"The trapped life is... beyond pain."
It was raining heavily outside. The cell stank of dampness and rot. Water had started overflowing from the small, rusted commode in the corner—mixing rainwater with filth, seeping across the cracked floor.
Vikram crouched his long legs and sat tensely on the bed, trying to keep his feet off the ground.
Andrich lay curled in the farthest corner, where the disgusting water hadn't reached—yet.
Vikram growled, "Is someone ever going to fix this? Don't we have any human rights?"
His voice echoed into silence.
Andrich let out a tired sigh. "They don't care. If anything, they enjoy watching us suffer. This is entertainment for them."
Vikram's frustration boiled over. "Sir Lorenzo? Henderson? Iyer? Where the hell is your precious 'leniency' now? The compassion you parade in reports? You watching this? If so, well done—you've broken us. Just clean this goddamn cesspool before one or both of us dies from the stench."
Andrich groaned. "Quit yelling and let me sleep. The overflowing shit-water already killed my peace. Now you're stabbing what's left."
Vikram picked up his shoe and hurled it at Andrich. "Don't test me. You want to live in this filth? Fine. But I won't rot in a goddamn sewer."
He stormed to the cell door and banged on it hard. The noise echoed down the corridor until a drowsy guard finally shuffled over, yawning.
"What the hell is your problem? Making a racket in the middle of the night?"
Vikram snapped, "You blind? Look at the water flowing out of the toilet! This place is flooding with shit! DO something!"
The guard lazily tapped the puddle under his boot. "The plumber's wife is in labor. He won't be coming for three, maybe four days. We'll handle it when we find someone else."
With that, he turned and strolled off, flipping the corridor light off behind him.
Andrich chuckled in the dark.
Vikram shot him a death glare but was too exhausted to argue. He slumped back onto the bed, pulled his legs close, and shut his eyes.
Andrich mumbled, "Ever been through something worse?"
Vikram groaned. "Why? Planning to write a biography?"
Andrich smiled. "Night's long. The cell reeks. We're not sleeping anyway. Might as well talk."
Vikram sighed, then muttered, "Yes. I've seen worse. Lived worse. Too many times. I could tell you a hundred stories… but I don't know which one deserves to be told."
Andrich's voice was low. "Just pick one you like."
Vikram gave a bitter smile in the dark.
The irony of the word "like".
Vikram sighed and finally began. "You already know how I met Nafisa. But before that… there was someone else. The jailer I mentioned before—he was the real tormentor. Bhisambar Nath. Strict. Heartless. A sadist hiding behind a khaki uniform."
He paused, his voice lowering. "I was arrested for the murder of three men—well, three of Iyer's minions. Iyer sent them to finish me. I killed them instead. That's all there is to it. But the law doesn't care who struck first."
Andrich listened silently, his breathing slowing.
"They threw me in a high-security jail. No trial. No questions. Just Bhisambar. First five weeks—no food, no water. I was reduced to a skeleton wrapped in skin. Then came the sleep deprivation. He'd bang on the bars, pour cold water over me, anything to keep me awake. Days, weeks, I lost count."
Vikram's voice dropped even lower.
"My cell was a little bigger than this, but nothing inside. No bed. No pot. Nowhere to relieve myself—though for weeks there was nothing in me to relieve. The walls were scarred with chalk and nails—drawings, scratched-out poetry, some desperate attempt by the lost to leave a trace."
He looked toward the small barred window.
"It was July. The heat was unbearable. No fan. No air. I was buried alive in sweat and silence. That block was isolated. Just me, and maybe someone else. I never saw them. Never cared. I was slipping anyway. Time meant nothing. Days bled into months. Months into years."
Andrich blinked. "Years?"
"Three," Vikram nodded. "Three goddamn years. I looked like a beast—hair like a wild man, nails like a yogi from the mountains. I forgot how my own voice sounded."
He paused. His voice softened, a little distant now.
"Then one day—October, maybe November—a woman came to visit. I didn't know her. She didn't say who she was. Just slipped a small key into my hand and whispered, 'Your friend sent this. Leave at midnight.'"
Vikram's eyes narrowed, lost in memory. "Later I found out her name was Ruksana. Toufique had sent her. I escaped that night. There was no resistance. It was like… the prison itself was asleep. I searched for Bhisambar before I left. He wasn't there. No sign of him."
He scoffed bitterly. "I thought freedom would feel different. I didn't get the welcome I expected. Just cold air and empty roads. That's when I met Nafisa."
He looked over at Andrich. "Happy now?"
Andrich pouted. "I wanted more details."
Vikram glanced toward the window where the faint light of dawn was beginning to seep through.
"It's almost morning. Sleep," he muttered, closing his eyes and turning away.
Andrich yawned, long and slow, and finally shut his eyes too.
A huge splash.
Vikram jolted awake, heart thudding. Cold water soaked his face and hair. Andrich stood above him, grinning like a mischievous schoolboy.
"Wake up and take a bath. You stink," he said, and casually strolled out of the cell.
Still groggy, Vikram dragged himself upright. His joints cracked as he moved, and he lazily followed Andrich down the corridor.
The bathroom, ironically, was cleaner than their cell. No moss, no mold—just cracked tiles and the faint scent of antiseptic.
