The female figure slowly made her way out of the crowd, eyes sharp, steps slow, deliberate. She crossed her arms over her chest like someone who'd seen this scene too many times to care—but not enough to walk away.
The group of men in the room turned at the sound of her boots brushing the floor. Their faces twisted into brief sneers, some huffed and shook their heads, but none dared speak. One after another, they passed her, brushing their shoulders against hers on purpose. A silent show of disrespect.
She didn't flinch. She didn't move. She rolled her eyes like they were flies buzzing too close. When the last one passed, she walked forward and stopped beside the dead body of the fatty, blood still pooling beneath his neck.
She crouched.
For a moment, she stared at him blankly. As if trying to figure out if he deserved it, or maybe if he could've survived had he done something differently. Her hand reached out, fingers lightly touching the blood-soaked iron rod. She raised it, observed it under the faint red lighting of the cave tunnels. Then, without a word, she dropped it with a clang beside the corpse.
"Idiots," she muttered.
She stood and turned—to see 290. He was still standing at the edge of the crowd, expression unreadable. His chains barely made a sound, but his eyes... they lingered on the girl.
Anthom watched from a distance, his brow furrowed. Not because of the corpse, not because of the murder—those were daily routines in the Blood Cage—but because 290 was looking at someone. Really looking.
290 never looked at anyone. Never even blinked in anyone's direction. But now, something about that girl had him standing still longer than usual.
Anthom leaned against the damp cave wall and muttered under his breath, "What in Medyline's frozen core is going on now?"
He paused, watching 290 from the corner of his eye.
"I mean… he does look at people sometimes," Anthom added in a quieter mumble, "but his eye is literally—whatever."
Soon enough, the sharp stomps of metal boots echoed through the corridors. Guards marched in with their dull red armor and blank stares. They dispersed the crowd with short barks and shoved a few stragglers aside. Two of them dragged the fatty's body away like it was nothing but a broken chair.
The rod clattered behind them.
They always said "No fighting." But no one enforced it. No one really cared. Every single day, hundreds of bodies dropped dead here—and yet thousands of prisoners were dragged in to replace them.
Less death rate than birth rate in this hellhole. That's the math they liked.
Anthom shook his head slowly and fell in line behind the crowd heading toward the canteen. His chains clinked lightly with every step, but he kept his pace slow and cautious. The lunch went as smoothly as most days—if you ignored the blood, tension, and the smell of sweat so thick it could choke a goat.
Afterward, they returned to their cave units.
Same walk, same shuffle, same airless silence.
This was their routine.
Soon, the red lights dimmed a few shades lower—signaling evening. Time for sleep. Or whatever version of rest they were allowed in this prison of monsters.
Anthom reached his corner—his assigned patch of cold, uneven ground. He squatted carefully, then wrapped his arms around his knees and rested his head down. Just to relax. Just to pretend he was somewhere else for a few minutes.
But then he heard voices.
"So who do you think is going to the experimental units tomorrow?" 201 asked lazily, his voice bouncing off the wet stone.
"Probably room 255," another replied. "That room's full of crazy people... and sexy ladies."
They all burst into laughter, dark and hollow.
The joke faded. The voices blurred.
Anthom's mind drifted. He was slipping away into a quieter place. But before he could sink too far, something slammed hard against his back—enough to knock the air out of him.
He winced sharply and looked up.
"What?" he gasped, confused.
289 stood over him, his lips twisted in a cruel grin.
"You really are brave," he sneered. "You dare ignore us?"
The vice-captain of the Crazy Unit.
Deadly eyes. Dangerous hands.
"S-Sorry boss," Anthom stammered with a quick, nervous smile. "I didn't hear you—"
But before he could finish, the punches began.
They hit him. Kicked him. Slammed him down. Over and over. And the worst part?
Anthom didn't scream. Not once.
He just winced. Gritted his teeth. Curled in on himself.
The beatings were loud enough that mates from neighboring units came to their doorways to watch. Faces lined the small openings in the stone walls. Blank stares. Some amused. Some indifferent. No one stopped them.
Anthom's unit was known for being a little... different. A little more brutal.
The beating didn't stop for a while.
But someone saw it all.
