The eye is watching.
I can't feel it. I can't touch it. I can't see it.
But I know it's there. My chest aches from a wound that isn't there—memory sharper than flesh. A gunshot to the heart.
Gun.
The word hollows in my skull.
A voice doesn't.
Goodbye, Allen.
"-len."
I wake in a dark place with the sound caught between my lips.
Cold presses against my cheek. Cement—uneven, cracked, untended. Dark stains blot the floor. Some sink into the pores, some flake on the surface. My eyes avoid the bigger ones.
I roll onto my side, shoulder scraping grit. Palm planted, I push myself upright until my back hits the wall. The impact knocks a breath out of me.
The wall is damp, cold moisture seeping through the thin fabric of my uniform until it settles against my skin like a second, unwanted layer of lead. I taste iron. Dust. Old blood.
Steel bars stand before me. Vertical. Evenly spaced. Bolted into ceiling and floor. Beyond, a corridor stretches left and right, lined with identical cells. Silence hangs heavy between them.
Lanterns glow between cells, pale liquid suspended without flame or wick. Shadows crawl along the floor beneath them, moving slow, deliberate, as if alive.
Across the corridor, in the cell directly opposite mine, a man lies curled, chest rising shallowly. Fragile. Different numbers stitched over his back, but same blue uniform as mine.
"Len?"
A girl's voice. Close. Same side of the bars.
I turn my head. She sits several steps away, back pressed to the wall, knees drawn up, wearing the same blue uniform. Blonde hair matted, red-amber eyes fixed on me. Calm, but the tension around her shoulders is sharp enough to cut.
"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... How long have you been here?" she stumbles the first time but continues.
"How long have you?" I reply flatly, defensive before I realize it.
"Two hours, I just got back from solitary."
"Where are we?"
"Second floor underground. No room number."
"That's not my question."
My voice firmer than I realize.
She frowns. "Tauran City Prison. Obviously."
I shouldn't have asked what I shouldn't.
"Did they arrest the wrong guy again?" she whispers, eyebrows frowning, studying me.
I don't answer. I let the silence stretch.
BAM.
The sound rips through the corridor. Metal slams. Vibration pulses under my feet, through the bars. The air shifts. Rot and old blood roll down the corridor ahead of the footsteps. Heavy steps follow. Slow. Deliberate. Each step sharpens the silence.
Chains scrape the cement. Rhythm uneven, pulsing against my ribs.
Something tall steps into view.
Nearly two meters. Bare torso slick with sweat and grime. Tattered pants cling to thick legs. A mask covers its face—white paint cracked and peeling, a single round hole cut where an eye should be. Red light fills that hole, like a warning carved into flesh.
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. Fear stiffens him into compliance.
The figure stops at our cell. Unlocks it.
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. Its gaze is mechanical, assessing. Calculating.
My muscles tense.
Each breath sounded like two voices inhaling at once—one wet and human, the other a dry whistle of wind through a hollow bone. Thick veins stand out along its arms and shoulders, pulsing beneath stretched skin. Its presence presses into the room, cold, almost physical.
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.
Then Ashlynn moves. She approaches the bald man and taps him on the shoulder.
"Riko?" she says, crouching beside the man. "Are you alright?"
He doesn't answer her. Blood coats his chest and arms. It smears as he drags himself forward, toward me. His breathing rattles, wet and shallow. I can hear the slight rasp of every exhale.
When he finally 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 the object.
I catch it and slide it into my back pocket, pulling the fabric down with its weight. It feels heavy and consequential.
Somewhere in the prison—
A lock clicks.