The loud slam of the door reverberated through the small brick room, the sound bouncing in tight echoes that pressed against his skull.
His eyes still stung from the light that had poured in moments ago. Whatever adaptation they had built in the dark was erased in a single flash.
But none of that mattered.
Because the smell struck him.
It was like a flashbang, blinding, searing through his nose and mind so violently that for a moment he forgot everything else.
Oily, heavy, faintly metallic, the scent clawed at his senses until it drowned out pain, fear, and thought. It was food. Real food. And to him, it was divine.
Even without seeing, he knew exactly where it was. He dove toward it like a starving animal. His good arm scraped across the ground until it struck metal. The tray.
He didn't hesitate.
He grabbed a handful and shoved it into his mouth. The flavor was nothing special, the texture greasy and rough, but to him it was everything.
It was warm. It was solid. It was edible.
Compared to the sludge he had eaten before or the endless ache in his stomach, this was paradise. Tears rolled down his face and splattered onto the tray as he chewed. He didn't stop until it was gone. Then he lifted the tray, licking every streak clean.
His hand kept moving, searching the ground for more, trembling with need. Desperation guided his fingers, scraping against stone and dirt, refusing to stop.
When they finally brushed something cool and round, his pulse spiked. It rolled slightly away, and panic hit him as if the thing might vanish forever.
He lunged forward, arm shaking, and caught it just before it slipped from reach.
A small container. Smooth and cold.
He brought it close and shook it. Inside, a faint slosh whispered back to him. Liquid. He didn't care what it was, he needed it.
He tried twisting the cap. Nothing. His fingers slid uselessly across the surface. He tried again, harder this time, twisting until his wrist ached. The lid didn't move.
He wedged it between his knees, turned with all his strength, but it refused to open.
Rage bubbled in his chest.
He was weak.
Too weak to even open a bottle.
If he had been stronger, he could have fought back.
If he had been stronger, he wouldn't have been kidnapped.
If he had been stronger, he could have crushed that rat and eaten it instead of being bitten.
If he had been stronger, he wouldn't be starving now, sitting in a cage like an animal.
The thoughts burned through him until they became unbearable.
He raised the bottle and smashed it against the wall. The cap stayed shut. He struck it again and again until it flew from his hand, clattering against the bricks. His fist kept going, slamming into the wall. A loud crack echoed. Pain exploded in his knuckles, sharp and wet.
He screamed, clutching his hand as warmth streamed down his wrist.
He leaned forward, panting, trembling. Every throb of pain pulled another ragged sound from his throat, half sob, half breath. His heartbeat pounded in his ears.
Then, through the noise, he heard something faint. A trickle.
He froze.
Turned his head toward the sound, eyes straining into the dark.
Somewhere nearby, something was leaking. He crawled toward it, dragging his body forward until his fingers brushed the cold, wet ground.
He reached out again and felt the smooth surface of the container. It was open. Liquid spilled from its mouth in slow, uneven drops.
Even through the pain, he lifted it and brought it to his lips. The water, or whatever it was, hit his tongue, cold and metallic. The taste of blood mixed with it, but he didn't care.
He drank.
Each swallow burned his throat raw, his parched tongue scraping against his teeth, but he didn't stop. He gulped and choked and kept drinking until there was nothing left. When he pulled the bottle away, a few drops slid down his chin and onto his chest.
He breathed out slowly, trembling. The pain dulled. The hunger eased.
For the first time since he had woken up, his stomach was full.
Every thought that had haunted him clawed faintly at the back of his mind, sorrow, loneliness, the quiet terror of being forgotten, the ache of never knowing who he was, the constant question of why he had been left to rot in this place.
But all of it faded under the warmth in his chest and the quiet stillness that followed.
He leaned back against the cold, lonely darkness. His lips quivered slightly upward.
Whatever came next, let it come.
At least he would die with a full stomach.