Chapter 11

The first thing Liam learned about this place was that time didn't exist. Not in any way that mattered. There were no windows, no clocks, nothing to mark the passage of hours except the flickering overhead lights that dimmed and brightened in an irregular cycle. Whether they were meant to simulate day and night or were just another broken part of this decayed prison, he couldn't tell.

The cages stood in rigid formation, a perfect 5x5 grid of rusted cages of metal, each one large enough to fit a person but small enough to strip away any illusion of comfort. The floors were cold, the air stale, laced with the ever-present scent of rust and sweat. Movement was minimal—most people sat curled up in corners, their bodies draped in exhaustion, their gazes hollowed out by days, weeks, maybe even months of captivity.

Some had given up speaking altogether. Others whispered in hushed voices, barely loud enough to carry over the constant hum of unseen machinery. There was a system here, an unspoken rhythm among the prisoners.

Liam's eyes swept over the faces around him. A few he had already come to recognize in his short time here.

Behind Liam, there was Felix, the wiry man with an easy smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes. He was the closest thing to a joker the prisoners had, but even his humor had an edge to it. A deflection. His hands were always moving—fidgeting, tapping, tracing invisible shapes against the bars as if trying to map out some grand escape plan no one else could see.

To his right, there was Garrick the burly man, across from him of course Ashton, and then down to the left the girl with the dark piercing eyes Mara. 

Then there were the ones no one spoke to. The ones who kept to themselves, whose eyes never met anyone else's. A woman with a jagged scar running from her temple to her jaw, her gaze sharp, predatory. A boy with shaggy hair who always sat with his back to the bars, as if he couldn't bear to see the rest of them. 

The guards were another presence entirely. Unlike the prisoners, they moved with purpose. They never spoke. Not to the prisoners, not to each other. They moved in pairs, patrolling the perimeter, watching, waiting. The only time they interacted with the captives was during food distribution—if it could even be called that. Twice a day, trays of cold, unidentifiable slop were slid through narrow openings at the base of each cage. No utensils. No conversation. Just the scrape of metal against metal and the distant sound of someone dry heaving after forcing themselves to eat.

Daily life—if it could even be called that—was a cycle of waiting. Waiting for food, waiting for sleep, waiting for something, anything, to change. Some prisoners tried to keep track of time by counting meals, and by noting the patterns in the guards' patrols. Others simply drifted, their minds retreating into themselves, detaching from the reality of their confinement.

Conversations were rare but precious. A whispered exchange between neighboring cages, a brief moment of connection before silence swallowed everything again. Liam had spoken to a few people, but he still felt like an outsider, like someone who had been dropped into a story already well in motion.

He had spent the first few days thinking of escape, trying to analyze weaknesses in the guards' patterns, searching for anything that could be used as a tool or weapon. But the more he watched, the more he understood—there was no way out. No vents to squeeze through, no loose bars to pry open. Even if he managed to slip past the patrols, where would he go? 

It was a bitter realization, but it settled into his bones like a cold truth: they couldn't do anything. Not now. Not on their own.

They could only wait. 

The waiting stretched on, bleeding into itself until time became a shapeless thing, something that only existed in the dull ache of hunger and the brief relief of sleep. Whether it had been a week or a month, the result was the same—trapped in a cage, watching the same weary faces, listening to the same hushed murmurs.

Felix still fidgeted, still traced his invisible escape routes, but there was a growing tension in his movements. Garrick sat still as stone, his silence heavier than ever. Ashton kept glancing toward the far end of the room, eyes narrowed, as if expecting something. Liam had learned not to ask questions.

Then, on what might have been the seventh day, something changed.

It started small. The lights flickered—not the usual sputtering glow but a sharp, total blackout, just for a second. A glitch, maybe. Or maybe not.

Then the guards reacted. Their movements sharpened, their patrols quickened. Something had unsettled them. Liam felt it too, a ripple in the stagnant air. Felix stopped fidgeting. Mara straightened, her dark eyes scanning the room with sudden focus. Even the silent ones—the scarred woman, the boy with the shaggy hair—seemed more alert.

