The door clicked shut behind Haze, the sound echoing through the room. He paused for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the bright light streaming in from the narrow windows high on the walls. Squinting, a faint smirk tugged at his lips.
"Well, isn't this lovely?" he muttered to himself, running a hand through his bluish tousled hair. The air was thick with the scent of koh—sharp yet oddly comforting. It stirred memories he wasn't keen on revisiting.
The man who had led him in, the one with the disconcertingly wide grin—had been disturbingly quiet on the way up. Not that Haze cared for conversation. The silence gave him space to think, but when the man's smile disappeared, replaced by a cold, calculating gaze, Haze couldn't ignore the unsettling feeling that crept up on him.
"Wait here," the man had ordered, his voice taking on a chilling finality. "I'll get the others. Prepare yourself."
"Others, huh?" Haze murmured, a trace of sarcasm sneaking into his tone. He strolled toward a battered wooden bench, boots tapping softly against the floor. The bench creaked under his weight as he flopped down, his body sinking into its worn surface. He draped one arm over the backrest, his eyes wandering up to the ceiling as his mind drifted.
[Prepare myself for what? My death?] He scoffed, shaking his head. No, this wasn't a break. It was time to plan. He needed a way out, a way to survive a mission against twenty men and a ruthless commander. [Hell, there might be more of them.] The secrecy, the lack of intel, the feeling of being treated like a disposable tool, none of it sat right with him.
[What can a few Rokus even do against Fushens?] His mind spun, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. [And these Fushens don't just use magic—they wield it like second nature.]
The blindfolded man's words echoed in his mind: This is your only chance at freedom.
"Freedom, huh," he murmured bitterly, the word tasting like dust on his tongue. It felt distant, like a fairytale meant to keep hope alive. Not that he cared much for hope anymore.
He kicked his legs out, stretching lazily, eyes scanning the room. Weapons. Gear. Crystals. It was a far cry from the rundown facility he knew. For a place that ran on scraps, they sure had an impressive arsenal. Some of the items in here could be worth more than his life ever would ever be to them.
The scent of incense hit him again, sharper now, and with it, a rush of old memories. His mother used to burn this exact kind of koh—"Keeps the bad spirits out," she'd say, her voice firm with a conviction that seemed almost too naive to be true.
[Guess it didn't work on me.] The thought lingered, dry and bitter. His smirk returned, but it didn't reach his eyes.
He ran a hand over his face, exhaling sharply through his nose, the weight of everything closing in. "At this rate, I'm gonna drive myself crazy," he muttered under his breath. His fingers tangled in his hair, then fell away, trailing down to rub at the back of his neck.
Leaning forward, he braced his elbows on his knees, fingers loosely interlaced. His gaze dropped to the floor, the cold, cracked stone beneath him mirroring the heaviness in his chest. It was a stark contrast to the room's artificial warmth, one that offered no comfort.
×××
Back in the prison, the atmosphere was anything but calm.
"Woah! Did you guys see that?" Jingo exclaimed, his voice cutting through the tension. "That man looked so cool!" His eyes sparkled with an almost childlike admiration.
Mark groaned, rubbing his temples as if Jingo's enthusiasm physically pained him. "That shouldn't be the question, you dumbfish! You should be asking why they took him!"
Jingo scoffed, crossing his arms and leaning back. "Who cares? Haze is nothing special. I'm way more interested in that guy's boots. Did you see them? They looked pricey. You think they cost him much?"
Mark blinked, stunned. "Are you serious right now? Boots?"
"Always am," Jingo quipped, grinning.
"Idiot," Mark muttered, shaking his head. But despite his annoyance, even he couldn't deny the curiosity bubbling under his irritation. That man in black had been different—not just in appearance, but in the way he carried himself.
"I haven't seen anyone like him around the facility before. Have you?" Jingo asked, his tone still buzzing with excitement.
Mark paused, his expression changing slightly. "No, I haven't," he admitted, his voice turning more contemplative. "Which makes me wonder why he's here... and then what he did to those chains."
Jingo grinned, a strange, almost manic energy flickering in his eyes. "Do you think they've left us here to die?" he asked suddenly, his voice taking on a teasing lilt as the thought settled in. His earlier excitement hadn't faded; instead, it had morphed into something more unsettling, a twisted curiosity that showed a complete disregard for the danger. "I mean, if they've really forgotten about us... that's pretty funny. Who knew they had so little faith in us?"
Mark couldn't help but smile at the absurdity of it, though he wasn't sure whether to laugh at Jingo's offbeat enthusiasm or the ridiculousness of the question itself. "You wuss," he muttered, shaking his head. "When will you get that damn head of yours in gear?" His smile faded as the weight of the situation settled in, his voice dropping to a more serious tone. "If they were planning to kill us, they wouldn't have even bothered with Haze. Think, Jingo. Use your brain for once."
Ewald, who had been quietly watching their exchange, nodded slightly. Mark had a keen mind, always picking up on details that others overlooked. Jingo, on the other hand, was easily sidetracked by anything flashy or elegant—a trait that made him both entertaining and exasperating.
Yet, despite Mark's confidence, Ewald couldn't shake the feeling that something was on the horizon. He lifted his head, which he'd been resting on his clasped hands, and glanced over at Ghent. The boy sat stiffly, his posture tense and his expression as hard as stone. His eyes were closed, but his entire body exuded a silent fury, as if he were poised to explode at the slightest provocation.
Then, the unmistakable sound of the metal door creaking open sliced through the stillness.
The clink echoed off the walls, making everyone's head snap toward the sound.
"Is it Haze?" Jingo whispered, his voice barely audible.
The door groaned on its hinges, slowly opening wider.