"Move! Move fast, you son of a b**!"**
He could have killed that soldier. If he had a weapon, just one shot—no hesitation. But he didn't. Not because of fear. No, he wasn't afraid of them. He was being careful. Cautious. Reckless anger could get his entire clan killed, and he couldn't afford that—not for a moment of rage. He swallowed the fury, the frustration. One day, he would make them cry bloody tears. He would make them scream until their lungs tore apart, until his own rage quieted. He would pop out their eyes, slice open their guts, smear the walls with their blood. He imagined their twisted limbs, the shattered digits. Still, even that wouldn't satisfy the hatred buried deep in his bones. Poor man, he thought, What I'll do to them when I'm finally free...
He passed it—the grave. No, the dungeon. Her dungeon. No soul. No body. They must have thrown it far away, somewhere unreachable. But the walls remembered her. Blood clung to the rocks like dried screams. He hadn't seen much, just enough to know: the horror she'd endured here had no name. He told himself to stop. It's ordinary, he thought. But still—what did they do to her? What was her crime?
He shook the thought away, eyes fixed forward. The metal door ahead creaked open. The soldiers pushed them inside like cattle—boys without weapons, without training, but filled with something stronger than both: hatred. For them. For the system.
Night fell. It smelled like rain. The kind of rain that turned this hell into a hazard. He looked at his brother—fear was written all over his face. The boys weren't ready for another shift in weather. Not now.
They were herded again. Shoved. Sticks jabbing at their spines. The soldiers relished it. Eight o'clock—sleep time. But sleep didn't come. Not for him. Not until three in the morning. But he was used to it. He'd been here long enough. Long enough for even the bullies in his clan—his cousins, his brothers—to stop mocking him. Down here, sympathy bloomed like fungus in the dark. They only had each other.
Still, he couldn't shake his past. He used to live in comfort, in luxury. Celebrities, politicians—they all adored him. Not for who he was, but for the blood in his veins, the power of his name. Never, not even in nightmares, had he imagined his life would collapse like this. He pushed the memory down, but it fought back. Whenever he thought about the past, he felt like vomiting. Not food—no. He wanted to vomit tears. Fear. Rage. He just wanted to run. Escape. Breathe air that wasn't soaked in despair.
Movement. A shuffle.
He tensed. Eyes snapping toward the broken window. Rats? No. Too many bodies. Even rats wouldn't crawl through this crowded misery. Then who? How had someone slipped by unnoticed? Not just by him, but by his brother—the one who trusted nothing, noticed everything.
He moved closer.
Blood.
There it was. A trail. A stain. He turned toward the corner. The air felt wrong.
Something—or someone—was trying to look lifeless. Still. Invisible. But his eyes, trained by trauma, cut through the act. Whoever it was... was breathing.
He stepped forward. Yanked the blanket away.
And there she was.
The supposedly dead girl.