The world blurred into darkness as Elian was dragged down endless stone corridors, the air growing colder, heavier, each step sinking him deeper into the Order's hidden underbelly.
At last, the guards stopped before a rusted iron door.
One slammed a key into the lock.
The door creaked open — and the stench hit Elian like a fist.
Sweat. Blood. Fear.
They hurled him inside like garbage.
The door slammed shut.
The key turned.
Silence.
---
The cell was no bigger than a closet.
A single dim lightbulb swung from the ceiling, buzzing faintly, casting a sickly yellow glow over cracked concrete walls.
There were no windows.
No toilet.
No bed.
Only a small metal bucket in the corner — and heavy chains bolted to the wall.
The floor was damp and cold against Elian's bare skin.
Above the door, carved into the stone, were two words that made his stomach turn:
> "Re-education Chamber."
---
Hours passed.
Or maybe days.
Time had no meaning here.
When the door finally opened again, Elian squinted against the sudden light.
A figure stepped inside.
He wasn't part of the Order.
Not dressed in the sleek suits or crimson cloaks.
No, this man wore tattered jeans and a black T-shirt.
His hair was messy, his hands calloused.
He looked like someone who had been plucked straight from the streets — or from a battlefield.
His name was Marcus Vane.
And he was here to break Elian.
"Up," Marcus growled.
Elian stayed on the floor.
He had no strength left to stand.
Marcus didn't ask again.
The toe of his boot slammed into Elian's ribs, a brutal, efficient kick that left him gasping.
"Rule number one," Marcus said, crouching down to meet Elian's watering eyes. "There's no such thing as mercy here. There's obedience... or death."
He yanked Elian up by his collar and dragged him out of the cell.
---
What followed was not training.
It was destruction.
Marcus beat him.
Starved him.
Forced him to fight other broken souls like himself — desperate, brutal, merciless.
They made him memorize codes, survival tactics, kill moves.
They dumped him in ice-cold water tanks and left him chained until his body went numb.
They made him stay awake for days, hallucinating, begging, screaming.
Whenever he faltered, Marcus was there.
Not with comfort.
But with fists.
With lashes.
With cruel smiles.
"This is what you asked for," Marcus would whisper. "You wanted to be different. Special. This is the price."
---
And yet... through it all... something in Elian refused to die.
A stubborn ember inside him, burning low but fierce.
He repeated to himself, again and again, through cracked lips:
> "I'm not like them."
> "I'm not like them."
> "I'm not like them."
He clung to every memory of Professor Finch, of Mia's laughter, of the faint dreams he still dared to hold — a future where he was free.
Even as his body broke, his spirit curled tighter, protecting that fragile spark.
---
One night, after a particularly savage session, Marcus tossed Elian back into his cell like a ragdoll.
Before leaving, he crouched beside him again.
This time, his voice was almost... gentler.
Almost.
"You're tougher than you look, kid," Marcus said, lighting a cigarette and exhaling smoke into the stale air.
"But listen close."
He leaned in.
"You think surviving here makes you strong? Nah. It just makes you useful. Disposable."
He flicked ash onto Elian's chest.
"And when they're done with you... they'll gut you like a pig and smile while they do it."
He stood up, cracking his knuckles.
"Better start planning your own funeral, little lamb."
The door slammed shut again.
Elian lay there, bleeding, broken — and smiling.
Because for the first time in days...
He was planning something else.
Not his funeral.
His escape.