He was sitting not far away, knees up, arms wrapped around his legs. His eyes were fixed—staring at Anthom, bloodied and bruised on the ground.
His hands trembled slightly.
And when the blood started dripping down Anthom's face, something in 290 twitched.
His eyes darkened.
His head dropped again—to avoid looking. To hide the shaking.
The others, satisfied, stretched their bones and chuckled. As they walked past, one of them grabbed Anthom by the arm and dragged his limp, beaten body to the side like moving a sack of waste out of the hallway.
No words. No remorse.
Just another day.
Once the show was over, the crowd at the room doors dispersed like smoke.
Whenever others were beaten, they screamed. Kicked. Fought back in fear. But when it was Anthom? No one did anything.
Because for centuries… they had gotten used to it.
Others had died from the beatings.But he didn't.He was always fine.Always.
Until now.
290 looked up again. Anthom's body lay crumpled against the stone like an abandoned coat.
Unmoving.
His chest didn't rise.
Fear—real, raw fear—crept into 290's eyes.
No, no, no… he thought.He had to get out of here.He had to leave before four days passed.
Because in four days, if he was still here—he would be dead.
Without warning, 290 stood up, chains rattling around his legs and wrists like the tolling of warning bells. He stumbled toward the iron-barred door and gripped it with shaking hands.
"GET ME OUT OF HERE!" he screamed, his voice cutting like a knife.
Other units stirred. Prisoners lifted their heads, eyes blinking in confusion. Some rose to their feet.
"GET ME OUT OF HERE!" 290 continued, louder, more desperate, rattling the door violently. "I DON'T WANT TO BE HERE!"
The guards marched toward the noise, their boots echoing sharply on the stone floor.
"Keep quiet, 290!" one of them snapped. "Do you want to die tonight?"
"Go back inside and shut your damn mouth."
But he didn't stop. He kept shaking the door like a man possessed.
"GET ME OUT! I DON'T WANT TO BE HERE!"
"You can't leave the Blood Cage," another guard barked.
But 290 interrupted, yelling over them with a voice full of trembling dread.
"WHO SAID I WANT TO LEAVE THE BLOOD CAGE?!""Just let me leave this unit—just for five days! Just five! That's all I ask!"
Murmurs rippled through the other cells."What the hell is wrong with him?""Has he snapped?""I think he's lost it.""Who wouldn't?"
"Shut it," the guard snapped. "You're not going anywhere. You'll stay in your cell!"
But 290 suddenly grabbed the guard by the vest, his eyes wild.
"Get me the Warden Captain! I need to see him—he knows me! Just get me the Warden!"
His voice cracked as he begged. It wasn't just fear. It was terror. The kind that clung to your bones.
Somewhere deep inside the Blood Cage...In the elite unit—where the real monsters lived, the Powerhouse Cells—an elderly man stood in a sleek black office surrounded by reports and digital files.
He paused mid-conversation as a buzzing call came in.
He answered.
A voice on the other end:"289 has been beaten to unconsciousness again. And 290 is—"
"What did he say?" the elderly man asked, eyes narrowing.
"He said… he wants out of the unit. Begged to leave. Said he'd die in four days—"
The voice stopped suddenly.
The old man frowned. "Hey. You there?"
Only silence.
Then, heavy breathing. A rustle. Then—
"Sir... the situation has changed."
Before he could ask what that meant, a young officer barged into the office, panting and soaked in red.
"Sir! We have a problem!"
"What is it?" the elderly man asked sharply.
"It's raining, sir."
The man blinked. "What?"
The officer hesitated.
"It's raining."
The Warden narrowed his eyes. "Are you—are you stupid? Since when is rain a problem? And you—you look like a rejected vampire with a nosebleed! Speak properly before I toss you into—"
"It's not just rain, sir—" the officer interrupted, trembling."It's BLOOD. Blood rain! It's raining blood!"
The room went still.
Then, the voice on the phone came alive again:"Sir! Sir! The entire eastern quadrant of prisoners are screaming—shouting to be released. They're panicking. Making noise. Rioting."
"And… one of them has broken out."
A pause.
"FUCK!" the old man barked, slamming the desk.
He turned with fiery eyes.
"Who the hell beat 289 to unconsciousness?!"