The room is a tomb of shadows, its silence so absolute it seems to devour sound itself. Kayden's screams tear through the darkness, raw and desperate, but they vanish into the void, unanswered. His wrists burn against the ropes binding him to the chair, each twist sending sharp pain through his bruised body. Tears stream down his swollen face, mingling with the blood crusted beneath his nose. The only light comes from a flickering red bulb overhead, its feeble glow pulsing like a dying heart, casting jagged shadows that dance across the walls. The air is stale, heavy with the acrid scent of disinfectant and the faint metallic tang of fear. If not for the bulb's erratic flicker, the room would be an abyss, a fitting cage for the terror clawing at Kayden's mind. His voice cracks as he cries out again, "Please… anyone! Untie me!" but the silence mocks him, pressing down like a physical weight. Exhausted, his body slumps, and unconsciousness claims him, his head lolling forward as the darkness swallows his senses.
Evening, 5:30 PM
Even in sleep, Kayden's body betrays him. His stomach roars, a guttural, primal plea that echoes through the barren room, a cruel reminder of three days surviving on weak tea and scraps of stale bread. The sound is almost comical in its insistence, a stark contrast to the lifeless stillness around him. His gaunt frame trembles faintly, his torn shirt clinging to sweat-soaked skin, the bruises on his face a map of his suffering. The ropes bite deeper into his wrists, leaving angry red welts that pulse with each heartbeat. In his unconscious state, he is a picture of vulnerability, a young man caught in a web far larger than himself, unaware of the cosmic forces converging on his fate.
The door creaks open, a slow, deliberate sound that cuts through the silence like a blade. A tantalizing aroma wafts in, rich and intoxicating—roasted octopus, its smoky char mingling with the fiery heat of snake chili and the warm, spiced depth of curry. The scent is a cruel tease, curling around Kayden's senses, stirring him from his stupor. His nose twitches, a reflex born of hunger, and his eyes flutter open, blinking against the haze of his blurred vision. Shapes dissolve into shadows, the flickering red bulb offering little clarity. His stomach growls louder, a visceral ache that twists his insides, amplified by the promise of food he cannot reach. He licks his dry lips, the taste of blood and sweat lingering, and strains against the ropes, his body trembling with a mix of hunger and fear.
"Who's there?" Kayden croaks, his voice a hoarse whisper, trembling with the weight of his dread. The words feel fragile, as if they might shatter in the oppressive air.
"What, gone blind from all that growling?" Bolt's gruff voice cuts through the haze, laced with mockery but tinged with an undercurrent of unease. The broad-shouldered thug steps into the dim light, his silhouette looming like a storm cloud. His face, weathered by years in the red-light district, is slick with sweat, his eyes flickering with something akin to guilt as he looks at Kayden's battered form.
"N-no… my eyes are fine," Kayden stammers, his tone quivering with nervous fear. "It's just… blurred. I can't see clearly." He blinks rapidly, trying to focus, but the room remains a smear of shadows and red light. His heart races, each beat a hammer against his ribs, as he senses another presence—colder, more dangerous—lurking just beyond his sight.
"You don't need to see," a voice interjects, sharp and cold as tempered steel. Jane, mistress of the P-Mansion, steps forward, her leather suit gleaming faintly under the bulb's glow. She sits across from Kayden, legs crossed with predatory grace, a sleek pistol resting casually in her lap. Her cascading black hair frames a face of striking beauty, but her almond-shaped eyes are piercing, devoid of warmth, as if they could strip away flesh to expose the soul beneath. "You know who I am, don't you? My voice is unmistakable."
Kayden's breath hitches, a surge of panic electrifying his nerves. Her presence is suffocating, a weight that presses against his chest, making each breath a struggle. "You!" he bursts out, his voice cracking with a mix of fear and defiance. "Why am I here? Why tie me up? Why are you torturing me?" The questions spill from him in a frantic rush, pent-up and desperate, as if he's been holding them back for years. His body trembles, the ropes cutting deeper as he strains, his eyes searching her face for answers, for mercy, for anything but the cold indifference he finds.
Jane's lips curl into a faint, chilling smile, her gaze unyielding. "Your account has an unpaid balance," she says, her voice smooth and deliberate, each word a calculated strike. "We're here to collect."
