Charles slowly opened his eyes, blinking against the lingering haze of unconsciousness. His entire body still throbbed with pain from the violent impact, and a dull ache pounded in his temples. It took him a moment to realize that he was no longer in the same place he had been when he lost consciousness.
He found himself in a cramped, rectangular prison cell. The walls and floor were made of cold gray-black stone, and the ceiling rose high overhead, with a single air vent—a small, grated opening—admitting a faint orange glow from outside. That weak, ruddy light cast shadowy grid lines onto the stone floor. In one corner stood a wooden bucket for waste, while the opposite corner held a thin, filthy straw mattress that must have served as a bed. Aside from these, the cell was utterly bare.
Charles's clothes were in almost as sorry a state as the cell itself. He wore only his shirt and trousers, both stained with dirt and mud from his earlier scuffle. Bruises and welts marred his skin, a testament to the fight he had put up. Worst of all, heavy iron shackles bound his wrists and ankles, limiting his movement.
Yet despite his physical exhaustion, Charles refused to surrender. He knew he had to find a way out. Gritting his teeth, he scanned the cell thoroughly, searching every crack and corner for some weakness—a gap in the wall, a loose stone, anything at all that might allow him to escape. He had no clue what fate awaited him here—torture, interrogation, brutal beatings—each possibility weighed on his mind. However, he steeled himself, vowing to remain alert and cunning. His only real chance lay in his own resourcefulness.
He heard two sets of footsteps approach from somewhere beyond the cell door, accompanied by hushed voices. His heart jumped. One of those voices sounded all too familiar—the same man who had seized him in Old Town.
Charles immediately decided to feign unconsciousness. He let his eyelids flutter closed as though still out cold, adopting shallow, measured breaths. His body quivered beneath a thin film of cold sweat, but he forced himself to remain motionless, ignoring the pain in his muscles.
Time crawled by, and eventually, the last sliver of orange daylight shifted to a duller glow, indicating that the sun was nearly gone. Dusk's dim rays slanted through the tiny overhead grate, casting longer shadows across the cell. Charles risked a quick glance at the metal vent in the ceiling. It was far too small to squeeze through, but perhaps he could use that spot to hide, if he could somehow climb up there.
A plan formed in his mind: If he could perch himself in that darkened corner near the ceiling, his captors might assume he had escaped. Then, the moment someone came inside to investigate, he could ambush them, slip out the open door, and attempt a getaway. It was a gamble—one that required a precise moment of confusion—but it was better than sitting there, helpless.
However, there was a major complication: the heavy chains attached to his wrists and ankles. The clanking metal would surely give him away if he moved too much or tried to climb. Every shift of his weight could alert the guards.
Despite that, Charles steeled himself. He began painstakingly drawing the chain taut and threading it over and around his limbs, distributing the slack across his body so it wouldn't rattle so loudly. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he gradually raised his arms and legs, inching them upward. Each movement sent a bolt of agony through his bruised muscles, and he nearly cried out as the iron manacles chafed his wrists and ankles. Still, he persevered.
At last, he managed to climb onto a narrow ledge near the ceiling, clutching the metal grate. His feet and hands pressed flush to the stone walls and corners, melding him into the dim shadows overhead. He forced himself to breathe slowly and quietly, waiting for someone to enter the cell. He prayed that the darkness and his improvised camouflage would buy him enough time to launch a surprise attack.
Minutes stretched into an eternity. No one came. His muscles trembled from the strain; sweat trickled down his brow, and the pain in his shoulders flared, making it more and more difficult to hold his position. A single misstep could send him crashing to the floor. If he gave up now and dropped, any hope of springing a trap would vanish.
And then—footsteps, along with the low murmur of voices, grew louder along the corridor. Two men were drawing near. Charles's heartbeat surged, pounding in his ears. He locked every muscle to remain perfectly still and soundless, teeth clenched so tightly it felt as though they might crack.
A key turned in the lock. The door swung open, and two figures stepped inside, warily scanning the small chamber.
"Where the hell did he go?" one of them barked.
"I thought he'd still be unconscious on the floor," the other responded with a hint of alarm.
"So, what, he escaped somehow?"
"Don't jump to conclusions. Check around carefully."
Charles repressed a victorious grin. This was exactly the reaction he'd counted on.
**Crash!** Without warning, he hurled himself down from the ceiling. The momentum of his body and the chains lent considerable weight. He slammed directly onto the taller guard with a resounding thud, both of them hitting the stone floor in a tangle of limbs and iron links. The guard's head knocked hard against the ground, and he lay there, apparently knocked out cold. However, the second guard recovered swiftly. His hand darted for a weapon—a gleaming sword Charles hadn't realized was within easy reach—its cold steel catching the meager light.
A vicious fight erupted. The chains around Charles's wrists and ankles hampered his movement badly, adding bulk to each shift. Kicks or knees were nearly impossible, and the heavy links threw him off-balance, scraping painfully against his raw skin.
Even so, Charles summoned every ounce of training he possessed. He dodged the man's blade by the narrowest margins, twisting aside with agile spins. Occasionally, he managed to whip the chain around as an improvised defense, hindering the sword's approach.
But the second guard was no novice, either. He pressed in with a flurry of blows—powerful punches and the lethal arc of his blade. More than once, Charles staggered from a strike, blood seeping from a cut on his lip, from a swelling above his brow, from minor wounds on his cheek.
The longer the brawl continued, the more Charles's stamina waned. His chained legs, battered and fatigued, screamed in protest, and the fresh laceration on his calf trickled blood. The pain frayed his focus, letting the guard land more blows.
Yet just when it seemed hopeless, Charles found a fleeting opportunity. The guard left his flank unguarded for the briefest instant. Seizing that moment, Charles lunged in close, wrenching the guard's sword arm backward and throwing him down. With the last of his strength, Charles pinned the man beneath him, using his body weight—and the chain—to restrain him.
"Don't move!" he growled between ragged breaths, pinning the guard's wrist with one hand and wrapping the chain around the man's throat. "Or I'll finish you!"
The guard struggled, choking, until his grip slackened and his eyes glazed with half-conscious surrender. Charles exhaled in a shuddering gasp. He loosened the chain enough to ensure the guard wouldn't suffocate, then gently lowered him to the floor. The man lay there, dazed, breathing shallowly. He certainly wouldn't pose any threat for a while.
Charles's victory was short-lived, however. Another figure suddenly rushed into the cell, shoving Charles so forcefully that he toppled sideways to the floor. Charles gave a pained grunt, staggering to rise again, peering at the newcomer with fierce suspicion.
The young man, supporting the unconscious guard in his arms. His face darkened with anger at the shadowy figure who had attacked his fellow guard. His free hand groped for a fallen sword nearby.
Charles's eyes went wide with recognition, mouth falling open at the impossibility of what he saw. "J—Joseph? How...how are **you** here?"
The newcomer was Joseph, Charles's longtime friend. Joseph stood there in stunned silence, staring at the partially shadowed figure before him, though the voice stirred something familiar in his memory. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he realized the battered figure he'd just fought to restrain was none other than the detective he called friend. Joseph gently laid down the unconscious guard, then turned back to Charles, shock evident across his features.
"I should be the one asking you!" Joseph snapped. "What are you doing here?"
Charles swallowed hard with difficulty, the situation far more complex than he could explain.
"All I know is that these people seized me without warning. I don't even know why," Charles said hoarsely, gesturing at the guards lying on the floor. Then he stared at Joseph with bewildered eyes. "But what about you? Why are you here?"