Kai was still stuck in the pit.
He had taken a bone and sharpened it against the wall until it was a sharp stabbing weapon. It sat beside him now, wrapped in strips of cloth he'd torn from the shirt of a corpse. He hadn't used it yet. But he would, if it came to that.
It was day twenty-one.
He was sure of it only because he'd been counting the scratches. One for each morning. One for each time the lights never came back on. One for each time he woke up and remembered where he was.
Today, he sat by the far wall with Flicker in his hand.
It had changed shape again. Small. Narrow. Chisel-like. It didn't speak, but it hummed faintly. When he held it, it felt familiar. Like something that remembered him even when he didn't.
He was scraping at the wall again.
One line at a time. A slow, steady motion. Not with hope. Not with belief. Just because there was nothing else to do. Nothing else that mattered. Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. He couldn't tell if the groove was any deeper than yesterday.
His hands were cracked. Fingernails split down the middle. Blood soaked the handle. He didn't care. The pain was background noise now.
The wall was cold and damp. He didn't know if it was always like that, or if he'd stopped feeling warmth.
Sometimes he paused to listen. Not for voices. Not for rescue. Just to be sure he hadn't started hearing things. The pit was quiet today. No footsteps above. No screams from below. No sound of chains or dragging bodies.
That made it worse.
Scrape.
Flicker sparked against the stone. The tiny flare was the brightest thing he'd seen in days. His eyes narrowed. He kept going.
There was nothing left to eat. He hadn't moved from this corner in hours. Maybe longer. He didn't feel hungry anymore. That was dangerous, he thought. But even that thought felt distant.
Scrape.
The pit never gave back what it took.
Not time. Not warmth. Not even dreams. He'd stopped dreaming on day fifteen. Just blackness now. Sleep and waking blurred together. He scraped through both.
His legs had gone numb.
He thought, briefly, of the last thing he'd said to Neo. Then he scraped again. The memory didn't help.
Scrape.
He didn't look up when the sound came. Not at first. He thought it was in his head.
But then he heard it again. A metallic creak.
He froze.
Dust fell across his face. He blinked. Slowly turned his gaze upward.
The hatch—far above—was shifting.
Groaning.
Opening.
A sliver of light cut through the dark.
Kai lowered Flicker.
And waited.
.
Kai had trouble sleeping. This night lasted a while. Longer than most. The darkness felt thicker, heavier. Time didn't move, or maybe it was just looping in place. He lay there, staring upward at nothing, his eyes wide open, his body too tired to shiver but too wired to rest. The pit was silent except for the occasional drip of water or his own breathing.
He was dying to have a smoke.
The thought came suddenly, but it didn't leave. It sank its teeth into him and stayed. His fingers twitched with the urge. He didn't need it. But he wanted it. The craving curled like a vine around his chest.
He touched the pouch and sighed. It was still there, same as always. He slid it open and felt around inside. The familiar smooth shape of a cigarette met his fingertips. His thumb brushed over the paper. It felt dry. Ready. He placed it between his lips. But there was no point.
He had no lighter.
So it was pointless.
The smoke just hung there, unlit and mocking. He rested his head back and let the weight of disappointment settle in again.
And almost on cue, Flicker turned into this thin file-like tool.
It shifted in his palm with a soft movement, seamless and fluid. The warmth pulsed once, like a knowing heartbeat. Kai blinked and looked down, and he knew.
He scraped it on the wall and sparks flew.
It was immediate. Sharp. Bright for just a moment. He blinked the light out of his eyes and got to work. He moved quickly, dragging over his stash in the corner. A small pile of kindling—cloth, cotton, fibers he'd gathered over days—waited for this exact moment.
He sparked it again.
And again.
Until finally it set alight.
The flame was small, but it danced. It caught fast. He leaned in, shielding it with one hand. The other brought the cigarette forward.
He lit the smoke.
A flick of breath. Inhale. Hold.
Exhales.
The smoke curled from his lips like warmth finally remembered.
It was amazing.