He turned the knob. Water burst out, cold and forceful. Too tired to disrobe, Vikram simply sat down on the wet floor like a meditating yogi, letting the water cascade over him, drenching his clothes and his thoughts.
After a long pause, he turned off the knob, crawled toward the sink, and shoved a line of toothpaste into his mouth. With two fingers, he scrubbed his teeth, swallowing some foam in the process. He didn't care.
Still dripping wet, he walked out of the bathroom and toward the canteen.
Despite being labeled a dangerous criminal, none of the guards seemed to care. They barely looked up as he passed.
At the counter, he shoved his dish forward. "What's for breakfast?"
"Fish and beans with rice," the lady replied flatly.
Vikram frowned and pulled his dish back. "No thanks. I'd rather starve."
He spotted Andrich sitting in the corner and joined him, slumping into the seat.
"What are you eating?" he asked.
Andrich looked at his bowl. "Poha."
"Poha? An Indian dish? Aren't you German?"
"Yes. But it's still food," Andrich said, stuffing a spoonful into his mouth.
Vikram turned to the lady. "Why is he getting poha and I'm getting fish guts?"
The lady smiled, her expression unreadable. "That poha is three days old. My daughter-in-law made it for me, but I forgot to eat."
Andrich gagged mid-chew. His eyes widened. He choked and spat the poha into his napkin, nearly knocking over the bowl.
Vikram burst out laughing, collapsing onto the floor, clutching his stomach.
The lady sighed and returned a few minutes later with two fresh bowls. "Here. Take this."
They looked inside. Apple slices. Bananas. Avocados.
Andrich blinked. "That's… oddly wholesome."
They finished the fruit in silence, grateful for something edible.
On their way back to the cell, they saw the same night guard leaning against the wall as a plumber worked on the overflowing toilet. The stench was finally beginning to fade.
Without a word, they walked downstairs to the reading room.
"Go to the farthest corner," Vikram muttered, "and don't dare disturb me."
Andrich blew a raspberry in protest. Vikram ignored him and sank into the quietest corner, pulling a book off the dusty shelf.
Vikram sat hunched over a crooked wooden table, flipping through the pages of a rust-stained paperback with the energy of a dying candle. His eyes dragged themselves over the sentences, and a deep yawn escaped his mouth like a prisoner begging for freedom.
"This book is garbage," he muttered, slamming it shut with a disgusted grunt. "Who writes such lifeless crap?" In a silent act of rebellion, he flung the book across the room.
Then came another. And another. He rifled through the library shelf like a man possessed, tossing book after book to the floor—spines cracking, pages fluttering—until a pile of literary corpses formed around his boots. Fifteen rejects lay abandoned, as if guilty of wasting his time.
His hand finally landed on the last book on the row. Its spine was dusty but elegant, and the title gleamed like buried treasure:
"LE CASSE-COU ET LA DEMOISELLE EN DÉTRESSE" (The Daredevil and the Damsel in Distress).
The golden letters practically winked at him.
Vikram smirked. "Finally… a title with teeth."
He sank into his chair and dove in. For the next three hours, silence reigned, broken only by the occasional flip of a page and the twitch of his eyebrows. He was absorbed. Obsessed. The world had disappeared—and for a rare moment, Vikram was at peace.
When he closed the book at last, there was a faint spark of satisfaction in his eyes.
"Now that," he said, sliding it back into the shelf with reverence, "is what makes a novel worth reading."
He turned, ready to leave, but something caught his eye.
Andrich. Asleep. Slumped over the edge of a rusting desk, snoring softly, a pencil still dangling between his fingers.
Vikram's satisfaction soured.
A flicker of mischief—and vengeance—lit his face.
He quietly grabbed a stapler from the table, walked over, and with the precision of a sniper, slammed it down on Andrich's exposed hand.
Click.
The sound was sharp.
So was the pain.
Andrich jolted awake with a shriek, his eyes wide in horror as he stared at the staple buried in the flesh between his thumb and forefinger. A drop of blood trickled down.
Vikram grinned, unrepentant.
"The sleeping duck," he said, eyes gleaming, "gets eaten by the hyenas."
And with a low chuckle, he strolled out of the room, hands in his pockets like nothing had happened.
Andrich sat there, stunned, breathing heavily. Then, slowly, he pulled out the staple with a hiss, tossing it into a pile of papers. His jaw clenched. His eyes narrowed into thin, burning slits as he watched Vikram vanish around the corner.
"I swear," he muttered under his breath, following him with a limp, "one day… I'm gonna shove that stapler right into your smug little—"
Andrich dabbed medicine onto his wound, wincing. Vikram leaned casually against the counter, munching on an apple.
"Why are you so damn inconsiderate?" Andrich snapped.
Vikram sighed, unfazed. "Come on. It's not like I blinded you. It was just a pin—it couldn't have hurt that much. A nail went straight into my toe, and my fingernails were ripped out."
Andrich glared. "So you're dumping all your trauma on me now?"
Vikram shrugged, waving his hand dismissively. "Learn to embrace pain, Andrich. It's the only way to outgrow your old self."
Andrich pressed a hand to his forehead and exhaled. "There's no winning with you, is there?"
Vikram smirked. "You're not the first to realize."
He tossed the apple core toward Andrich and strolled out of the kitchen, leaving Andrich cursing under his breath.....