Micheal's consciousness flickered back to life like the weak glow of a dying ember. His head throbbed, and his body felt heavy as if he had been dragged through frozen water. Slowly, he opened his eyes, only to be met with the dim, flickering light of countless candles surrounding him. The air was thick, smelling faintly of iron and smoke.
He was in a cage—no, a massive enclosure. The walls were made of thick steel bars, cold and unyielding, stretching high toward a ceiling lost in shadows. The cage was vast, roughly the size of a baseball field, easily able to contain a hundred people or more. In the center, ropes and chains hung ominously from the ceiling, swaying gently as though moved by an unseen breeze.
Micheal groaned and forced himself upright, his limbs weak and trembling. He rubbed his temples, trying to gather his bearings. "Where… am I?" he muttered, his voice hoarse and cracking under the weight of confusion.
The cage wasn't entirely dark, thanks to the scattered candles placed haphazardly around the perimeter. Their flickering flames danced along the steel bars, casting eerie shadows across the ground. He could see faint outlines of figures sprawled on the floor, some unconscious, others barely moving.
A low, gravelly voice interrupted his daze.
"You're awake."
Micheal turned sharply toward the sound, his muscles tensing. From the far corner of the cage, a man rose slowly to his feet. He was tall and broad, his presence commanding. Long brown hair fell to his shoulders in messy waves, and a jagged scar ran from the edge of his lip to his jawline, giving his otherwise stoic face a grim edge. His skin was weathered, his body sculpted with muscles that told a story of countless battles. He wore a tattered shirt and pants, both patched with mismatched fabrics, as if he'd been living in captivity for far too long.
The man stepped closer, his boots scuffing the floor. The faint light of the candles revealed more details: the scars crisscrossing his arms, the way his fists clenched tightly, and the deep-set seriousness in his steel-gray eyes.
"What..?" Micheal asked, his voice shaky but firmer now.
The man didn't answer immediately. He studied Micheal with a gaze so piercing it felt as though he were peeling away layers of his soul. Finally, he spoke.
"This is CORE's holding arena," the man said, his voice low and steady. "You've been selected. You're here because he wants something from you—or because you've already been deemed expendable."
Micheal's stomach twisted at the words. "The Selection…" he whispered, remembering the terrifying ordeal that had led him here.
The man nodded grimly. "You're lucky to wake up in one piece. Some don't." He gestured toward a far corner of the cage, where a small group huddled around what appeared to be a body. Micheal's blood ran cold.
"What… what happens now?" Micheal stammered.
The man crossed his arms, his expression hardening. "Now? You survive."
"Survive?" Micheal repeated, his confusion growing.
The man sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly as if the weight of countless explanations had worn him down. "CORE doesn't bring people here for nothing. He tests us—our strength, our will, our limits. This cage is just the beginning. Soon, you'll face the trials."
Micheal's heart pounded in his chest. "Trials? What kind of trials?"
The man gave a bitter chuckle, though it lacked any humor. "Fights. Challenges. Experiments. Whatever CORE feels like watching today. Most people don't make it through the first one."
Micheal's legs felt like they might give out beneath him. He leaned against the steel bars for support, the cold metal biting into his skin.
The man stepped closer, his tone softening slightly. "I don't know who you are, but if you're here, you've got something CORE finds interesting. Maybe that'll keep you alive a little longer."
"I don't understand," Micheal said, shaking his head. "Why does he do this? Why us?"
The man's jaw tightened. "Why? Because he can. Because this is his playground, and we're just his toys. But if you want to survive, you'd better toughen up fast."
Micheal swallowed hard, the reality of his situation sinking in. The cage, the trials, the chilling presence of CORE—it all felt like a nightmare he couldn't wake up from.
The man extended a hand. "Name's Evander. I've been here long enough to know how this place works. Stick close, and maybe you'll make it out alive."
Micheal hesitated before taking the man's hand, gripping it firmly despite the tremor in his own. "Micheal," he said quietly.
Evander gave a small nod. "Get some rest while you can. It won't be long before they come for us again."
As Evander walked away, Micheal slumped against the bars, his mind racing. The flickering candles cast unsettling shadows on the walls, and the faint murmurs of the other captives filled the air like a haunting melody.
Not long after, the metallic clanging of a gate echoed through the cage, jolting everyone to attention. A guard, dressed in dark armor with a cruel smirk on his face, approached the bars. In his hands were several loaves of bread, their edges rough and stale, but to the starving occupants of the cage, they might as well have been treasures.
The guard didn't say a word. With a dismissive sneer, he hurled the eight loaves into the center of the cage. The bread hit the ground with dull thuds, scattering crumbs across the dusty floor.
For a moment, there was silence—a tension so thick it felt like the air had been sucked out of the cage. Then, chaos erupted.
From the shadows of the cage, figures emerged like predators from hiding. They were grotesque, their emaciated forms barely human. Lean and skeletal, their ribs jutted out like jagged stones, and their hollow eyes glinted with desperation. They moved with feral speed, scrambling and clawing over one another to reach the bread.
Micheal froze, startled by the sheer frenzy. But then he saw him—Evander. The man who had spoken with such calm authority earlier was now barreling toward the bread, shoving others out of the way with brutal efficiency.
Something inside Micheal snapped. Instinct took over. If he didn't act now, he wouldn't eat.
He launched himself forward, dashing toward the scattered loaves. The air was thick with grunts, gasps, and the sound of bodies colliding. Micheal ducked and weaved, avoiding flailing limbs as he raced toward his goal.
He was close—just a few feet away. With a desperate lunge, he threw himself forward, reaching out for the nearest loaf. But his foot caught on something—someone—and he crashed to the ground, face-first into the dirt.
By the time he scrambled to his knees, it was too late. The bread was gone.
Around him, the victors clutched their prizes like trophies, some holding two or even three loaves. They tore into them with wild abandon, devouring the stale chunks as if it were their last meal. Crumbs and bits of bread fell to the ground, but no one dared waste time picking them up.
Micheal sat back on his heels, his chest heaving. A dull ache throbbed in his nose and forehead where he had hit the ground. He wiped the dirt from his face, his hands trembling with frustration and hunger.
Evander, chewing on his loaf, caught Micheal's gaze for a brief moment. His face was unreadable—neither sympathetic nor mocking—before he turned away, focused on his meal.
Micheal slumped against the bars of the cage, the bitter taste of failure stinging worse than his hunger. Around him, the others feasted, their chewing and tearing filling the air with an almost animalistic cacophony.
He pulled his knees to his chest, trying to block out the noise. His mind spiraled, drowning in an ocean of dark thoughts.
How long will I be here? The question echoed in his head like a haunting refrain. Will I die here? Will they sell me off, like some kind of animal?
A shiver ran down his spine as his thoughts grew darker. Will they eat me next, once the food runs out?
And then, the thought that hurt the most: Will I ever see Choreees again?
He hated his homeland—hated its tyranny, its injustice, its pain. But in this moment, sitting cold and hungry in the dirt, he realized something unexpected. Even Choreees, for all its cruelty, was still his home. A part of him ached to see its skies again, to walk its lands, to feel the sun on his face.
Tears prickled at the edges of his eyes, but he blinked them away. There was no room for weakness here. Sadness would do him no good.
The others continued to feast, oblivious to his turmoil. But Micheal's gaze hardened, his jaw tightening.
Micheal clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. A faint ember of resolve sparked within him. He wouldn't die here—not like this. Not as another forgotten soul in CORE's twisted game.
Or so he thought.