Kayden's brow furrows, confusion warring with his fear. "Unpaid balance?" His voice rises, a mix of outrage and disbelief. "I never borrowed from you! What are you talking about?" His mind races, searching for any memory, any reason he might be entangled with the P-Mansion. He's a scavenger, a nobody scraping by in the city's underbelly, not someone who could afford Jane's world of decadence.
"Tch." Roy, another thug, steps forward, his face a mask of irritation. He backhands Kayden, the slap ringing out like a gunshot, sending a fresh wave of pain through his already bruised cheek. "Watch your tongue, brat," Roy snarls, his voice low and menacing. "Know who you're talking to, or I'll rip it out."
Kayden's head snaps to the side, stars exploding in his vision. He gasps, tasting blood, but the pain is secondary to the terror gripping him. "Roy," Jane snaps, her voice a whip of command laced with mockery. "How many times must I tell you to stay calm? What if he dies like his father did when you hit him last time?" Her words are casual, almost playful, but they carry a weight that freezes the room.
Kayden's breath stops, his heart lurching as if struck. "What… what did you say?" His voice trembles, disbelief and dread colliding in a storm of emotion. "My father… died? By him?" The words feel unreal, a nightmare he can't wake from. He had hated his father—a drunken wreck who'd left chaos in his wake, abandoning Kayden to fend for himself. But death? Kayden had imagined him fleeing, hiding in some distant slum, not perishing at the hands of these monsters. The thought of his only family—flawed, abusive, but his—gone shatters something deep within him. He'd wanted to scream at him, to unload years of pain and anger, not mourn him. His eyes widen, searching Jane's face for a lie, but her cold smile offers no comfort.
Jane leans forward, her eyes glinting like polished obsidian in the dim light. "Oh, yes," she says, her voice dripping with amusement, as if recounting a trivial anecdote. "Your father died, right in that chair you're sitting in. Pleading, pathetic, until his last breath." There is no remorse in her tone, only a chilling satisfaction, as if his father's life was a plaything she'd grown bored of.
Kayden's chest tightens, his mind reeling. "But… why?" His voice cracks, a whisper barely audible over the pounding of his heart. "How much did he owe? Why did he borrow from you?" The questions spill out, driven by a desperate need to understand, to make sense of the void opening within him. His father had been a miser, hoarding every credit, a man who'd rather starve than spend. The idea of him entangled with the P-Mansion, a place of opulent excess, is incomprehensible.
Jane's smile widens, a predator savoring her prey's confusion. "Not a loan," she says, her tone almost playful. "A service. He indulged in our… offerings at the P-Mansion and left without paying." The words are vague, deliberately provocative, and they hang in the air like a blade poised to fall.
"Service?" Kayden's voice rises, confusion deepening into indignation. "What service? What are you talking about?" His mind races, grasping for meaning, but the implications are too horrifying to fully process. The P-Mansion is infamous, a den of vice where desires are bought and sold, but his father—a man who'd shunned such temptations, who'd raised Kayden alone after his mother's death—couldn't have been part of that world.
Jane's laugh cuts through the room, sharp and crystalline, like glass shattering. "Don't play innocent," she says, her eyes narrowing with cruel mirth. "Everyone in this city knows what I'm famous for. You're telling me you've never heard of me?" Her words are a challenge, daring him to deny the truth she's weaving.
"No!" Kayden shouts, his voice breaking with conviction. "My father wouldn't do that! He was a drunk, a mess, but he raised me alone for twenty years after my mother died. If he had those urges, he'd have abandoned me long ago. He was obsessed with money—tight with every credit. There's no way he'd step foot in your mansion, let alone rack up a debt he couldn't pay. You're lying to scam me!" His words are a desperate defense, a refusal to accept the image Jane paints. His father had been flawed, often cruel, but he was the only anchor Kayden had in a city that devours the weak. The idea of him succumbing to the P-Mansion's temptations feels like a betrayal of everything Kayden endured.
