The sun climbed higher.
Nobody spoke anymore.
The only language left in Worksite Three was steel scraping against sand.
Hundreds of shovels rose and fell with mechanical precision.
The prisoner who had been shot still lay where he'd fallen.
No one looked at him. Not because they didn't care, because they'd already learned what happened to people who did.
Shirley forced his shovel into the sand again.
The muscles in his shoulders already burned. "…How long have we been doing this?" Tucker muttered beside him, dragging another heavy scoop into a rusted pan.
Shirley glanced toward the sky. The sun had barely moved. "Not long enough."
Tucker let out a defeated groan, "I miss beds."
"I'm sorry Tucker…I dragged you into this."
"…It's okay Shirley, we're in this together and we'll get out together. Remember, we're answer-finders!"
That earned the smallest smile from Shirley.
It disappeared almost immediately. The body was still there.
A pair of guards eventually walked over without urgency.
They didn't kneel. They didn't check for a pulse.
One grabbed the dead prisoner by the wrists. The other took his ankles. Then they dragged him through the sand.
A crimson trail stretched behind him for several yards before the wind slowly began covering it.
The guards never stopped talking to each other.
As if they were carrying lumber. Not a person.
Tucker stopped shoveling. "They're not even going to bury him?"
One of the older prisoners beside them answered before Shirley could, "They don't bury anyone."
His shovel never slowed, "They burn 'em."
Neither Shirley nor Tucker responded.
The old man continued digging, "If you're lucky."
Shirley's grip tightened around the wooden handle. "…What do you mean?"
The man looked at him for the first time. His eyes were dull.
Like they'd forgotten what curiosity felt like years ago, "Some bodies don't make it that far."
Before Shirley could ask another question, a whistle shrieked across the worksite.
Every shovel stopped. Even the wind felt quieter.
The guards all turned toward the massive gate at the far end of the excavation site.
It groaned open.
Slowly.
A convoy of iron carts rolled inside. Each was pulled by prisoners.
Chains wrapped around their shoulders and waists.
The carts themselves were filled with enormous chunks of pale stone that shimmered faintly beneath the sunlight.
Shirley frowned, "What's that?"
The old prisoner immediately lowered his head. "…Don't ask."
Tucker looked between the carts and the old man. "…Why?"
The man swallowed, "Because if they're bringing White Stone to Worksite Three…"
For the first time since they'd met him… fear crossed his face. "…It means somebody important is coming."
MEANWHILE…
The greenhouse couldn't have been more different from the sand lot.
Warm, damp air clung to every breath.
The rich scent of wet soil and fresh vegetation filled the enormous glass structure as rows upon rows of flowers, vegetables, and strange unfamiliar plants stretched into the distance.
Nearly forty prisoners worked in silence.
Some watered crops. Others trimmed overgrown vines or carefully plucked insects from delicate leaves.
No one dared damage a single plant.
Even here…failure carried consequences.
Michonne drove a rusted trowel into the soil before wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. "…These things are gonna drive me insane."
She reached behind her head, gathering her thick locs into one hand. "They're just trapping heat."
With a quiet sigh, she pulled off the thin prison shirt and tied it around her waist instead.
Beneath it was a simple gray sports bra.
Years of training had carved definition into every movement she made.
Lean shoulders. Strong arms, an abdomen that looked sculpted rather than built.
She hardly seemed to notice. Tongue certainly did. Her jaw nearly hit the dirt. "…Wow…"
Her eyes sparkled. "Michonne…"
She clasped both hands together beneath her chin, "You somehow look even cooler than you do in my dreams."
Michonne slowly looked over. "…My what?"
Tongue immediately froze. "…Nothing!"
She laughed far too loudly. "I said… uh…Dreams…about gardening! Definitely gardening!"
Michonne stared at her for several long seconds. "…You're weird."
"No, I'm Tongue!"
At the far end of the greenhouse, two guards quietly watched.
One leaned toward the other. "…Shouldn't we stop her?"
He nodded toward Michonne. "Removing part of the prison uniform is a violation."
The second guard looked at him like he'd lost his mind. "…Do you have a death wish?"
"What?" The first guard asked.
"That's the Silent Blade." The second guard answered.
