room and grabbed the heavy glass lamp from the dresser. With a grunt, he lobbed it into the vanity mirror. The impact shattered the glass, sending shards tumbling like falling stars.

Downstairs, Kabecka’s voice rang out.

“Wrap it up, Toad. We’re clocked.”

“Just addin’ my signature.”

Nayati pulled a small red canister from his satchel, twisted the cap, and began dousing the bedroom carpet in gasoline. The smell was sharp and immediate, burning the back of his throat. He trailed it all the way back to the hall, where he lit a match and dropped it.

The fire roared to life instantly.

“Shashin always leaves a mark,” he whispered, then turned and descended into the rising heat.

The fire was already gorging itself on silk curtains and lacquered wood as Nayati leapt the last three steps and landed hard on the ground floor. His face was flushed with heat and elation, eyes wide and twitching like a man high on revolution.

He stormed past the mayor, who was still whimpering, twitching like guilt in a priest’s confessional, chained to an exposed pipe that was revealed from when the pair originally entered. Nayati didn’t hesitate—he cocked his knee back and drove it straight into the man’s jaw with a satisfying crack, lifting the old bastard an inch off the floor.

“That one’s for Shashin, bitch.”

He spun toward the hallway to take a picture of the mayor and his wife in their moments of terror,, glancing over at the kid who’d dared poke his head out of the bathroom. The boy let out a short, broken scream and tried to duck back in, his face swollen with fear and tears.

Too slow.

Nayati ripped a drawer out of the cabinet in the foyer and hurled it full-force like a pitcher closing the ninth. It hit the door edge, bounced, and clipped the kid’s skull. The sickening thud of wood meeting flesh echoed louder than any fire alarm. Blood smeared the edge of the doorframe with a meaty smack as the child hit the ground.

“Lesson one! Don’t peek when wolves are feeding!”

Kabecka was already outside, standing at the open door of their rust-covered Mercury Cougar, pistol hanging low and loose at his side. His face was impassive, but his eyes were smiling.

“What was in it?”

Nayati burst through the doorway, coughing out laughter like a rabid hyena. He tossed the passports onto the hood as he quickly picked his pace up to his partner.

“Man had a whole new life packed away in that safe. Couple’a plane tickets, shiny little idol. Shit’s poetic.”

He climbed into the passenger seat as the mayor’s wife ran out of the house as flames overtook the last of the rooms in the upstairs.

Kabecka slid in beside him, adjusted the rearview mirror, and lit a cigarette off the dashboard lighter. The passports Nayati tossed him, thrown into the backseat falling between a few guns and other nefarious equipment.

“We done?”

Nayati nodded, slapping the glove box shut with a smirk. “Only thing left is the drive.”

Kabecka took a long drag. “Then let’s go. We’ve got a new job. Some coastal trash out near Reno. Says he’s a doctor. Needs some wolves for a bank job.”

“Herd the sheep?”

“Herd the sheep.”

Nayati laughed and cracked his neck as they pulled out onto the night road, flames chewing the skyline behind them. In the mirror, Nayati watches as the mayor’s wife dropped to her knees and cried at her home as her entire life was shattered. Taking note that she was alone, leaving her child and husband in the flames as they rose, Nayati’s typical smile faded and he knew who ordered the job they just pulled off. Not the indigenous woman that Rafferty ruined who is rotting in prison. Not the outcry of his community to the Shashin. The client was the one person he and Kabecka were told to keep alive.

“The white man has become soft,” he exclaimed softly. “Like the buffalo.”

Rain fell in endless sheets, drowning the ruins of what had once been a thriving downtown. Broken skyscrapers jutted from the earth like jagged teeth, their windows shattered and their frames consumed by rust. The streets were rivers of blackened water, and the air carried a foul stench of decay. Somewhere in the distance, the faint groan of shifting metal echoed—a haunting sound that mingled with the relentless patter of rain.

Alaric tightened his grip on the cracked lantern in his hand, its faint, flickering flame barely cutting through the oppressive darkness. Each step he took sent ripples through the water pooling around his boots, the chill seeping into his bones. His other hand rested on the hilt of his rusted machete, a weapon barely holding together after weeks of use and neglect.

“How far is it?” came a voice behind him. Nadia, her voice trembling with exhaustion, struggled to keep up. Her scarf, soaked and fraying, clung to her neck as she cradled a makeshift rifle wrapped in plastic to protect it from the rain. Her eyes darted nervously to the shadows stretching between the skeletal remains of cars and buildings.

“Not far,” Alaric replied, though he wasn’t certain. The map he had scavenged was incomplete, half its markings smudged by time and water. He had a vague sense of their destination: a church rumored to house a fragment of the First Light, a relic said to restore Spirit and stave off corruption. If the rumors were true, it might be their only hope.

Behind Nadia, Elias trudged silently, his breath labored. His heavy cloak dragged through the water, its weight slowing him down. He carried a satchel filled with what little supplies they had left—a few cans of food, a bottle of contaminated water, and a small bundle of cloth bandages. The man’s face was pale, his Spirit clearly fraying. He’d barely spoken since the last encounter with… it.

The memory of the encounter still burned in Alaric’s mind. The wraithlike figure had emerged from the darkness, its hollow eyes filled with a malice that clawed at their very souls. It had taken two of their group before they managed to drive it off with invocation and fire. The price had been high—too high.

“Stop,” Alaric whispered, raising his hand. The others froze, their breaths visible in the cold, wet air. Ahead, a low, guttural growl echoed from a collapsed parking structure. The shadows there seemed to ripple unnaturally, as though alive.

“Wolves?” Nadia whispered, her fingers tightening around the rifle.

“No,” Alaric said, his voice grim. “Not wolves.”

