The silence stretched on, heavy enough that he could hear his own pulse in his ears.
Time trickled by minutes, maybe hours until thirst gnawed again at his throat, urging him to crawl back toward the dripping wall.
But before he could move, the faintest sound broke the stillness.
clack… scrape…
Somewhere near the door, a small gap opened. He stiffened, holding his breath.
He hadn't seen it, but he heard it... metal sliding against metal.
Then—thud. A bowl slid inside.
His heart jumped. He turned sharply, scrambling to touch it, but whoever had placed it was already gone. Only the bowl remained, cool against his fingertips.
'This… wasn't here before. Someone is watching. Someone knows I'm alive.'
He clutched the bowl close, lifting it under the faint draft of air to sniff. The stench hit him at once—sour, foul, the reek of decay.
He gagged but didn't let go. His fingers ran over the contents: something spiky, brittle bones? Other pieces were limp, stringy, like grass or weeds.
'Rotten. Barely food at all. But… I don't have a choice.'
He pinched a piece and shoved it into his mouth. The taste was vile, a mix of mold and bitterness that made his stomach turn, but he chewed anyway, forcing it down.
gulp.
'Disgusting… but it's something. I need strength. If I refuse this, I'll only starve faster.'
Piece by piece he ate, even crunching on what felt like sharp shards of bone, his teeth aching from it.
He swallowed mouthfuls of soggy grass-like matter that scraped his throat raw. His stomach clenched in protest, but he pressed on, choking down every scrap.
'It doesn't matter how foul it is. Survival isn't pretty. If I spit it out, I die. If I eat… maybe I live one more day.'
The bowl was empty soon, his breath harsh, his body trembling from both disgust and hunger. He set it aside, hand still gripping its rim like it was a lifeline.
In the darkness, the taste lingered like poison, but in his chest, the tiniest flicker of life steadied.
He hunched over, clutching the bowl to his chest, his stomach twisting violently as the aftertaste coated his tongue.
'Damn… this is shit.'
His throat tightened and bile rose, threatening to burst out, but he clenched his jaw and forced it down.
'No. Don't vomit. If I throw it up, it's wasted. My body won't get anything from it, and I'll only be weaker. Survive first. Always survive first.'
He stared into the empty bowl, his hands trembling. The scraps of food still clung to his teeth—tiny shards of bone that grated against his gums, fibers of rotten plant matter that stuck in his throat.
He swallowed again, trying to push it all down.
'It's like eating garbage. Though I've never eaten one before.'
His eyes watered, but he rubbed them hard, pressing his face against his knees.
'This is hell.'
He set the bowl quietly by the door and curled against the wall again, the rancid taste still clinging to his tongue like a curse.
...
The days bled into each other until time itself lost meaning. Whether it had been weeks, or months, he couldn't tell. Only the routine kept him aware: one bowl shoved through the gap, one wretched meal a day, scraps barely enough to keep his thin body breathing.
His ribs showed stark beneath his skin, his arms little more than sticks, and yet he endured.
Each time he pressed against the door, his palms met the same thick, unyielding metal.
Too heavy, too strong. No matter how much he clawed or shoved, it never budged.
'They've thought this through. The food portions… of course. If I had more strength, I might've tried harder, tried recklessly. But like this… all I can do is crawl, drink from the wall, eat what they throw in, and survive. They don't want prisoners to escape... they want us weak, too weak to resist.'
He had adapted in the silence. His hearing sharpened in the dark; he could pick out the faintest drip of water across the chamber, or the soft scuttle of a rat's feet.
His skin learned to feel the tremors of footsteps before his ears did. Sometimes, luck brushed him with a gift—a moth or a fly drifting into his cell.
He would cup it in shaking hands, shove it into his mouth, and swallow. Tiny, bitter crunches of life that gave him just enough energy to keep crawling toward the next day.
creaaaak…
The sudden shriek of hinges broke the endless monotony. The door groaned open, metal grinding against stone.
His eyes, long adjusted to darkness, snapped wide.
badump… badump… badump…
His heart pounded painfully, the sound flooding his ears.
His body tensed, every nerve screaming between fear and desperate hope.
'Why? Why now? Is this a trap? After all this time—why open the door? To take me out? To kill me? Or… to move me somewhere else?'
He pressed himself low against the ground, straining his ears.
The faint shift of boots echoed, the subtle vibration reaching him through the floor. Someone was there.
And for the first time in what felt like eternity, he wasn't alone.
The boy had long since learned that boredom was a killer. It gnawed at the mind worse than hunger. In that endless dark, where time itself bled away, he forced his body to move.
Push-ups, squats, stretches, anything his frail limbs could manage. Each repetition made his stomach ache and his vision swim, but he endured.
His body remained thin, bones jutting out beneath pale skin, but it was tougher now... used to moving.
When the door finally opened and silence lingered beyond it, he didn't waste the chance.
He crept out, every step deliberate, every breath shallow.
step… step…
His bare feet touched the stone floor lightly, as though even sound itself could betray him. His hand brushed against the wall, fingertips tracing the cold, damp surface to guide him.
The corridor stretched into darkness, the faint rush of air brushing past his skin.
The air carried with it another stench.
"urk—"
He gagged, clamping a hand over his mouth. The odor seeped through the cracks of nearby doors.
A heavy, suffocating rot that clung to the walls like a curse. He didn't need to open them to know what lay inside.
'So many… locked away, just like me. But they didn't make it.'
His chest tightened. He forced his trembling legs to keep moving, following the faint, blessed whisper of wind.
'If there was air, there was an opening.'
The corridor twisted, a tunnel of stone and metal.
He pressed close to the wall, his hand sliding along it, his ears straining for the faintest sound.
whoooosh…
The current of wind grew clearer, brushing his skin stronger now. It carried with it the scent of rain and the faint, wet tang of mud. His heart hammered faster.
'That's it. That's the outside. I just need to reach it. Just a little more…'
And so he pressed forward, into the dark.
The tunnel opened into a faint glow.... torchlight, flickering against the damp stone walls.
His eyes, long drowned in blackness, squinted at the sudden brightness. Shapes moved ahead. Small, thin silhouettes huddled together, shadows trembling against the fire.
Children.
He froze, his chest tightening. They were like him... ragged, starved, their limbs too thin for their age.
But he noticed it quickly: none of them looked older than fifteen.
'Why only children? What are they planning with us?'
Their eyes turned toward him as he stepped into the light. Wide, cautious, mistrustful.
He could feel the weight of their suspicion press against him. He understood it. He felt the same.
His throat ached, dry and cracked. It had been months since he had last spoken. When he forced his voice out, it rasped like sand scraping against stone.
"…I'm not here to fight."
The group didn't answer. Only one figure shifted, a girl who stood a little straighter than the rest.
Her silhouette was outlined by the torch behind her, shoulders squared, chin tilted up with a strange steadiness.
He swallowed hard, words scratching their way out. "…I just… want to know… what this place is."
The silence hung heavy. The torch hissed, crackling faintly.
The girl's head tilted slightly, but her face remained hidden in the backlight.
She didn't move closer, yet somehow, she felt larger than the others... like their unspoken leader.
And for the first time since he arrived in this world, he realized he was speaking not into the void, but to another human.