The guard swallowed. "I've heard what she did outside these walls."
He glanced back toward Michonne. "If she so much as looked at me the wrong way…"
He rubbed the back of his neck. "…I'd probably apologize."
The first guard frowned. "…We're the guards."
"…Exactly."
Neither of them moved.
This was Worksite Twelve, the Greenhouse.
By sheer coincidence—or terrible luck—Michonne and Tongue had been assigned to the same labor detail.
Word had already begun spreading throughout Mynistria.
The Silent Blade had arrived.
Prisoners whispered whenever she walked past. Some watched her from across the greenhouse. Others quietly drifted closer during work.
Tongue only encouraged it. "You should all introduce yourselves! You'll never get another chance!"
Michonne shot her a look. "…Please stop recruiting people."
Tongue smiled proudly. "I'm building your fan club."
"I don't want one." Michonne answered.
"Too late."
Michonne sighed.
She walked over to the wooden frame supporting one side of the greenhouse before lowering herself onto the damp soil.
Tongue hesitated. "…Can… can I sit too?"
Michonne shrugged. "I don't care."
Tongue immediately plopped down beside her.
Several nearby prisoners gasped. A few instinctively stepped backward.
Nobody sat during work hours.
Nobody.
One guard immediately stormed toward them. "ON YOUR FEET!"
His boots slammed against the damp earth. "There is no resting during labor!"
Michonne didn't even open her eyes. She stretched one leg lazily. "…I'm taking a break."
The guard stopped directly in front of her.
His face flushed red. "…That wasn't a request."
Still…Michonne didn't move.
The guard ripped his rifle from his shoulder and jammed the barrel against the side of her head.
"This is your final warning."
The greenhouse fell completely silent. Even the watering cans stopped. "…Stand."
Michonne slowly exhaled. "…I said…"
She finally opened her eyes. "…I'm taking a break."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop. A pressure swept across the greenhouse.
Invisible. Yet impossible to ignore.
Every prisoner froze, every guard stiffened. It wasn't fear. It was something deeper. Authority.
The overwhelming certainty that disobeying the woman before them would be the greatest mistake of their lives.
Commanding Presence.
Michonne's voice never rose above a calm conversation. "…Go back to your corner."
A brief pause. "…And leave me alone."
The guard's body moved before his mind could protest.
His arm lowered.
His breathing quickened. "…Y-Yes…"
He turned around. Walked back to his post. And didn't look at Michonne again.
Silence lingered inside the greenhouse. Then, the prisoners quietly returned to work.
Only now, they stole glances toward Michonne with something new in their eyes.
Not curiosity, nor admiration. Respect.
The guards, however…looked at her with something entirely different.
Fear.
Tongue clasped both hands over her mouth. Her entire body trembled with excitement. "…That…"
She looked ready to cry. "…Was the coolest thing I've ever seen."
Michonne rested her chin in her palm.
"…You're still weird."
Tongue beamed.
"…You noticed."
AT THE SAME TIME…
Worksite Nineteen.
The laundry site.
Unlike the endless sand of Worksite Three or the humid greenhouse of Worksite Twelve, this place smelled overwhelmingly of soap, mildew… and sweat.
Long rows of wooden wash basins stretched across the room.
Buckets sloshed endlessly as dozens of prisoners scrubbed mountains of white uniforms by hand.
Every stain had to disappear. Every thread had to remain intact. Failure meant punishment.
The guards made that very clear.
Each prisoner was given the same supplies. One bucket, one bar of soap, one nearly empty bottle of detergent.
Nothing more.
It wasn't just jackets and shirts, trousers, socks, gloves. Even the guards' underwear.
EBS stared down at a white tank top soaked with dried sweat.
Her nose wrinkled immediately. "…That's disgusting."
The smell alone made her want to gag.
A heavy boot slammed beside her bucket. "WORK."
EBS flinched. "…S-Sorry."
She quickly submerged the shirt into the murky water and began scrubbing.
Across from her, another prisoner worked with astonishing speed.
Her hands moved without hesitation.
Scrub. Rinse. Wring. Repeat.
She looked no older than her early twenties.
Long black hair had been tied into two ponytails that rested over each shoulder.
