Morgan's departure brought an immediate sense of relief. The heavy feeling that seemed to follow the man out the door disappeared, and the air in the small room became much easier to breathe.
Shawn leaned back against the rough, lumpy mattress. He closed his useless eyes and waited for the wild storm inside his head to finally calm down into a dull ache.
The man was exactly as his broken memories painted him. A devil. No, that wasn't even right; even devils seemed to operate under some twisted set of rules or limits. Morgan did not. He was cold, detached, and completely sure of his own power.
Shawn focused on his breathing, trying to piece together what little he could save from the wreckage of his mind. Earlier, when Morgan had demanded his name, the name Shawn had slipped out before he could even think about the alternative.
Three.
The word felt stupid and absurd. Three was a number, not a name. Who named a living person Three? It sounded less like a real name and more like a tag stamped onto livestock or an item sitting on a cold warehouse shelf. The more he thought about it, the more uncomfortable it made him feel.
Yet, he couldn't deny the truth carved into his brain. Both lives belonged to him. Shawn and Three were parts of the same broken person, and the shards of memory flooding his mind proved it. The only real difference was that Vexer had deliberately locked away his first life.
The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Even now, with his thoughts settling, he found it incredibly difficult to think of the old man as his grandfather. Vexer had treated him well enough; he had raised him, protected him, and given him a place to live. But Vexer had never truly wanted Shawn. He had only ever cared for Three, or at least, that was how it felt to a boy who had just woken up in total darkness.
Still, as much as Shawn wanted someone to blame for the mess in his head, he couldn't bring himself to completely hate the old man. Vexer hadn't destroyed the memories. He had the power to wipe them away completely, leaving no trace of Shawn behind. Instead, he had merely locked them away.
That single fact stopped Shawn from completely hating him, even if the mercy felt very small right now.
With a heavy sigh, he forced the matter aside.
There were far more important, immediate problems to solve.
Like survival.
Morgan's parting words still echoed clearly through the silence of the room. The man clearly had no intention of ever letting him walk out of this place alive. If he was going to escape, it would probably take a miracle.
Yet, giving up simply wasn't an option.
His mind drifted back to his past life, remembering the countless late nights he had spent sitting awake beside Jean. They used to refuse to sleep, arguing back and forth until they solved whatever problem or riddle had caught their attention that day. No matter how impossible the challenge looked at first, they always found a solution eventually.
This situation would be no different.
Slowly, carefully, Shawn swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His bare feet touched the biting cold of the stone floor, making him fully alert.
He stretched out both hands into the empty darkness, his fingers moving as he began to feel his surroundings.
One careful step forward.
Then another.
He counted each movement rhythmically in his head, keeping his balance steady.
Five steps.
Six.
His fingertips brushed against rough, damp stone.
A wall.
He pressed his palm flat against it, tracing the cold surface as he slid his feet forward.
Seven steps.
Eight.
Then his hand hit a sharp corner.
The room wasn't large.
He continued tracing the walls, slowly building a picture of the room inside his mind. It wasn't a perfect map, but the physical action of measuring his prison felt much better than lying helplessly on a bed waiting for a guard to return.
"If only I had some basic equipment," he muttered into the dark, his voice sounding thin and hollow against the stone.
A weak laugh escaped him.
"A tracking device would solve half my problems right now."
Blindness wasn't a condition he intended to accept forever. If his body couldn't fix it, then he would simply use his hands to build something that could help him see. Unfortunately, building inventions required specialized tools, and tools required freedom that he completely lacked.
After completing another slow, careful walk around the room, his shins finally bumped against the frame of the bed.
He sat down heavily, his fingers tracing his hands until they brushed against a familiar dull ring on his right finger.
He turned it slowly around his finger, feeling the ridges.
Vexer's ring.
It was one of the few things he had received from Vexer
Morgan had claimed that Shawn possessed something that belonged to him.
Was it this ring?
Shawn frowned into the blackness, shaking his head.
No, that didn't make sense.
Vexer had personally handed him this ring as a gift. A man like Morgan wouldn't refer to a gift or an item he had never seen as his own property.
