The air in the interrogation chamber was thick with the scent of ozone and stale sweat. The interrogating officer from Bharan leaned forward, his eyes searching for a crack in the prisoner's facade. "Do you really not know anything about that crate?" he demanded of Bharan and his gathered minions.
Bharan didn't flinch. He met the officer's gaze with a chilling, practiced composure. "We really don't know," he replied, his voice a steady drone. "We were just told that the crate was for K-013, and so we delivered it to him".
The interrogator let out a long, heavy sigh. He was chasing ghosts. Every time he tried to trace the original courier route, he hit a wall of clinical precision. It wasn't just a lack of evidence; it was the disturbing realization that someone had scrubbed the tracks clean—leaving behind only small, mocking trails that felt entirely intentional.
Two days prior, he had submitted a formal request for higher-level judicial aid, hoping to break the deadlock. But the response he received was not the one he expected.
"May I come in sir?" the interrogating officer asked.
The warden still busy in some paperwork just nodded without a single moment of eye contact.
He was summoned to the highest authority in the 'NARAK' facility: The Warden.
"Stop all the investigation on the case related to K-013," the Warden ordered, his voice devoid of emotion.
The officer's eyes widened in brief shock, but in NARAK, one did not question the Warden. He bowed deeply. "Roger," he whispered, before retreating from the room.
Away from the prying eyes of the guards, Bharan's minions huddled in the shadows of the cell block. One of them leaned in, his voice a desperate rasp. "Boss, are you sure that if we take care of that boy, our sentences will be considered null?".
Bharan offered a dark, knowing smile. "There's no doubt about it, since the one who's promised me that was none other than—". When he whispered the name, the air seemed to leave the lungs of his followers, their eyes bulging in realization of the power moving behind the scenes.
Near midnight, in the opulence of the central tower, the atmosphere was a stark contrast to the grime below. Silviya lay with her head resting on the Warden's chest, the silence of the room following their "intense" night routine.
"My lord," Silviya murmured tenderly. When the Warden urged her to continue, she voiced the doubt that had been gnawing at her. "That prisoner, K-013... do you think he truly is guilty?".
The Warden opened his eyes, his gaze cold as he examined her face. "This isn't like you at all, Silviya—to remember someone else when you are with me, especially a bug of a prisoner".
Silviya bit her lip, looking away. "No, it's just... he never gave me any information. I was just thinking if he even knew anything".
The Warden's eyes locked onto hers, revealing the terrifying logic of his rule. "It doesn't matter. If he is guilty, then we need him broken apart. And if he is innocent—" he paused, the darkness of his intent filling the room, "—then we simply have to make him believe that he is guilty".
In his lightless cell, Karan awoke not to the sun, but to the piercing, artificial glare of the 'urja patthar'. He let out an exhausted sigh that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand years. "How many days does today make now?" he asked the empty air.
There was no answer. The consistent, rhythmic torture had eroded his mind, stealing away the date, the year, and the Stellar Calendar. Even his dreams had become a theater of pain, replaying creative new ways for his body to be broken.
He tried to shield his red, sleep-deprived eyes, his movement revealing hands that were a grisly map of his ordeal. His bruised fingers were stained with the dried blood of empty nail beds—a testament to the cruelty inflicted upon a young mind that should never have known such darkness.
Karan's world was reduced to the four sweating, metallic walls of his cell. The only thing marking the passage of time—or mocking it—was the dim, flickering glow of the 'urja patthar'. The stone didn't provide warmth; it only emitted a sickly, artificial light that seemed to pulse in sync with the throbbing pain in his limbs..
He could hear the guard coming from a long way off. In the absolute silence of the cell block, the rhythmic, heavy clack-clack of boots against the deck plating echoed like a death knell. It was a sound that triggered a Pavlovian response of terror—a tightening of the chest and a cold sweat that broke across his bruised skin.
As he waited for the door to hiss open, flashes of Silviya pierced his mind like needles. He remembered. The Whispered Interrogations, her voice, deceptively tender, asking questions while she peeled back the skin of his fingernails until only the raw, empty beds remained. How she would stroke his hair with a silk-gloved hand while the other applied high-voltage prods to his ribs, telling him it would "all be over if he just spoke". The way she looked at him not as a human, but as a "bug" to be dissected for the Warden's amusement.
NARAK was a graveyard for the living, filled with depraved criminals who had long since traded their humanity for survival. Escorted by a silent officer, Karan was led to the mess hall.
The "breakfast" was a grim tableau of desperation, The tray contained a scoop of grey, slimy paste and a cup of cloudy, lukewarm water. As Karan tried to take a single bite, the severe cuts on his gums—souvenirs from the interrogation chair—erupted in white-hot agony. The salt in the paste acted like acid on his open wounds, forcing him to reflexively spit the mouthful back onto the tray. With tears of frustration and pain blurring his vision, he forced himself to swallow a few small portions. It was a choice between the burning in his mouth and the slow death of starvation.
The psychological warfare was even more effective than the physical. As Karan sat at a long, rusted table, the silence became deafening.
The moment his tray hit the table, every prisoner sitting nearby stood up in unison and walked away, leaving him in a literal island of isolation.
At the center of the room, Bharan sat like a dark king. He didn't say a word; he simply caught the eyes of the other inmates and gave a sharp, subtle signal to stay quiet.
Bharan and his minions watched Karan's struggle with sadistic glee, their silent laughter more piercing than any taunt.
The routine broke today. Instead of the usual path to the interrogation room, Karan was led toward the docking bays. The atmosphere was desolate as they boarded a spaceship, the stars outside mere streaks of indifferent light.
When the ship touched down near a burning star, the sign above the gate shattered what was left of his composure: 'WOMEN'S WARD'. Karan stood frozen, his mind unable to process why he—a prisoner of the high-security block—was being brought to this place.
The sight of Silviya standing on the high stage, alongside a woman with a worn look and a black eye patch with same military tunic worn by the warden, confirmed his darkest fears. He was no longer just a prisoner; he was a prop in a much larger, more sadistic performance. He was led towards the women's drill ground by the accompanying officer and was escorted towards the stage. As the eyepatch-clad woman waved her hand and his clothes were torn to shreds by an unseen force, Karan realized that "breaking" him was not the end goal—it was merely the opening act.