Not a single strand had escaped despite the humidity.
She suddenly stopped. Slowly…sh turned toward EBS. "…You're doing it wrong."
EBS blinked. "…Excuse me?"
"The sleeves first." The woman pointed, "Then the collar. Then the armpits, they smell the worst."
"…Thanks."
The woman smiled. "…You're new. Yeah, I could tell."
Silence. "…My hands used to bleed."
EBS looked over. "…What?"
"When I first came here." She happily continued scrubbing. "I cried every day. Now they don't bleed anymore."
She held up both hands.
The skin covering them had become thick and rough. Almost leather-like. "They're ugly now."
"…Oh." EBS said.
The woman suddenly leaned closer. "…What's your name?"
EBS hesitated. "…EBS160."
The woman tilted her head. "How old are you?"
"…Twenty."
"Favorite color?"
"…Pink?"
"Favorite food?"
"…I…"
"What did your bedroom look like?"
"…What?"
"Did you have a pet?"
"Were your parents nice?"
"Have you ever kissed anyone?"
"Were you rich?"
"Did you cry a lot?"
"Can you swim?"
"Do you snore?"
"What was your biggest fear before coming here?"
The questions came so quickly EBS barely had time to breathe.
"…Can you slow down?"
The woman didn't hear her.
"Do you like flowers?"
"Favorite season?"
"Have you ever broken a bone?"
"Were you famous?"
"What's your blood type?"
"…My what?"
"Have you ever wondered what your own funeral would look like?"
EBS stared at her.
The woman smiled brightly. "…I think about mine a lot."
EBS shifted farther away. "…You're making me uncomfortable."
The woman simply scooted closer.
"…Do you think your friends are alive?"
"…Stop."
"Have you ever been in love?"
"…Please."
"Do you think they'll remember your face in ten years?"
"…I said stop."
"How many children do you want?"
"What do you think dying feels li—"
"WOULD YOU SHUT UP?!"
The entire laundry room froze. Even the sound of scrubbing stopped. EBS's breathing had become uneven.
She hadn't meant to yell. But it all came pouring out. "I'm tired! I'm scared! I don't know where my friends are! I don't know if I'm ever getting out of here! And you just keep asking these weird questions!"
She pointed directly at the woman. "Leave me alone!"
The prisoner's smile slowly disappeared.
EBS didn't stop. "I don't even know your name! You just keep talking! You don't know when to stop! You're creepy! You're annoying! And you're driving me insane!"
Silence.
The woman lowered her head. For several long seconds, she didn't move.
Then, her shoulders began trembling.
A quiet sniffle escaped her. "…I…" Another. "…I'm sorry…"
Tears splashed into the wash basin below. "…I forgot…"
She rubbed at her eyes. "…People don't like talking to me anymore."
EBS immediately felt a stab of guilt. "…I…"
The woman suddenly looked up. Her eyes had changed. The sadness remained.
But beneath it…something else.
"…My name…" She sniffled. "…PN378."
A long pause. "…Remember it."
Her tears continued falling. "…Because…"
Her lips curled into a trembling smile. "…One day…" She wiped another tear away. "…I'm going to kill you."
Silence.
The surrounding prisoners lowered their heads…as though they'd heard threats like that a thousand times before.
EBS stood frozen.
The bucket slipped from her hands. Water splashed across the stone floor.
PN378 continued crying.
Never taking her eyes off EBS.
DURING ALL THIS…
Elsewhere in Mynistria…polished dress shoes echoed against marble.
A man in a perfectly tailored purple suit strode through one of the grandest hallways in the kingdom, his pace calm, confident, almost leisurely.
Two Smileys followed several steps behind him in complete silence.
The corridor itself was enormous. Towering white pillars stretched toward an impossibly high ceiling painted with scenes of Mynistria's triumphs. Sunlight poured through massive stained-glass windows, scattering brilliant colors across the marble floor.
Servants and officials alike immediately stepped aside.
Nobody wanted to stand in his path. Some lowered their heads. Others pretended not to notice him at all.
Because everyone recognized the purple suit. Everyone knew what it meant.
Word had already begun spreading throughout the country.
A familiar face…had returned to Mynistria.
And wherever that man appeared…
Something was about to change.