From the darkness emerged a creature that had once been human. Its flesh was pallid and stretched tight over a gaunt frame, and its eyes glowed faintly with an unholy light. Blackened veins spiderwebbed across its skin, pulsing with corruption. It moved with unnatural speed, its clawed hands digging into the wet asphalt as it advanced.

“Light the circle!” Alaric barked, shoving the lantern into Nadia’s hands.

Elias dropped to his knees, fumbling with a vial of powdered chalk from his satchel. His hands shook as he began to trace a protective circle on the ground. The rain fought against him, threatening to wash away his work before he could finish.

The creature snarled and lunged, closing the distance in a heartbeat. Alaric stepped forward, his machete swinging in a wide arc. The blade bit into the creature’s shoulder, but the rusted edge caught on bone and failed to sever it. The creature’s claws raked across Alaric’s arm, tearing through his coat and drawing blood.

“Hurry!” Nadia shouted, raising the rifle and firing. The shot rang out, the sound deafening in the rain-soaked silence. The bullet struck the creature’s chest, staggering it but not stopping its advance.

Elias completed the circle just as the creature lunged again. Light flared to life, emanating from the lantern Nadia placed at the center. The creature screeched, its movements faltering as it clawed at its face. The light from the circle burned its corrupted flesh, forcing it back into the shadows.

Alaric collapsed to one knee, clutching his bleeding arm. Nadia rushed to his side, pulling a strip of cloth from her bag to staunch the wound. Elias sat back, his chest heaving as he stared at the flickering light of the lantern.

“It’ll come back,” he muttered. “They always come back.”

“Then we keep moving,” Alaric said, his voice firm despite the pain. “The church isn’t far. If the relic is there… we might still have a chance.”

Nadia helped him to his feet, and the three of them pressed on, the faint glow of the lantern guiding their way through the endless rain and darkness. The road ahead was uncertain, but as long as the light burned, hope remained—however fragile.

Halon adjusted the seals on his respirator, the hiss of compressed air a sharp reminder of how thin the margin for error was out here. The Anoxic Tract stretched before him, a desolate expanse of cracked, glassy earth bathed in shimmering waves of heat. Above, the sky glowed a pale orange, choked with particles that turned sunlight into a hazy blur.

He checked his oxygen gauge—a third full. Enough to finish the job, if he moved quickly. Halon had been hired to recover a lost drone, a sleek prototype that had veered off course during a survey and vanished into this hostile wasteland. The pay was good, better than usual, but the risks matched the reward. Few ventured into the Tract, and even fewer returned.

The air was poison, thick with metallic dust that corroded flesh and machinery alike. His suit, patched together with scavenged materials, hissed faintly with each step. The respirator filter was jury-rigged, its performance more a matter of hope than confidence. Halon gripped the shard cutter strapped to his side, its blade glowing faintly in the oppressive light. Out here, even the land itself could be dangerous.

The drone’s signal was faint but steady, pulsing on the cracked screen of his wrist-mounted tracker. It was close—two clicks east. He quickened his pace, the ground crunching beneath his boots. Every sound felt amplified in the emptiness, his breath loud in his ears.

The Tract had its own rhythm, a silence broken only by the occasional groan of distant geothermal vents or the soft crackle of settling debris. Halon kept his eyes on the horizon, scanning for movement. The Tract was supposed to be lifeless, but rumors persisted—of creatures born from the Growths or anomalies left behind by the shattered Seleos.

He reached the edge of a ravine, the drone’s signal pulsing stronger now. Peering down, he spotted it—a sleek black frame half-buried in the glassy sediment. Relief washed over him. The job was almost done.

Descending the ravine was slower than he’d hoped. The terrain was slick, the sharp edges of fractured rock threatening to tear his suit. He slid the last few feet, landing in a crouch next to the drone. Its casing was scorched, one of its rotors snapped clean off, but it was intact enough to be valuable. He activated the retrieval beacon and prepared to secure it for transport.

That’s when he felt it—a vibration in the ground, faint but growing. He froze, his hand hovering over the drone. The tremor deepened, a low, rhythmic pulse that resonated in his chest. It wasn’t natural.

Halon’s grip tightened on the shard cutter as he scanned the ravine. A shadow shifted on the far side, moving against the light. It wasn’t human. The figure that emerged was tall and angular, its body encased in what looked like organic armor. Its movements were fluid, almost graceful, but its form was alien—spines protruding from its back, its limbs too long to be natural.

The stories were true.

The creature tilted its head, its glowing eyes locking onto Halon. He didn’t wait for it to make the first move. Swinging the shard cutter, he activated its pulse edge, the blade humming with energy. The creature moved faster than he expected, dodging the strike with inhuman speed. It lashed out, claws raking the air where he’d stood moments before.

Halon stumbled back, narrowly avoiding its attack. His oxygen gauge blinked red—time was running out. The creature lunged again, and this time he met its charge, the shard cutter slicing through one of its spines. The creature screeched, a sound that reverberated through the ravine like a shockwave.

The drone. He couldn’t leave without it.

Halon grabbed the drone with his free hand, slinging it onto his back as the creature circled him. He needed to get out—now. He activated the shard cutter’s pulse charge, slamming it into the ground. The resulting shockwave knocked the creature back, giving him the opening he needed to climb the ravine.

He didn’t look back as he scrambled to the top, his lungs burning from exertion and the dwindling oxygen. The creature’s screeches faded behind him, but he knew it wouldn’t stop. Nothing ever did in the Anoxic Tract.

When he finally stumbled back into the safe zone, collapsing onto the cracked earth of Aechelis’s outer perimeter, he let himself breathe for the first time in what felt like hours. The drone was intact. The job was done.

But as he stared at the faint glow on the horizon, where the Tract met the Growths, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something out there had followed him.