Leon sat in the shadows of the barracks, the small leather pouch of medicine cradled in his lap. He had barely opened it, and already the acrid smell of alcohol and herbs filled the air, stinging his nose. He tilted the pouch to peek inside. Bandages, a few meager rolls of cloth soaked in disinfectant, and a handful of dirty vials of antiseptic—the best this wretched place could offer.
It wasn't much, certainly not enough to save everyone. But then again, that wasn't the point, was it? No one here was truly going to be "saved."
The barracks were eerily silent except for the occasional cough, groan, or shuffle from the other slaves. Some were too sick to work, their bodies broken by the relentless labor, infections gnawing at their flesh, slowly eating them from the inside out. The overseers didn't care if they rotted away. To them, a dead slave was just one less mouth to feed.
Leon flexed his fingers, feeling the tension in his bones. His mind was racing with calculations—how far could the medicine go? How many could he help before it ran out?
In his past life, rationing medical supplies had been part of the job. There were always more wounded than bandages, more lives at risk than solutions. But here, it wasn't just about survival—it was about strategy. If he could keep a few men alive, if he could earn their trust, then maybe, just maybe, he could turn them into something more than slaves.
Allies.
Leon took a deep breath, the weight of the decision heavy on his shoulders. His own body was aching from days of labor, his muscles sore, his wounds half-healed. He could keep the medicine for himself—patch up his cuts, clean his wounds. That's what Grig had expected, after all. Self-preservation in a place like this was the only rule.
But Leon wasn't playing by their rules.
He stood, his eyes scanning the barracks for familiar faces. He had been quiet for weeks, observing the others, watching how they moved, how they interacted. There were a few who stood out—men who were strong but worn down, broken not by weakness, but by the relentless cruelty of this place.
Leon approached a group of three slaves huddled near the far wall, their faces gaunt, eyes sunken with exhaustion and pain. One of them, a man named Jarek, had a gaping wound on his leg—infected, festering. The others, Silo and Mik, were covered in bruises and cuts, but their injuries were more manageable.
He knelt beside them, pulling out the pouch and opening it slowly. The sight of the medicine caught their attention immediately, their hollow eyes widening.
"You have medicine?" Jarek rasped, his voice cracked from dehydration.
Leon nodded. "It's not much, but it's something."
Jarek's gaze flickered with a mixture of hope and disbelief. "Why… why would you share it with us?"
Leon smiled grimly. "Because I'm going to need you all alive."
The men exchanged confused glances, unsure whether to trust him or not. In this place, kindness didn't exist without a catch.
Leon pulled out a vial of antiseptic, twisting the cap off as the pungent smell filled the air. "This isn't about kindness. It's about survival. If we don't start helping each other, none of us are getting out of here alive."
He began cleaning Jarek's wound, his hands steady, years of military training taking over. Jarek winced but said nothing, his eyes watching Leon carefully.
"You're not from around here, are you?" Jarek asked after a moment, his voice low.
Leon didn't look up, focusing on the wound. "Not from anywhere you'd know."
The other two men remained silent, though Silo looked like he wanted to ask more. Leon could see the unspoken question in their eyes—who was this man, this slave who acted like he wasn't beaten down by the same hellish existence?
Leon ignored the looks, finishing up with Jarek's leg and moving on to Silo. He could feel the tension in the air, the way the others were starting to relax just a little, hope flickering in the darkest corners of their minds.
Once he had done all he could, Leon packed up the remaining supplies, not much left to work with. He stood, wiping his hands on his ragged pants.
"That's all I've got for now," he said, his voice steady. "But if you want more, if you want to survive this place, we're going to have to start working together."
Mik, the youngest of the group, leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "What's the catch?"
Leon smirked, the dark humor bubbling to the surface. "The catch is that this is just the beginning. If you want out of here, you're going to have to trust me. And trust is hard to come by, I get that. But you've got two choices: you either die here, rotting away like everyone else, or you help me, and maybe—just maybe—we get out of this alive."
Jarek looked down at his bandaged leg, then up at Leon. "And what's your plan, exactly?"
Leon's eyes gleamed, the flicker of military precision returning to his gaze. "First, we stay alive. Then, we make them regret ever thinking they could keep us down."
The men exchanged uncertain glances, but Leon could see it—the spark of something more. They weren't broken. Not yet.
"Think about it," Leon said, turning to leave. "I'll be around."
As he walked away, Leon felt the weight of the barracks settle over him again. The damp, rotten air, the smell of sweat and blood, the faint sound of men groaning in their sleep—it was suffocating. But he had made his first move, planted the seed of something that might grow into more.
In the end, they would either rise together or fall apart, piece by piece.
And Leon had no intention of falling.