The room felt stifling, charged with discomfort. Soft shuffles of movement disrupted the monotony, accompanied by the occasional groan of weary bodies. Haze sat quietly among them, his head resting against the wall, eyes half-closed but his mind far from at ease.
His thoughts swirled like a tempest, chaotic and relentless. Ever since his encounter with Kade, an unsettling feeling had taken root inside him. It wasn't the kind of fear that constricted your chest or made you sweat; it was something deeper, more elusive. His mind was a tangled web of overlapping questions and fragmented ideas—juxtaposed thoughts without clarity. He couldn't even identify what was troubling him, only that something was.
He tried to shake it off, forcing himself to concentrate on the here and now, but the unease remained, as persistent as a shadow. It hadn't been like this right after they connected. Back then, he had felt a sense of clarity and purpose, even if it was fleeting. But now, this tugging sensation troubled him, like an itch he couldn't scratch.
Every so often, Haze let his gaze drift toward the others in the room. Ewald was in his usual hunched position, arms tightly wrapped around his knees. Haze couldn't quite read what the boy was thinking, but he didn't have to. He'd come to understand Ewald better than anyone else in their situation. Despite his reserved nature, Ewald had a good heart—better than his. He was sure of that.
Ghent, on the other hand, appeared as though the weight of the world had settled heavily on his shoulders, sapping every bit of strength he had left. His face was pale, looking ghostly in the dim light, and his arms hung limply at his sides, as if even the thought of moving them required too much effort. He resembled less a person and more a discarded marionette—its strings severed, its purpose forgotten.
[Ghent really can't handle pressure.] he thought, a notion that sparked a brief, fleeting smirk. It wasn't born from malice but rather an instinctive response to the absurdity of their predicament. Here they all were, ensnared in this difficult reality, and yet Ghent somehow managed to stand out as the most broken among them.
Jingo, ever the restless spirit, was crouched by the barred window, his fingers reaching through the narrow gap in a futile attempt to grasp the blades of grass swaying just out of reach below. To anyone else, his antics might have appeared utterly pointless, a mere display of frustration, but Haze understood the deeper significance behind them. For Jingo, this was more than just a whimsical gesture; it was his way of clinging to some semblance of normalcy, however fragile it might be, in a world that felt increasingly chaotic.
In stark contrast, Mark, the biggest among them, embodied a picture of calm. His broad frame leaned against the far wall, arms crossed firmly over his chest, exuding an air of quiet strength. The unnerving stillness that surrounded him was a striking departure from the earlier bursts of anger he had displayed. Haze found himself pondering the nature of Mark's silence; was it a sign of self-restraint, a method of keeping his emotions in check, or was it something far more ominous lurking beneath the surface? Either way, it unsettled him.
The stillness of the room shattered as the sound of clinking chains echoed from beyond the iron door. Haze, however, was unperturbed by the noise. He had briefly wondered about its source, but his exhaustion dulled his curiosity. To him, it was just another monotonous disruption in their dreary existence. Yet, the sound continued, persistent and sharp, slicing through the silence with a deliberate rhythm that felt almost intrusive.
After a short moment, the clanging from the heavy metal door subsided. Then, with a slow creak, it opened.
"Good day, boys" said the voice, grinning ominously, deep but crisp, thick with pretense and a touch of wickedness.
The moment the words left his mouth, it was as though the air itself carried a command. Without thinking, their bodies obeyed, turning to him in perfect sync as if guided by an invisible thread.
Haze felt it first—a crushing weight in the air that pressed against his senses. It wasn't just the voice. No, the voice was merely a herald to the presence behind it. Strong wasn't the word; this was something else entirely.
The figure stepped into view, his presence both commanding and intentional. Although young, likely in his mid-twenties, he exuded a sense of calm authority. His long black coat, tailored flawlessly, fell well past his knees and was fastened with seven precisely placed buttons. The coat's design revealed its subtle ingenuity as he stood to address them—his right hand casually tucked inside while his left hung freely at his side, adorned with a sleek black glove. This contrast highlighted the coat's concealed functionality: two discreet horizontal slits at his sides, perfectly situated near the arms, allowed for this dual stance, adding an understated layer of practicality to his polished aesthetic.
Beneath the coat, his inner garment of bone-white fabric created a striking contrast. This piece featured four distinct high-standing collars—one covering his mouth and nose, another framing the sides, one snug at his neckline, and another draping behind his neck, hiding the ponytail of jet-black hair that flowed down his back. His trousers were equally sophisticated, flowing yet fitted, complemented by meticulously crafted black shoes that balanced elegance with practicality, ensuring ease of movement. A thick black blindfold obscured his eyes, enhancing the aura of mysterious authority that surrounded him.
"Silence, is it?" the man mused, a sly grin creeping across his face. "That's rather impolite."
His voice carried a chilling authority, one that demanded attention even in their worn-down state. He stepped further into the room, the sound of his boots echoing ominously.
"All five of you have been given a chance," he continued, his tone calm but edged with malice. "An opportunity to earn your freedom and live a normal life here... again."
He paused, turning his head toward Haze. Despite the blindfold, it felt as though the man was staring directly at him, peeling away every layer of pretense.
"You," the man said, his smile fading into something more sinister. "The one who carries the burden of pain. Step forward.