Inside the cave prison, the sound of chain locks chirping echoed through the darkness. Cries and pleading voices drifted between the stone walls—same as always. This wasn't just a prison. It was a mountain carved with over five hundred thousand cave cells, each crammed with more than twenty people. There was never enough space to lie down, never enough air to breathe like a human.
They called it the Blood Cage.
It was divided into three ranks: The Red Yirish—monsters beyond repair. The truly dangerous. The ones Medyline had given up on. The Blue Yirish—still dangerous, still wild, but they had fragments of conscience left. And the Green Yirish—the so-called "lucky ones." Not lucky because they were getting out. No, they were being transferred. To a mental hospital. For life. Or longer. Some say they stay there for thousands of years, if time even moves in places like that.
Me? I don't belong to any of those categories.
I've been here for over five hundred years. Never classified, never re-evaluated. Just thrown in. Accused of a crime I didn't commit. Betrayed—for reasons only God and whoever did it would know. But one thing is certain: the day I step out of this damned place, I'll find whoever put me here… and I'll make them regret it. Deeply. Slowly.
I've been here so long, I've almost forgotten I had a name once. Nobody uses names in the Blood Cage. Just numbers. Me? I'm 289. That's who I've been for centuries.
Sometimes I wonder—what did someone see in me, to accuse me of something so vile they threw me here? I'm not powerful. I've got no connections. I was always the "waste of space." That's what my adopted family called me growing up. They never loved me. Never even saw me as a person. But I know they didn't put me here—they kicked me out long before I landed in this pit.
No family. No friends. Not even middle class. I lived worse than the lowest of the low in Medyline—a place where the unwanted, the stray, and the invisible are tossed aside like scraps.
So yeah...Maybe that's why the smell of blood, sweat, and rot doesn't faze me anymore.
It's not a smell anymore.It's just the air I breathe.
A heavy bell rang—deep and sharp—snapping me out of my thoughts.
Then came the announcement. That same rusty voice crackling through the transmission cell wired to every cave room:"Get yourself to the canteen to eat. If you don't, that's on you. And if we catch anyone fighting, that'll be the last time you use the parts of your body involved in that fight."
The usual.
Come eat. Don't fight. Walk slowly. Don't breathe too loud. Don't exist too hard.
I let out a slow breath of defeat and dragged myself upright. I didn't head out immediately. I stood in my usual corner and waited for the others to leave first. That's been my routine for the past five hundred years.
Yes. Five hundred years.
And in all that time, I've been beaten unconscious more times than I can count—sometimes for walking too fast, or because my chains made too much noise, or because I sneezed. No joke.These people? They're all insane. Completely gone.
I still don't know how I survived this long without losing my mind.
Out of the twenty people in our cell, only two of us wear chains: me and 290. And I'm not talking about little cuffs. I mean heavy chains. I think mine weigh about two kilograms each—or maybe more. One wraps around my waist, then separate chains on both wrists, and two more around my ankles.
But in all the centuries I've been here, I've never spoken to 290. Not once.
He's the cold kind. Stone-faced. Never talks. Never reacts. While I still tried to smile and keep what's left of my sanity, he didn't even bother pretending.
He was the type nobody messed with. Not because he was loud or violent. But because he was silent. Too silent.Nobody dared provoke him. Nobody admired him either. He just existed—like a ghost that couldn't be exorcised.
If he wasn't sitting in that same damned spot, he was cleaning his chains, or eating in silence, or staring at nothing—just lost in his own world. Or maybe there was nothing left inside him to get lost in.
When the last of them shuffled out of the room, I turned to look at 290. Still sitting. He hadn't moved a muscle. Not a twitch. Not a breath too loud.
I waited.
One minute. Two. Five.
Nothing.
I gave up.
It wasn't new. He always stayed back like some shadow pretending not to exist. It's not like he cared—or ever bothered with anyone's business. Why should I expect different today?
I walked out, slow and careful, making sure the chains around my wrists and ankles made as little sound as possible. One wrong clink too loud, and it could be your last. These people were wired differently—like blood and rage were all that kept them moving.
As I passed cave room 467, I saw a fat man getting beaten mercilessly. Fists, kicks, boots. At least five of them were on him, speaking some rough language that I couldn't even place anymore. One of them spat in his face while another laughed and kicked him square in the stomach.
The fat man didn't even beg. Not a word. Just groaned. Maybe he knew there was no use pleading in this place.
Then, out of nowhere, one of them pulled out a jagged iron rod—small, rusted, deadly. In one fluid motion, it went straight into the fat man's neck.
A thick, wet crack echoed down the stone corridor.
He struggled—hands clawing at the air, mouth gasping for something that wasn't there—but it was already over. He collapsed, twitching slightly, and then stilled.
Blood pooled beneath his body, dark and heavy, painting the ground in a slow spiral of red.
The killers? They stepped back, admired their work, nodded in satisfaction… and laughed.
Laughed like they'd just won a prize.
Suddenly, a scream tore through the hallway.
I turned around, heart hammering for a second, and saw a crowd forming. A couple of inmates at first, then more. Not one or two—maybe fifteen or twenty—surrounded the scene, eyes wide, hands clamped over mouths. Some were screaming. Others just stared in horror. Even after centuries in this cursed place, they still weren't used to the killings.
That's when I saw him.
He had stepped out after I did. Always after. Always late, like he was watching… waiting.
But this time, something was different.
There was something in his eyes—barely there, but if you looked close enough, you'd see it.
Fear.
He clamped his hands together, tight—too tight. Trying to keep them from shaking.
But I saw it. I noticed.
Almost everyone else around us was losing their minds—some fainted on the spot, others fell and wet themselves where they stood. The air was thick with panic and the iron scent of fresh blood.
And before I forget—gender doesn't matter here.Boy, girl, man, woman… whatever you are, you can be thrown into a cave full of MEN.That's why most women don't last more than 48 hours in a cell. The system doesn't care. Nothing here does.
A voice rang out from the crowd—sharp, angry, tired."I thought they said no fighting! Do these people ever learn?!"
The people instantly parted, moving aside like water around a rock when they saw who it was.
I smirked and muttered under my breath,"Well… except her."