He realized time had passed because his mind slipped into an old habit. Counting.
Back in the hospital, when there was nothing to do, he used to measure time by routine. Nurse rounds. Meal schedules. Medication hours. When all of that disappeared, he learned to estimate instead.
He counted now. Slowly. Carefully. Resetting when he lost track.
'About sixteen hours,' he thought.
His stomach twisted sharply. Hunger hit him in a way he had never experienced before. Deep. Gnawing.
It wasn't the mild emptiness he used to feel before scheduled meals. This felt urgent, almost painful.
'Oh shit,' he thought. 'So this is real hunger.'
His teeth started clacking without him meaning to.
He noticed it and almost laughed. The sound felt ridiculous.
'That's new,' he thought. 'Didn't know I could starve this fast.'
He had always been fed before. On time. Measured portions. Nutrients calculated. His body had never needed to ask.
Now it was demanding.
He leaned against the wall, knees slightly bent, conserving energy.
'If they want assassins, they need us alive,' he thought. 'Which means food should exist.'
Then another thought followed.
'Unless they don't care how many die first.'
That one sat heavier.
Click.
Clack.
Grrrk.
The sounds came from him. He stood there in the dark, hungry, amused by his own body betraying him, and wondering vaguely if anyone on the other side of the door had even planned to feed them.
In those sixteen hours, he had tried everything.
He had walked the perimeter of the room again and again, hands sliding over the walls.
He had knocked until his knuckles hurt, feeling for hollow spots, seams, anything that might give.
He had shouted, at first loudly, then less so as his throat dried out. Nothing answered him.
He checked the door one more time, pressing his fingers along the edges, searching for gaps. There were none. The metal fit too cleanly.
'So this is airtight,' he thought.
Then another thought followed.
'Then why am I not suffocating?'
Air still filled his lungs. Breathing stayed easy. That didn't line up. Logic started breaking apart if he stared at it too long.
'Logic already broke when I transmigrated,' he thought.
He sighed, long and tired. Questioning it further wouldn't help. Whatever rules governed this place weren't the ones he grew up with.
Hunger twisted in his stomach again, sharper this time.
'So am I just going to starve here?' he thought.
The idea wasn't dramatic. He leaned against the wall and waited, unsure whether anyone intended to open the door before his body gave out.
Soon, he heard something outside.
Footsteps. Heavy ones. Slow and deliberate. Each step carried weight, like the floor was being reminded who owned it.
From the sound alone, he knew it was a big person. Only one.
Metal doors opened somewhere down the line. The sound echoed through the space.
Almost immediately, someone screamed for help. It was panicked and raw.
"Shut up."
The voice was calm. Then came the sound of a kick. A dull impact. A short grunt that cut off too fast.
Thud
He shivered without meaning to. The noise alone was enough.
'Yeah… no,' he thought. 'I'm not built for that.'
The footsteps moved again, farther now, door by door. One opening at a time. One voice. One body.
He put it together quietly.
'One person per room,' he thought. 'Like storage.'
He stayed still, back against the wall, breathing shallow and controlled. Whatever was coming, it was systematic.
And soon, the footsteps were getting closer.
The sounds moved closer, door after door. Some people tried to run the moment their doors opened.
Others screamed. A few fought back. None of it lasted long. Every attempt ended the same way, with a dull impact and silence.
By the time the footsteps stopped, he was sure the man was right outside his room.
The door opened.
Creeakk...
He had already moved to the side, standing in what should have been the blind spot. It didn't matter. The man didn't even look in.
A bowl was shoved inside and slid across the floor. The door closed immediately after, metal hitting metal with a final sound. The footsteps moved on.
Dim light spilled in for a second before disappearing. He caught the movement of it, the flicker and sway.
'Torches,' he thought.
He let out a slow breath once everything went quiet again.
'That's… efficient,' he thought. 'In the worst way.'
He crouched and picked up the bowl. The smell hit him first. Sour. Heavy. Not rotten, but close enough to make his stomach turn.
It looked like something meant for animals, not people. Leftovers mashed together. When he touched it, his fingers came away sticky.
