— Ten minutes earlier —
Holden's boots scraped against concrete as he dragged the intruder's limp body. The chains binding the unconscious form clinked with each labored step, leaving a faint trail of blood smears on the floor. He headed toward a room far from the refrigerated storage area, stopping before a cell encased with rust-flecked iron bars.
With a grunt, he heaved the body across the threshold, the dull thud of flesh meeting concrete echoing in the sparse chamber. The cell door creaked shut on ancient hinges, the lock engaging with a definitive click.
Holden fished inside his coat pocket, retrieving an object that caught the dim light. It was a channel stone—an oval of a polished alabaster-like material, its surface etched with intricate grooves that pulsed faintly. At its center lay a thumb-sized depression, worn smooth from years of use. The stone represented cutting-edge communication technology, as valuable as it was rare.
He pressed his calloused thumb against the indentation and cleared his throat. "I would like to speak to Overseer Mahadai."
The stone vibrated against his palm, emitting mechanical whirs and clicks that reminded him of insects trapped in a jar. After several seconds of mechanical searching, the noise stabilized into a connection.
"Who am I speaking to?" The voice that emanated from the stone was gravelly and distorted, like someone speaking through layers of thick cloth.
"Holden, my Lord. I'm an inspector currently overseeing the organ storage in Khardouth province." Holden's forehead creased with tension, beads of sweat forming at his hairline.
"Ahh! Holden!" The voice brightened instantly. "Your reputation precedes you! Reliable as ever, I'm told!"
Such giddy acting. He won't stay this cheerful for long, Holden thought, swallowing hard before continuing.
"I have a serious matter requiring your attention, my Lord. Your wisdom is needed urgently."
Silence stretched across the connection before Mahadai spoke again, all warmth vanished from his tone. "Go on."
"I encountered an intruder in the lowest level of organ storage," Holden said, pacing before the cell. "A boy, perhaps sixteen. He was severely wounded, attempting to climb to the upper levels. I questioned how he'd breached our security. The scarecrows guarding the entrance remained undisturbed—he couldn't have overpowered them."
Holden paused, his throat tightening. Reporting this violated every instinct of self-preservation, but concealing it would mean consequences far worse.
"The boy claims he entered through the farmhouse," he continued, lowering his voice. "Through the central door that connects to the organ farm."
"I see." Mahadai's voice had dropped to a dangerous whisper. "So you're saying..."
"He knows of the interior of the organ farm. Otherwise he wouldn't know about the peculiar door placement." Holden finished Mahadai's sentence. "And how he entered the organ farm in the first place... is still a mystery."
A violent crash erupted from the stone—the unmistakable sound of a fist connecting with wood.
"Are you absolutely certain?" Mahadai hissed.
Ah. He doubts me. Holden suppressed a chuckle. "No, my lord, my assessment is certain. If he were to enter the lower levels, he would have had to get past the scarecrows, which he did not."
"What about the transfer personnel? Did no one notice an intruder wandering through our most sensitive facility?" Irritation edged Mahadai's voice. "I find this difficult to believe, Holden. Elaborate."
Holden nodded slightly. "Yes, my lord. The beast tamer was the only one working the transfers at the time. He didn't notice his presence either."
"Incompetence!" Mahadai spat. "I'll have his head. In fact, I'll replace the entire staff. They've failed in their primary duty to safeguard our merchandise. Inform them of my decision."
"Understood."
"As for this boy..." Mahadai's voice turned silky with menace. "Ensure he doesn't escape. Should he slip away, your life is forfeit—as are the lives of your family. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, my Lord. Be assured. I will watch over him at all costs... I eagerly await your arrival."
The connection terminated with a harsh click. Holden released a ragged sigh, turning toward the cell.