Then what exactly was the man talking about?
He dug deep into his mind, searching through his memories as he tried to think of any places he had met Morgan or found anything suspicious and took it.
Nothing appeared.
No matter how hard he tried to think, he couldn't recall ever taking anything from Morgan Vonte.
Eventually, the mental strain grew too heavy, and he forced himself to drop it.
Morgan would show his hand sooner or later; the man was far too arrogant to keep his secret forever.
Instead, his thoughts drifted back toward the sunlit water.
He remembered the bright light reflecting off the moving current, the sound of loud, happy laughter, and Jean's face.
A sharp pain settled deep in his chest.
The absolute last thing he remembered was Jean being violently thrown through the air by that massive monster beneath the river's surface. He didn't know if his friend had survived the impact. He didn't know if Jean blamed him for what happened, or if anyone had ever discovered the truth of what had dragged them down that afternoon.
"If I get the chance..."
His voice grew quieter, dropping to a harsh whisper against the dark.
"I'll find my way back to that river and tear down the monster myself. I swear it."
Even if it took years.
Even if the world told him it was impossible.
The thought alone brought a small measure of comfort to his chest.
Then, breaking the serious mood of the moment, his stomach growled with a loud rumble.
Shawn blinked in the darkness, the heavy thoughts vanishing instantly.
"...Wonderful," he muttered dryly.
Of all the moments to get hungry, it had to happen now.
"I can only hope these people actually bother to feed their prisoners."
As if the universe were answering his complaint, a sharp sound echoed from the far side of the room.
The heavy wooden door was moving.
Shawn immediately turned his head toward the sound, his entire body freezing as his muscles tensed for a fight.
Had Morgan come back to finish his interrogation already?
But as the door swung wider, a faint, delicious smell reached his nose before any footsteps did.
Warm soup, bread, and meat.
His stomach gave another loud growl.
It was definitely food.
"I brought your meal," a voice called out from the doorway.
It belonged to a girl. Her tone was young, carrying a soft, hesitant note that was entirely different from Morgan's cold voice.
Shawn let some of the tension leave his shoulders, though he remained on guard.
"Who is it?" he asked, keeping his voice level.
"My name is Ness," she replied, her footsteps sounding light as she stepped onto the stone. "Father asked me to bring you something to eat."
Morgan's daughter.
The pieces clicked together instantly in Shawn's mind.
This was important information.
He kept his face perfectly blank, listening as she walked closer.
Meanwhile, Ness stood a few paces away, quietly studying the boy sitting on the edge of the mattress. He looked much younger than she had expected from her father's warnings. Thin, pale, and wearing the ragged clothes of someone pulled from the water. He didn't look like a dangerous threat; he simply looked completely exhausted.
A servant moved silently beside her, placing a small wooden stool near the bed.
Ness carefully lowered the tray onto it, the dishes clinking softly as she prepared to turn and leave.
Then Shawn spoke, his voice entirely flat.
"I'm blind."
The simple statement caught her completely off guard, freezing her mid-step.
"I can't see where you put the tray," he added, turning his face slightly toward the sound of her breathing.
For a moment, a bright blush of embarrassment flooded Ness's face.
She hadn't known.
Her father hadn't mentioned a single word about the prisoner's condition, nor had the guards outside the door.
Feeling completely lost, Ness quickly leaned toward the older servant next to her, whispering a quick set of instructions.
The servant gave a stiff nod.
She picked up the plate, her heavy boots thudding against the floor as she stepped right up to Shawn.
"The young miss has asked me to help you eat," the servant said, her voice dropping into a harsh, warning whisper meant only for him. "Remember your place while you are under this roof, boy."
Shawn very nearly rolled his eyes.
The threat was so ridiculous that it wasn't even worth a sarcastic reply. Did this woman truly think he was about to try and charm Morgan's daughter to escape? He didn't even know what the girl looked like.
And considering how evil her father was, romance was the last thing on his mind, way below drowning, execution, and being blind.
Instead, he simply let out a long, tired sigh and reached out blindly for the spoon.
"Trust me," he muttered, his voice full of exhausted honesty. "That is the absolute least of my worries."