And then the explosion came.

Not in the prison itself, but somewhere close. A deep, rumbling boom that sent dust trickling from the ceiling. The lights cut out completely, plunging them into darkness. A moment later, emergency backups flared to life, casting everything in an eerie red glow.

Shouts echoed from beyond the barred walls. The guards snapped into action, rifles raised, moving toward the source of the disturbance.

That's when Ashton grinned. "Took him long enough," he muttered.

The realization hit Liam just as the first gunshot rang out. This wasn't a random attack. This was a rescue.

***

The next few hours were a relentless barrage of gunfire and distant explosions, punctuated by shouts and the occasional scream. The prisoners huddled in their cages, silent but alert, listening as the chaos outside ebbed and flowed. The guards, once so methodical in their patrols, now moved with frantic urgency, their footsteps echoing through the concrete corridors as they struggled to contain whatever force had breached the prison's outer defenses.

Liam had no way of telling how long it lasted, only that eventually, the sounds of battle began to fade. Then, from the entrance of the prison, three figures emerged, dragging a fourth between them.

The first was a woman, tall and lean, her dark skin crisscrossed with old scars. She carried herself with a deadly precision, a rifle slung across her back and a knife twirling between her fingers. Her eyes swept the room, cold and calculating.

The second was a broad-shouldered man with a heavy mechanical brace strapped to one arm, the servos humming softly with each movement. His face was rough, unshaven, and streaked with grime, but his expression was one of grim determination.

The third was the strangest—a wiry figure wrapped in a tattered coat, a hood pulled low over their face. Their hands moved constantly, flicking through small metallic devices on their belt like a nervous tic. Something about them seemed… off, like they were barely tethered to the moment.

And between them, struggling weakly, was a man in a pristine white lab coat, blood smeared across one sleeve. His glasses were cracked, his lip split. The fear in his eyes was evident even from across the room.

The trio didn't hesitate. They moved straight for Ashton's cage.

Liam watched as the burly man with the mechanical brace gripped the bars and, with a grunt of effort, wrenched them apart like they were made of tin. The metal screeched in protest before giving way, and Ashton stepped out, dusting himself off like this was all going exactly as planned.

Liam frowned. Ashton had known this was coming. He hadn't let on, hadn't said a damn word. The easy way he moved, the lack of surprise in his expression—it all clicked into place. He had been waiting for this.

"You knew," Liam muttered, watching him carefully.

Ashton didn't look at him. "I always know," he replied simply.

Then he turned to the scientist, still held firmly in place by the scarred woman. The man squirmed, his breath coming in shallow gasps. "Please," he whimpered. "I don't— I don't know anything."

Ashton only sighed. "You always say that," he murmured, almost bored. Then he reached forward, pressing his fingers to the man's temples.

The scientist jerked violently, his entire body going rigid. His eyes rolled back, mouth falling open in a silent scream. The air around them seemed to hum, a low, vibrating energy radiating outward as Ashton's expression darkened in concentration.

Then, just as quickly as it started, it was over. The scientist crumpled to the ground, twitching slightly, his eyes glassy and unfocused.

Ashton exhaled sharply, his own eyes flickering with something unreadable. Then he scoffed, shaking his head. "Tch. Just a grunt."

The prisoners had been silent throughout the exchange, watching in stunned silence. Now, murmurs began to ripple through the cages. Fear. Confusion. Uncertainty.

Then Felix, of all people, let out a low chuckle. "Well, shit. That's one way to get information."

Garrick grunted but said nothing. Mara watched Ashton carefully, her expression unreadable. Others looked uneasy, shifting in place, but the realization was setting in—whatever their thoughts on Ashton's methods, they were about to be free.

The hooded figure moved first, producing a small metallic tool and kneeling beside one of the other cages. There was a sharp click, and a restraint band fell away from one of the prisoners' wrists. That was all it took for the tension to break.

One by one, the prisoners began stepping forward, some hesitant, some eager. The bands came off, the cages were opened, and for the first time in what felt like eternity, they were free.