The dark was never quiet.
Not for Anya.
Even in sleep, her mind conjured echoes she couldn't silence—the voice of her mother, laughter like sunlight, the smell of cheap soap and steamed rice in their tiny apartment. For a moment, she was a child again, bare feet pattering across a wooden floor.
"Ready or not," her mother's voice sang, "here I come!"
Anya's heart raced with delight as she shoved herself into the cupboard, stifling a giggle. Through the thin crack in the door, she saw her mother searching, smiling.
The hand reached for the cupboard—so close—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Her mother turned away. "Stay put, Anya," she whispered with a wink.
The door opened.
And the world ended.
BOOM.
The shotgun blast shook the walls. Anya pressed her hands over her ears, eyes wide, until she dared peek.
Her mother lay sprawled on the hallway floor, stomach torn open, blood painting the wallpaper.
Anya stumbled from the cupboard, screaming, clawing at her mother's body. "No, no, no, wake up! Mommy, please!"
A shadow loomed.
The man was tall, Asian, dressed in a black suit and hat. Sunglasses hid his eyes, but the sawed-off shotgun in his hands was all too visible. He raised it with deliberate calm, twin barrels trained on her small forehead.
The trigger twitched.
Anya's scream—
She bolted upright, gasping, drenched in sweat. The scream died in her throat. Her pulse pounded like war drums.
She was in Blackwall. Not the apartment. Not the blood-stained hallway.
Stone walls. Rust. The stench of mold. The buzz of fluorescent light.
Her face ached, nose swollen from Valentina's punch. She touched her cheek and found her skin damp—not with her mother's blood this time, but her own tears.
"About time," a voice drawled.
Anya turned. Maya was sitting cross-legged on the bottom bunk, flipping through a battered magazine. She glanced up over the pages, one eyebrow raised.
"You've been out for two days."
Anya blinked. "Two… days?"
"Mm-hmm." Maya snapped the magazine shut and tossed it aside. "Forty-eight hours of thrashing, sweating, muttering shit I couldn't understand. I swear, half the time you sounded like you were speaking Mandarin. Or Latin. Or… demonic possession, maybe. Honestly, I thought you were gonna die."
Anya leaned back against the wall, silent.
"But you didn't," Maya added, grinning. "And now? You're a celebrity."
Anya frowned. "Celebrity?"
"Oh yeah." Maya's eyes gleamed with amusement as she stood and paced the cell like she was telling a story to an audience. "Word's out. The new girl. The quiet one. The one who stood up to Valentina and walked away with her teeth still in her skull. You're the hottest gossip in Blackwall."
"I acted on impulse," Anya said flatly. "She provoked me."
Maya stopped pacing, arms crossed, smirk gone. "Uh-huh. And I'm the Pope." She leaned closer, lowering her voice. "You don't get it. Nobody provokes Valentina. And nobody fights her. Not unless they're either—" she held up two fingers "—batshit suicidal, or they're aiming to take her throne."
Anya's gaze sharpened, but she said nothing.
"So which are you?" Maya asked, studying her. "Crazy, or ambitious?"
Silence.
For a long moment, only the hum of the lights filled the space. Then, faintly, the corner of Anya's mouth curved into a smirk.
"I don't plan. I react."
Maya exhaled a laugh, shaking her head. "You're full of shit." She dropped back onto her bunk. "But fine. Keep your little secrets, Silent One. Just know this—whatever you think you're doing, you've already pissed off the wrong woman. And Valentina doesn't forgive."
Anya leaned back, closing her eyes again, but the smirk remained.
Elsewhere in Blackwall
Night pressed heavy over the prison, rain hammering the windows. In one of the larger cells, Valentina sat on her bunk, shoulders tense, jaw bruised and throbbing. The Queen of Blackwall had never been touched like this. Never humiliated in front of her court.
Her lieutenants lingered In the corners, restless. For once, they didn't laugh or boast. They whispered.
"There are rumors," one finally said.
Another added, "The yard says she beat you."
"They say she's going to take over."
"They're laughing at us, Valentina," one muttered, voice tight with panic. "If we don't do something—"
The cell erupted in noise.
"Shank her in the showers."
"Poison her food."
"Corner her in the yard."
"Make an example out of her."
The clamor grew until Valentina's voice cut through it like a blade.
"Enough."
Silence fell.
She rose slowly, towering, her shadow swallowing the room. Her eyes glowed with cold fury.
"You want me to kill her?" she asked softly, almost amused. "That would be merciful."
She paced the cell, every movement controlled, predatory.
"She stood against the Queen. She marked me. Killing her would be easy. Too easy." Her lip curled into a slow, sinister smile. "No. We'll make her wish for death. We'll tear her down, piece by piece, until she begs me to end her."
Her lieutenants exchanged uneasy looks.
Valentina leaned against the wall, smirk widening. "And when she begs?" She tapped her jaw where Anya's fist had landed. "That's when I'll decide whether she deserves it."
The cell went silent again, the storm outside pounding harder, as if the sky itself trembled.
Valentina closed her eyes, the pain in her jaw feeding the rage in her veins.
The Queen was wounded.
And in Blackwall, wounds demanded blood.
Back in her cell, Anya lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Maya was already snoring lightly below.
Anya knew Valentina wouldn't forget. Wouldn't forgive.
And she welcomed it.
Because Anya Williams had been forged in blood long before Blackwall.
And she wasn't afraid of the Queen.
She was waiting for her.