They should've checked his coat!

I sat there in my holding cell, trying to catch my breath from the beating I had endured.

Through it all, my bones remained intact — fractured, maybe, but not broken.

I could still move.

The cell was dimly lit by a single, flickering torch outside the bars. I looked around, eyes adjusting to the gloom.

The walls were soaked — slick with years of moisture and neglect. The air was thick, almost suffocating, heavy with the stench of mildew and rusted iron.

A single drop of water fell from the cracked stone ceiling at steady intervals, each one hitting the floor with a soft plink.

I turned to my right.

My eyes locked onto a jagged shard of metal jutting from the wall — rusted, worn, but still sharp enough to cut.

And then… an idea struck.

Gritting my teeth, I pushed myself to my feet — unsteady, aching, but determined.

I crossed the cell, then turned my back to the shard. Slowly, carefully, I positioned the rope binding my wrists over it, using the folds of my coat to feel the pressure.

The blade didn't touch my skin — the coat protected that much — but I could feel its presence, buried just beneath the fabric.

I began to move — just enough to drag the rope back and forth across the edge.

It was slow. Clumsy. But with every pass, I felt the fibers weaken.

Until I heard it — a snap.

The rope gave way.

Relief washed over me for only a moment… then I remembered my arm.

It still hung loosely at my side — dead weight, twisted just enough to remind me it didn't belong there.

I knew what I had to do.

I backed into the nearest wall for support, breathing through my nose, slow and sharp. Sweat rolled down my temple.

Gritting my teeth, I reached across with my good hand, grabbing the dislocated arm just below the shoulder.

Even touching it made me wince — pain flared instantly, raw and deep, like nerves on fire.

I braced.

And then I shoved.

A violent jerk upward and inward.

The sound was brutal — a pop mixed with a crunch — and the pain? Blinding.

It was like something hot had torn through the muscle — a white-hot scream that stayed trapped behind my clenched jaw.

I nearly collapsed.

My knees shook. My stomach turned. For a split second, everything spun.

But I stayed upright.

I breathed through the fire, letting the pain roll through me like a wave. Then I looked down.

The arm was back in place.

It wasn't perfect — it still throbbed like hell — but it was mine again.

And now… I had both hands.

I brought them forward, slowly, almost in disbelief.

Then up to my face.

Faint outlines of the rope still marked my wrists — pale grooves pressed deep into the skin, but no blood, no torn flesh.

Just the ghost of restraint… now gone.

With my hands finally free, I reached into my coat.

My fingers searched the hidden compartment — the one I had ordered the Reich's clothing designer's to install after surviving multiple assassination attempts.

A precaution… now a blessing.

Reaching into the compartment, I found it…My 7.65mm Walther PPK — tucked deep within the lining of my coat. Unloaded. