Five

‡CHAPTER FIVE‡

Third Person

The room was dimly lit, the only source of light coming from a flickering torch mounted near the fireplace. Shadows stretched and twisted over the rough, uneven walls, their jagged texture absorbing the glow like a hungry void. The space was cramped, cluttered with salvaged furniture—which are either made of stone, iron, or a clay. (Woods can't grow underground since there are no sunlight)

The air was thick with the scent of damp stone, iron, and lingering smoke from the forge out back. The low ceiling made the room feel smaller than it was, pressing down like an unseen weight. It wasn't much, but for Claudio, Clint, and Nathan, it was home.

Nathan sat slumped in his chair by the fire, his legs stretched stiffly in front of him, his face lined with exhaustion. Clint stood near the table, arms crossed, his sharp eyes scanning the entrance like he was expecting trouble.

Then the heavy stone door groaned open.

A gust of stale air rushed in as Claudio pushed through, staggering slightly under his burden. His feets scraped against the uneven floor, kicking up dust as he hauled a limp body into the room.

For a moment, neither Clint nor Nathan spoke. Their eyes locked onto the woman in Claudio's arms, their silence stretching into something suffocating. Then, almost at the same time, their gazes darkened.

"What the hell is that?!" Clint exhaled sharply, his brows furrowed as thick judgement and disgust burned into his gaze. Nathan barely shifted but his eyes flickered towards Claudio, and towards to what he's carrying.

"I'll explain it okay, help me clean the table first." Claudio adjusted his grip to the body, huffing as he looked between them.

Neither of them moved, well Nathan can't walk, and Clint has no idea of what's happening.

"Explain. Now." Nathan took one look at her torn clothing, and let another heavy sigh. Nathan's expression was harder to read, but the sharp glint in his eyes spoke volumes. The kind of look that cut deep, filled with unspoken accusations. His fingers clenched slightly against the armrest of his chair, his entire posture stiffening.

"Claudio... What did you do to that woman." Claudio barely had time to open his mouth before Clint's voice lashed through the room like a whip.

"What?" Claudio blinked, his face marked with disbelief. The weight of their judgment crashed down on Claudio like a boulder. His pulse spiked, confusion quickly twisting into outrage.

"Don't what me. Are you out of your goddamn mind?" Clint's voice dripped with revulsion as he motioned toward the woman.

Nathan let out a long, slow breath. It wasn't relief—it was controlled restraint, the kind that came before something snapped. His gaze flicked from Claudio to the unconscious woman, then back again, his stare cold and unwavering.

"Tell me... That you didn't just bring that in here after doing something you can't take back." Nathan said, his voice calm.. Too calm..

"Are you fucking serious?" Claudio's voice cracked with disbelief.

"You think I—" He stopped, dragging a hand down his face as a bitter laugh escaped him.

"Oh, come on. You know me."

"We thought we did." Nathan's expression didn't change.

Claudio felt something hot coil in his chest, a mix of frustration and something dangerously close to hurt. But he didn't have time for that—not when the woman in his arms was still barely breathing.

"You sick bastard." Clint said, his voice laced with disgust.

"I swear to Go-" Claudio clenched his jaw.

Nathan lifted a hand, silencing both of them with a simple gesture. Then, with a slow exhale, he waved vaguely toward the carved stone table in the center of the room.

"Put her there."

Claudio trudged forward, his arms aching, and carefully lowered the woman onto the table. Her arms dangled lifelessly at her sides, fingers twitching slightly. Her face was damp with sweat, strands of hair clinging to her skin. She was pale—too pale. Nathan's sharp gaze raked over her, lingering on the torn fabric of her sleeves, the smudges of dried blood on her skin. He didn't say anything, but Claudio felt the way his uncle's suspicion lingered.

Clint muttered something under his breath. He let out a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head.

"Oh, shut the hell up." Claudio scowled.

Claudio turned back toward the entrance. The stone door loomed, standing crack open like a broken jaw. Outside, the neighborhood stretched into darkness, silent for now. But that wouldn't last. He needed to seal them off.