Jane's laughter erupts, loud and unrestrained, filling the room with a sound that chills Kayden's blood. "A scam? Oh, Bolt, it's been ages since I heard a joke this good." She turns to Bolt, who stands rigid, his gaze fixed on the floor, his hands clenched at his sides. "What do you think? Is he right? Are we after his money?"
Bolt shifts uncomfortably, his eyes flickering with guilt. "N-no, Madam," he mumbles, his voice barely audible. "Why'd we chase a pathetic brat like him for pocket change?" The words are forced, a lie he doesn't fully believe, and his gaze darts to Kayden, heavy with unspoken apology. Bolt had let Kayden slip away in past chases, feigning failure to spare him, but now, trapped in Jane's web, he's powerless to help.
Jane's smile vanishes, her gaze snapping back to Kayden with a cold intensity that makes his legs tremble. "You're half-right," she says, her voice low and deliberate. "Your father didn't come willingly. I lured him here, spiked his drink with an aphrodisiac to drive him mad with desire. He didn't want our services, but I made him crave them. And now, you're here to settle his debt."
Kayden's breath catches, his mind reeling at the revelation. The image of his father—broken, manipulated, stripped of agency—cuts deeper than any physical blow. His legs shake, his mouth dry under the weight of Jane's unblinking stare. "H-how much?" he whispers, the words barely escaping his lips, driven by a need to quantify the nightmare.
Jane doesn't answer, her eyes boring into him like twin voids, unblinking and relentless. Kayden turns to Bolt, desperation in his gaze, seeking any shred of clarity. "Two… two million," Bolt mumbles, avoiding Kayden's eyes, his voice thick with guilt.
Kayden's breath stops, his mind blanking at the number. "Two million?" he chokes out, the amount incomprehensible. "For what?" Two million credits could buy a life of luxury, a penthouse among the clouds, not the fleeting indulgences of a man like his father. The sum is a mockery, a cruel exaggeration meant to crush him.
Bolt remains silent, his eyes heavy with remorse. I'm sorry, Kayden, he thinks, the words trapped in his mind. I tried to protect you, but I can't now. Forgive me. Each chase had been a charade, a chance for Bolt to let Kayden escape, but Jane's will is iron, and he is but a pawn.
"No… no, I don't have that!" Kayden's voice rises, frantic and pleading. "Please, Madam Jane, I can't pay that! I don't even have a single credit on me. Please!" His words spill out, raw and desperate, as he strains against the ropes, his body shaking with the weight of his helplessness. Jane's grip on the pistol tightens, her fingers curling around the sleek metal with deliberate menace.
"Sick!" A gunshot cracks through the room, the sound deafening in the confined space. The bullet grazes Kayden's ear, a searing heat that draws a thin line of blood, before embedding in the wall behind him. His body goes limp, eyes wide with shock, life draining from him in an instant. The pleading hand he'd raised falls, his gaze frozen in confusion, uncomprehending of the end. The red bulb flickers, casting its final, feeble glow over his lifeless form.
Jane's lips twitch, a small smile blooming into a wicked grin. "Hahaha!" Her laughter fills the room, wild and unhinged, a sound that seems to echo beyond the walls, resonating with a darker force. "Did you really think I cared about your money? That I hunted you for your pathetic pennies? No, Kayden, this was never about debt. It was a game—a hunt. You were my prey, my little rabbit, scampering through the city. And oh, how you ran! I almost thought you'd escape, but I never intended to let you go. Not here, not across the globe. You were too amusing to spare."
Her eyes flash crimson for a fleeting moment, a glimpse of something inhuman stirring within her, as if a shard of the Void itself peers through her gaze. She leans back, still chuckling, her laughter a chilling counterpoint to the silence of Kayden's death. The room feels heavier, the air thick with an unseen presence, as if the Void's whispers have found a home in Jane's cruelty.
High above, in the cosmic expanse, a radiant orb—Zulong's soul—draws closer to Earth, its light pulsing with purpose. Kayden's death sends a ripple through the cosmos, a signal that draws the divine soul to his lifeless body, a vessel for the next stage of the eternal cycle. In the Heavenly Divine Prison Realm, the Void's laughter grows louder, sensing the shift, its countless faces grinning in anticipation. The game is far from over, and the clash of light and shadow looms ever closer.