I didn't dare look at the bodies of the dead prisoners, the broken soldiers scattered across the blood-soaked ground. The sight of their lifeless forms twisted my stomach, but I couldn't afford to focus on them. My eyes kept flicking to the shadows, to the corners of the camp where the creatures that were supposed to keep us captive lurked. They were silent now, their glowing eyes half-closed, their bodies twisted in grotesque shapes as they rested. They seemed almost... bored. It was as though even the horrors they inflicted on us were losing their thrill. The way they lay there, their limbs splayed out unnaturally, gave off an eerie sense of finality. It was as if they had seen it all and grown indifferent.
Every once in a while, one of their eyes would open, and I'd catch a flash of that inhuman, soulless gaze before it slid back into the half-dark. I couldn't tell if they were watching us, waiting for something, or if they were just... tired. Tired of the violence. Tired of the blood. But that didn't make them any less dangerous. I feared them more when they were still, their muscles coiled like springs, ready to snap at any second.
But then my gaze shifted back to the captain. I could feel the weight of his eyes on me, as if he knew I was watching, knew I was afraid. His piercing stare sent a chill down my spine. He was finishing with his second victim, a woman who had fought until her last breath. She had screamed until her voice gave out, until she was nothing but a broken shell. I could still hear her cries echoing in my mind, like the ringing of a bell, harsh and shrill. Each scream sent a spike of pain through my chest. It twisted my insides, reminding me of what was at stake here, of the nightmare we were trapped in.
The woman's body hung limp in the captain's grasp, like a rag doll, but her eyes were wide open, frozen in terror. The sight of her lifeless form made my heart stutter in my chest. I had to look away before I lost control. It was one thing to witness such brutality, but it was another to feel the weight of it, to absorb the raw, unfiltered agony. I could almost hear her voice calling out in my mind, pleading for someone, anyone, to stop it. But there was no one.
The air around us felt thick, oppressive, like it was clinging to my skin, weighing me down with every breath. The scent of blood and sweat suffocated the space we were crammed into, a pungent mix that burned the back of my throat and made my stomach churn. Every inhale felt like it was suffocating me, dragging me deeper into the nightmare. I could feel the dampness of the earth beneath me, the cold moisture creeping into my bones, and I could taste the sharp tang of iron in the air. The metallic flavour of blood coated the inside of my mouth. The stench of death was everywhere.
The sharp, acrid scent of sweat mingled with the underlying earthiness of the camp, creating a choking atmosphere that made every breath feel like a struggle. The camp was silent save for the occasional muffled cry or the shuffle of boots on the wet earth. It was too quiet. Even the usual sounds of the wind in the trees, the chirping of insects, and the rustling of leaves were absent. It was as if nature itself had taken a step back, unwilling to witness the horrors that unfolded before me. There was a stillness, a heaviness to everything. It felt wrong.
I could feel the weight of it, pressing down on me like a vice, every sound amplified in the dead air. The moon hung overhead, casting pale light over the camp, but even the light seemed dimmed by the darkness below. The world around me was silent, suffocating, broken. Even the creatures in the shadows, once active and predatory, had become still, as though they had abandoned the hunt, resigned to the futility of it all. They knew this was a place of no escape.
The captain had that same unsettling smile, the one that never reached his eyes. His mouth curved upward, but his eyes, those pale soulless eyes, remained cold, detached. He was enjoying this, I could see it in the way he moved, the way he spoke. Every word was deliberate, like he was savouring the moment. It made me want to retch. There was a part of me that wanted to scream at him, to demand why he was doing this. Why would anyone do this to another person? But I knew better. If I opened my mouth, if I showed any emotion at all, it would be the end for me.
He seemed to be taking his time. Deliberating. There was no rush. He had all the time in the world. The bloodied remnants of his victims were evidence enough of his cruelty, but the way he savoured it, each movement precise, each action deliberate, made the air grow colder. The soldiers, too, seemed almost in a trance. They didn't speak. They just watched, waiting for the next command.
With a lazy flick of his wrist, he dismissed the guards, and they dragged the woman away, her body limp, her face unrecognisable. She had been one of the last to resist, and I knew it would cost her. Her defiance was punished in the worst way. I couldn't tear my eyes away as they moved her body, cold and lifeless, through the dirt. There was no dignity in death here. Not for any of us.
The other prisoners shifted uncomfortably, some glancing at the lifeless body, others staring down at the ground, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone else. There was an unspoken rule now. Don't look at the dead. Don't make a sound. Don't draw attention to yourself. I wondered, briefly, how long it had taken for us all to fall into line, how long it had taken for the fear to root so deep that we no longer cared about the lives of those around us. Or was it simply survival? Just trying to make it through another breath, another second?
I didn't know if I could keep watching. But I had no choice. If I looked away, if I even showed a hint of fear, it would make me a target. And right now, the only thing keeping me alive was the mask I wore as my emotional armour, my only defence against the world that wanted to destroy me. But even that felt fragile now. Every time I thought I had it secured, the cracks in my mask widened. It was harder to breathe, harder to think, harder to keep it together. I was slipping.
