Inside the cold, dim cell, Foden sat slumped against the wall, his left arm throbbing where the bite had broken skin, a dull ache spreading with each heartbeat.
The harsh fluorescent light flickered overhead, casting long shadows that danced like ghosts. Silence pressed down on him—heavy, suffocating—broken only by distant footsteps echoing down the sterile corridor.
A guard appeared at the door, his face unreadable, eyes cold and calculating. He stepped inside, pacing slowly before stopping just out of Foden's reach.
"You're becoming a problem," the guard said, voice low but laced with menace. "You think you're some kind of hero? A martyr? You're just a stubborn fool. Give up. Break. It's easier that way."
Foden's glare burned through the dimness, his jaw tight but unyielding. "Your threats don't scare me. You think your words can break what's already broken?"
The guard's lips curled into a cruel smile, stepping closer. "Everyone falls eventually. Even the strongest have their breaking point."
But Foden didn't flinch, didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he stared back with icy resolve. "Not me. Not yet."
The guard's smile faltered, and with a sharp nod, he turned and left, the sound of his footsteps fading into silence once more.
Then, heavy footsteps echoed in the corridor—measured, deliberate, carrying the weight of authority. Foden's eyes narrowed as the unmistakable silhouette of the chief appeared at the end of the hall, his presence filling the space like a storm about to break.
Foden's silent vow hardened further. The fight was far from over.
The guard gave Foden one last cold look before exiting the cell, the heavy door sliding shut behind him with a final, echoing clang. The corridor fell silent once more—except for the slow, purposeful footsteps advancing toward the cell.
Foden's eyes fixed on the approaching figure. The chief emerged from the shadows, his towering frame framed by harsh light, a deep scar slicing across his face, his eye patch gleaming ominously. Every step he took was a statement—authority carved in muscle and menace.
The heavy door slid open again, the chief stepping inside without hesitation, his gaze locking with Foden's.
"Still defiant," the chief said, voice gravelly but calm, laced with an undercurrent of dark amusement.
Foden lifted his chin, meeting the gaze. "I'm not the one who's broken."
The chief's face darkened for a moment, then his voice softened just enough to carry the weight of regret. "I'm sorry about Ivy."
Foden's nostrils flared, and without hesitation, he spat straight at the chief's feet.
The chief's eyes narrowed dangerously. "You'll never learn."
He took a step closer, voice dropping to a harsh growl. "You and your reckless decisions—when you ordered them to leave the bunker the moment you found that child, you risked everything. The entire resistance could have been wiped out in a heartbeat."
Without warning, the chief slammed his head forward, colliding with Foden's with brutal force. The impact sent a shockwave through both men, a raw, primal display of dominance.
Foden staggered back, blood trickling from his nose, but his eyes burned fiercer than ever. The chief's lips curled into a grim smile.
"Stay down," he hissed, voice cold as steel. "Or be crushed beneath the weight of your own defiance."
But Foden's chest rose and fell with steady breaths. Though bruised and bleeding, his spirit remained unbroken—a spark in the dark waiting to ignite.
The heavy steel door clanged shut behind the chief, echoing down the cold, dimly lit corridor. His footsteps resonated with authority, each step measured and deliberate as he made his way toward the stark confines of his office.
The silence around him felt suffocating—an oppressive reminder of the fragile line they all walked. The world outside was shifting, unstable, and the child they'd found was a wild card no one fully understood.
His mind churned, dark thoughts swirling beneath the surface as he pushed open the heavy door to his office. The room was sparse, save for the long steel table and the flickering holo-map of the city projected against the wall.
The chief stood motionless for a moment, eyes shadowed beneath his brow. His hand instinctively reached up to touch the deep scar that cut across his face—a permanent reminder of battles won and lost.
"Galvanos," he whispered, voice rough with a mixture of curiosity and fear. "A child born into a world where right and wrong have twisted beyond recognition. But what does he truly carry? What seed lies dormant in his blood?"
He paced slowly, fingers brushing over the cold metal of the table, tracing unseen paths like a commander mapping a future he both craved and dreaded.
"This child… he could be a beacon of hope… or the harbinger of our destruction. A weapon shaped by forces unseen, a symbol that could rally the masses or fracture what little remains of our resistance."
His eyes hardened as he stared into the flickering map, the glowing points of light marking pockets of life and rebellion in a fractured city.
"We cannot afford mistakes. Not now. Not with him in our hands."
The chief exhaled sharply, tension coiling in his shoulders. The weight of leadership pressed down, heavier than ever.
"Galvanos will change everything. And when the time comes, we will need to be ready—because the world is watching, and so am I."