The eye is watching.
I can't feel it.
I can't smell it.
I can't hear it.
I can't taste it.
I can't touch it.
I can't see it.
I know.
My chest hurts from a wound that should be there. Flesh that remembers shape more than sensation. A gunshot to the heart.
Gun.
The word rings. The meaning hollows.
A voice doesn't.
Goodbye, Allen.
"-len."
That's the sound I make when I wake.
Cold presses into my cheek. Cement—uneven, cracked, untended. Dark stains scatter across it. Some soak deep into the pores of the floor. Others sit on the surface, flaked and old. I don't know what made them. I know my eyes avoid the larger ones.
I roll onto my side. My shoulder scrapes against grit. I plant my palm and push myself upright until my back meets a wall. The impact knocks a breath out of me.
The wall is damp. Moisture seeps through the thin fabric of my uniform and clings to my skin.
Steel bars stand in front of me. Vertical. Evenly spaced. Bolted into the ceiling and floor. Beyond them, a corridor stretches left and right, straight and narrow, lined with identical cells.
Lanterns hang between cells at fixed intervals. Glass containers filled with pale liquid. They glow without flame, without smoke. No oil. No wick. No heat. Just liquid and light.
Across the corridor, a man lies curled near his bars. His back faces me. His chest rises and falls shallowly, uneven. He wears the same blue uniform as mine. Different numbers stitched over the chest.
"Len?"
A girl's voice. Close. Same side of the bars.
I turn my head.
She sits several steps away, her back pressed to the wall, knees drawn up. Blonde hair hangs in dull strands, matted at the ends. Her red-amber eyes stay fixed on me, unblinking.
"And you are?" I ask.
"Ashlynn."
She pauses. Then she drags herself along the floor toward me. Her movements are slow, careful, practiced. She avoids the darker stains. When she stops, her face is level with mine, separated by less than an arm's length of air.
"How long have you been here?" she asks.
"How long have you?" I answer.
The words come out flat. Defensive before I decide to be.
"Two hours," she says. "I just got back from solitary."
"Where are we?"
"Second floor underground. No room number."
"That's not my question."
My voice firms before I intend it to.
She frowns. "Tauran City Prison. Obviously."
Did I ask wrong?
I shouldn't say what I shouldn't.
"Did they arrest the wrong guy again?" she asks, quieter.
I don't answer.
BAM.
The sound comes from outside our corridor.
Metal slams against metal. A door forced open. The vibration carries through the floor and into the bars. The air shifts. Rot and old blood roll down the corridor ahead of the footsteps.
Heavy steps follow. Slow. Deliberate.
Chains drag along the concrete.
A man whimpers between breaths.
Something tall steps into view.
Nearly two meters. Bare torso slick with sweat and grime. Tattered pants cling to thick legs. A clown mask covers its face—white paint cracked and peeling, a single round hole cut where an eye should be.
Red light fills that hole.
A rusted chain hangs from its right hand. On the other end, a bald man is dragged across the floor. His skin scrapes against concrete. His limbs twitch but don't resist.
The figure stops at our cell.
It unlocks the door.
The bald man is kicked forward. His body skids across the floor and comes to rest near Ashlynn's feet. The chain snaps free and clatters once before going still.
The figure turns its head toward me.
I look back.
Its breathing is loud. Wet. Each inhale sounds strained, like something forcing air through a space not meant to hold it. Thick veins stand out along its arms and shoulders, pulsing beneath stretched skin.
I lower my gaze.
The figure watches a moment longer, then steps out of the cell. The door slams shut behind it.
Metal clicks.
The door is locked.
A new responsibility has entered our cell.
Ashlynn moves first.
"Riko?" she says, crouching beside the man. "Are you alright?"
He doesn't answer her.
He looks at me.
Blood coats his chest and arms. It smears as he drags himself forward. His breathing rattles, wet and shallow.
When he reaches me, he presses something cold and solid against my chest.
Metal. Smooth. Heavy for its size.
"I found it," he says. His voice breaks. "The way."
His hand releases.
I take the object. It slides into my back pocket, pulling the fabric down with its weight.
Somewhere in the prison—
A lock clicks.