'Saliva, maybe. Or something like it.'
He pulled a face, disgust crawling up his spine.
'Damn,' he thought. 'They really don't care.'
His stomach growled loudly in response. Hunger overrode revulsion, pressing hard enough that his hands shook slightly.
He stared at the bowl, torn between disgust and need, fully aware that this was the only food he was likely going to get.
He waited until hunger drowned out everything else. That was the only way he could bring himself to eat it.
He sat down and ate slowly. Too slowly. The bowl was mostly fish bones and crushed vegetables, leftovers pressed together into something barely edible.
He picked through it with his fingers, careful not to stab his mouth. Even then, a sharp bone scraped his tongue.
It stung.
He paused. The taste was wrong. Not just bad—off. He swallowed and tried again, just to be sure. The bitterness spread across his tongue, faint at first, then clearer.
'…There's something in this,' he thought.
Poison, maybe. Or something close to it. He guessed without proof.
He should have stopped. He knew that. He even thought about throwing the rest away. But his hands kept moving. Hunger pushed harder than caution.
'Idiot,' he thought. 'You should've dumped it.'
He kept eating anyway. Slowly. Deliberately. Each bite tasted more bitter than the last, creeping up the back of his throat.
When the bowl was empty, his stomach finally settled. The hunger loosened its grip.
Relief came first.
Then thirst hit him immediately. His throat felt dry, raw. His lips stuck together when he swallowed. He looked around out of habit, then remembered where he was.
'I need water,' he thought.
There was none.
His chest tightened. His eyes burned. For a second, he almost cried.
Then the pain started.
It came all at once, everywhere. Sharp and deep, like needles piercing his skin from the inside.
His arms, legs, torso—his head felt like it was splitting apart. He gasped and couldn't pull air in properly.
His body locked up. He shouted without meaning to, the sound breaking out of him. The veins in his neck strained as he clutched his chest, fingers digging into muscle that refused to work.
He couldn't breathe.
Pain swallowed everything.
The pain did not explode. It spread.
It began as a sharp pressure under his skin, like thousands of needles pressing inward at once.
Not stabbing, not cutting—pressing. His arms burned first, then his legs, then his chest.
It felt as if his nerves were being squeezed rather than damaged, like his body was being forced into a shape it did not want to take.
His breathing broke. He tried to inhale and his lungs refused to expand properly.
Air stopped halfway in, shallow and useless, as if his chest had turned rigid. He gasped again, harder this time, and felt a tearing ache beneath his ribs.
His heart hammered too fast. Not strong—panicked. Each beat felt uneven, like it was tripping over itself. His vision blurred even though there was nothing to see.
Pressure built behind his eyes, spreading upward into his skull. It felt like a tight band was being pulled around his head, slowly tightening.
His muscles seized without warning. His fingers curled inward painfully, joints locking.
His jaw clenched so hard his teeth hurt. His neck strained, veins standing out as his body fought for oxygen it could not get.
He tried to scream again, but the sound came out broken and weak. His throat burned. Swallowing hurt. Breathing hurt more.
It reminded him of pain he knew, but worse. Worse than needles. Worse than injections gone wrong. Worse than the nights his chest filled with fluid and every breath felt borrowed.
This pain was everywhere at once, with no place to escape to.
His skin felt too tight, like it didn't belong to him anymore. Heat and cold overlapped, waves passing through his body without pattern.
His stomach twisted violently, but nothing came up.
He clutched at his chest again, not to stop his heart, but because it felt like the only solid thing left. His body shook in short, uncontrolled spasms.
'I can't—' he tried to think, but the thought didn't finish.
The pain did not care about logic or endurance. It didn't fade when he focused.
It didn't lessen when he stayed still. It simply continued, relentless, forcing his body into survival mode while denying it the tools to survive.
His breaths became short, desperate pulls of air that barely reached his lungs. His head throbbed with every heartbeat. His limbs felt distant, heavy, like they were sinking away from him.
He understood then, very clearly, that this was not meant to kill him quickly.
It was meant to hurt him.