Gritting his teeth, Claudio dug his feet into the ground and pushed harder. The stone grumbled, dragging against the earth with a deep, grinding roar that vibrated through his ribs. His muscles strained, fire licking up his arms as he forced the heavy door inch by inch. Dust shook loose from the edges, the weight of it sinking into his bones.

Finally, with one last shove, the stone slammed into place. The impact sent a dull shake through the house.

Claudio leaned against the door, exhaling hard. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of sweat, iron, and moist stone. The walls—bumpy and roughly carved—absorbed the flickering glow of a solitary torch mounted near the fireplace. Its dim light stretched across the room, casting restless shadows over the floor and walls, making the space feel smaller than it was.

"Explain." Nathan finally spoke, voice steady but laced with steel.

"I was at the crematorium, delivering coals. Saw her lying there, thought she was dead—fancy dress, expensive-looking. Figured I'd, uh… you know." Claudio huffed, rubbing his face before gesturing vaguely toward the woman.

"You tried to rob a corpse." Clint's stare turned sharper.

"Yeah, but she wasn't actually dead... When I checked her sleeve, she grabbed me, and kept mumbling something." Claudio shot back.

"If you're telling the truth.... Then why bring her here, why not bring her to a medical facility." Nathan exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled.

"I got scared... I thought the government is behind her death, but she actually survived, so I got scared that if I brought her to a hospital they'll recognize her...Then kill her and then kill me." His voice lowered, like he's embarrassed to admit something.

A tense silence followed. Nathan exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples as doubt gnawed at him.

"And you think it's better to bring her here? What if she got tracked down by them? We will get killed too." Clint muttered, as he shifted uncomfortably, arms crossed, but his grip had loosened.

"What was I supposed to do? Let her die there knowing she can be saved, you think my conscience can take that?" Claudio bristled.

The room fell into a heavy silence, thick with unspoken doubts. The three men stayed motionless, their breaths slow, measured—as if any sudden movement might shatter the fragile air between them. The weight of their choices settled in, pressing against their chests like an unseen hand. Shelter meant defiance—of the law, of self-preservation. If they were caught, they would share her fate. Yet turning her away felt just as damning, as if condemning a man to death with their own hands.

****

MARTINA

A cold, piercing agony tears through my abdomen, a deep, searing pain that drowns out every other sensation. It's not just the wound—it's the unbearable feeling of my own body struggling against itself, muscles convulsing, twitching, as if trying to expel the agony but failing. I can feel the warmth of my blood spilling out, soaking my clothes, pooling beneath me. And yet, I'm so cold. My fingers tremble, useless, unable to hold on to anything.

I try to open my eyes, but they refuse to obey. Heavy. Sealed shut as if the darkness has claimed them. My breath stutters, shallow and ragged, each inhale sending another sharp tremor through my body. It's hard to tell if the cold is from blood loss or something else—something deeper, something final.

I'm not alone. I can feel it. The presence lingers beside me, close enough that I should be able to see them—if only I could lift my eyelids. My ears barely register the sound of muffled voices, warped and distant, like they're coming from underwater. I can't make out the words, only the rhythm, the weight of them pressing into the thick haze clouding my mind.

Friend? Enemy? I don't know. I can't ask. I can't even move.

Close. Too close.

The presence lingers just beside me, unseen but undeniable. There's a long, suffocating pause—long enough for me to hear the slow, deliberate inhale. The air shifts, the warmth of their breath ghosting against my skin. My heartbeat pounds against my ribs, not from life but from something else—something deeper.

The pain pulses with my heartbeat, a slow, throbbing rhythm, as if my own body is reminding me that I'm still here. Still alive. But for how much longer?

Then, in the silence, a voice. Low. Measured. Unshaken.

.

.

.

.

.

A shiver cuts through me—not from the cold, not from the pain, but from something far more unsettling. The weight of those words coils around my fading consciousness, pressing into me, refusing to let go.

"Wake up, Martina... You're not done yet."