The boy was awake now, watching him with eyes of startling crimson—not the dull red-brown of illness, but vivid as fresh blood, seeming to generate their own inner light. Black hair plastered to his forehead, slick with perspiration and dried blood. Around those extraordinary eyes, residue from Holden's ink attack had dried in streaks, creating the illusion of black tears trailing down his cheeks.
What a peculiar creature, Holden thought, studying the silent prisoner. Neither seemed inclined to speak. Checking the lock once more, Holden turned and left the room, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.
He needed to inspect the organ farm himself. Whatever disturbance had allowed this intrusion demanded his immediate attention.
----
The echo of the man's footsteps dissolved into nothingness, leaving Hillel alone with the suffocating weight of silence. All he could hear was the frantic drumming of his own heart and the rasp of breath through his parched throat. He slumped against the damp stone wall, each inhale sending jolts of pain through his ribcage.
What do I do now? The thought circled his mind like a trapped bird. I'm caged in some godforsaken hole... and I don't even know why.
He tested his restraints, muscles tensing against cold metal. Heavy iron cuffs gouged into the tender flesh of his wrists and ankles, already rubbed raw from struggling. The connecting chains were cruelly short, forcing his hands into an awkward proximity while an additional loop bound them together even more tightly. When he attempted to wrench his wrists apart, the metal edges sliced deeper into his skin.
A hiss of pain escaped through clenched teeth. Alright, message received! Won't be trying that brilliance again.
Hillel drew several deep breaths, willing his racing pulse to slow. He tried to flex the fingers of his right hand. Nothing responded—not even a twitch. A deadening numbness radiated from his shoulder downward, as though that entire side of his body belonged to someone else. Twisting awkwardly against the wall, he craned his neck to examine the damage. His sleeve hung in tatters near the shoulder, the exposed skin beneath stained an unnatural, glistening black.
That man did this to me, he realized. That blast of... ink? Some kind of weapon? Whatever it was, the impact had rendered his arm completely useless, hanging limp like meat on a butcher's hook.
Right. So that's one arm down. Hands and feet chained. Cell bars thick as my wrist. Lock that probably hasn't opened in years but still looks fortress-strong...
His eyes darted around the cramped space, cataloging details with desperate precision. The stone walls wept with moisture, patches of mold flourishing in the corners. The floor beneath him was a canvas of filth—ancient grime layered with fresher stains of crimson that trailed from his own body.
Bleeding worse than I thought. That's... not ideal.
The cell was barren—no loose stones, no convenient tools, not even a moldy scrap of bedding he might repurpose. The stark reality of his situation tightened around him like another set of chains.
The phantom hand, he thought suddenly. It's the only way. But doubt crept in immediately. Could he even command that mysterious power when his numb right arm refused to respond?
With a growl of determination, he leveraged his good arm against the wall and pushed himself upright. The effort sent tremors through his muscles, and cold sweat beaded on his forehead. Chains rattled mockingly with each labored movement, echoing through the chamber like cynical laughter.
Once standing, he hopped awkwardly toward the bars adjacent to the cell door. His breathing came in sharp bursts, each movement awakening new pains across his battered body. When he collided with the iron bars, they remained stubbornly solid—no promising creak or give that might suggest weakness.
Turning clumsily, he pressed his back against the cold metal and extended his good arm to touch the cell door. His fingers traced every inch they could reach—along the hinges, across the lock mechanism, searching for any flaw or weakness in the ancient ironwork.
Nothing. Not a single damn weakness. Despair threatened to overwhelm him. Is this how it ends? Trapped in some dungeon for reasons I'll never understand?
No. He refused to accept defeat. Not yet. Not when he still had breath in his lungs and blood in his veins. There had to be a way—he just hadn't found it.
He shuffled back to the wall and slid down, legs finally giving way beneath him. His back scraped against the rough stone as he descended, but he barely registered the new pain among so many others. A ragged sigh escaped his lips as his body surrendered momentarily to exhaustion.
Then, like a torch suddenly kindled in a darkened room, an idea blazed to life within his mind.