Here we go again, I muttered as the familiar wave of nausea and pain washed over me, clouding my thoughts.

I pressed on the spot on my arm two inches from my wrist, and the queasiness somehow subsided. That was the only way to 'treat' nausea in the dungeons. Here, there's no medicine whatsoever, and the filthiness is indescribable. For some reason, everyone who gets dumped here falls sick the next day. When that happens, one out of three die, and the ones who live become horribly incapacitated, both mentally and physically. That's how it is. I'm considered lucky, having survived for a week so far.

I still remember the day I was sentenced to three weeks of jail vividly. At the time, I thought it wasn't a big deal. But now I realised that my calculations were miles off - this dungeon was something I had never foreseen. Just seven days went by and I was totally sick of this place. Not because of the filthiness, but because this place is no better than a madhouse. Every day, I wake up only to see those pale, haggard bodies with soulless eyes, muttering inconsistent words over and over, going around with their daily routines like machines. Every day, I live in constant fear that the next day I will turn into one of them.

Every single day felt like living hell. Negative thoughts and emotions pummeled at my mind, the self-reflection we had to undergo each day filled me with an unwavering sense of guilt and worthlessness. My efforts to stay sane were faltering as the madness slowly got to my mind. For these two days or so, I found it hard to think properly. My mind felt clouded by some fog I couldn't understand. Sometimes I would just give up on thinking, but the repetitive grumbling and screeching from the other prisoners would flood my mind, driving me crazy. Then, I would retreat to the depths of my mind and cry myself to sleep.

Crouching in my tiny cell, I stared longingly at the steel bars overhead. I struggled to keep my eyes open, trying to distract myself by imagining the sight of the clear, blue sky.

But I couldn't. There was absolutely nothing but a grey slab outside the window.

I sighed in resignation and looked down. I was disgusted at myself. My clothes were pungent and dirty with sweat, and my skin itched with scabs and rashes all over. I couldn't believe my eyes. This isn't the me that I knew. I was supposed to be prim, proper, and swift. Not a filthy prisoner that's left to rot.

I hate this. I hate my luck. I hate the person that I'm forced to be.

How I wished I could be myself again. But the marks on the grimy wall told me that I'll have to wait for another two weeks, or possibly more, before I get to leave and do something about this horrid place. No, that would be an overstatement. Even the odds of me surviving this disease are unknown. If I die, everything's reduced to null. All my efforts would be nothing. My life would be wasted.

Get a grip on yourself. Endure. For the people you want to protect. To accomplish your goal, so your efforts aren't wasted. Don't give up. There are only fourteen days to go.

When the time comes, I'll do whatever it takes to find the clues I need and uncover the secrets of this world. I'll get back everything, all the people and things, that was taken away from me. And I will help others to do the same.

Nothing will stop me.