The captain was on his third victim now. A man this time. He seemed almost bored by it, as if he had done this a thousand times before and had long since lost any sense of excitement. But his attention wasn't entirely on his victim. His eyes flicked from the man to the prisoners, sweeping over us like we were nothing more than cattle. It was the way he looked at us. Dismissive. Contemptuous. Like we weren't even worth the time it took to consider us. And yet, something was unsettling about his gaze, something predatory lurking in those pale eyes.
His hand paused in mid-air, as though deciding something. For the first time, it felt like he was unsure about something something had caught his attention. My pulse quickened. I couldn't tell what it was, but I could feel it, a shift in the air. A change in the way he held himself. His posture stiffened slightly, like he was toying with us. I could feel the tension rising. Whatever was happening, I knew it wasn't good. I could feel it in the pit of my stomach, a knot of dread forming.
Then, without warning, his voice sliced through the tense silence like a whip. "Bring her forward."
The words fell like a heavy stone into a still pond, sending ripples through the camp. I didn't understand at first. The others must have been equally confused, for no one moved. No one knew who the captain was calling for. But I felt something shifted. That same gut-wrenching sense of dread surged in me. Whatever was happening, I knew it wasn't good.
"Bring her forward!" the captain repeated, more forcefully this time.
The guards grabbed the mother, dragging her away from her child. They slammed her to the ground, her face a mess of tears and dirt, her body crumpling beneath the weight of their boots. There was nothing she could do. Nothing anyone could do. The child remained still, her small hands flailing in the air, searching for comfort, for safety. But there was none to be found.
I could feel my heart hammering in my chest as I watched her so young, so innocent, and yet she was about to face a fate far worse than anything I could have imagined. My thoughts were a whirl of panic and helplessness. What could I do? What could anyone do? The captain's voice was cold, dismissive. "We don't have time for this," he said, his eyes flicking over the woman's struggling form with a bored expression. "The child stays." His words were final. I could hear the mother's screams as they dragged her away, but the captain ignored them, as if they meant nothing to him. His gaze was locked on the child now, his eyes cold and unfeeling. I could barely breathe. Every second that passed felt like an eternity, and I was choking on the silence that followed. What had I become? Was I just like the rest of them, standing by and doing nothing? The child fell to her knees in front of the captain. Her small frame shook, her wide eyes uncomprehending, but all I could see was the fear.
The sheer terror that had stolen her innocence. She didn't know what was about to happen, but she knew something was wrong. I felt the weight of it all pressing down on me. And then I realised I was drowning. It felt like everything around me had gone quiet, even though the camp was still alive with noise. The guards shuffled, the creatures shifted in the shadows, but none of that mattered anymore. I was consumed by the image of that child, of the broken woman who had tried to save her, and the ever-present weight of my helplessness. But somewhere deep inside me, a voice screamed. A voice that refused to let me die like this. To die like them. The mask, my mask, the only thing I had left, was slipping, cracking, and I was drowning in the overwhelming sense of fear and guilt. But that was when I realised: I couldn't let it happen. I couldn't let it go on.
Escape. It was the only thing that could save us now.
But it wasn't just an idea. It wasn't a simple wish. It was a desperate, frantic need. A survival instinct. I could feel the panic setting in, my heart hammering faster with each passing second. The urge to act to do something was consuming me. And yet, the horror of what I was witnessing seemed to paralyse me. How could I escape this? How could I possibly hope to survive when all I could see was the blood, the bodies, the helplessness?
But there was movement in the crowd. A subtle shift. A flicker of hope.
An older prisoner, hunched slightly with age, his skin weathered and leathery, turned his head just enough for our eyes to meet. He stood unnervingly still, as if rooted to the ground. His face was gaunt but oddly calm, with high cheekbones that cut sharply under his skin. What caught me most, what made my stomach twist, were his eyes. His pupils were a milky, diluted white, like fogged glass, and at first, I thought he was blind. But there was something alive behind them, something watchful. They were too steady.
His hair was short, neatly trimmed in a way that didn't make sense. It looked almost... well-kept, clean even. Which was wrong. Everyone else was filthy, starved, tangled in sweat and dirt, but not him. That small detail alone made my skin crawl.
Then he mouthed something. Just one word.
Run.
I knew it instantly. I didn't need to hear it. My heart stopped when I saw it form on his lips. Not whispered. Mouthed. Quiet and deliberate, as if he knew speaking aloud would draw attention.
Then just as quickly, he turned his face back toward the captain, his body folding into a pitiful slump. He began to tremble not quite dramatically, but enough to seem frightened. Enough to make it look like he was just another terrified old man trying not to be noticed. But I knew. It was an act.
My body was already reacting. Sweat ran down the back of my neck, stinging like it had turned to acid. My fingers trembled at my sides, clenching into fists, then unclenching, unable to stay still. I shifted my stance, grounding my feet slightly apart without realising it, subtle, but ready. My breath hitched, shallow and rapid, and I could feel the thud of my pulse in my ears.
The weight of the moment bore down on me. This was it. It was happening.
"Get the child under control," the captain said, his voice flat, indifferent. "The rest of you stay quiet."
The words fell on deaf ears.
I could feel it in the air. The shift. The old man's signal wasn't just for me. He had waited for this. Planned for it. Bided his time.
And I was already moving.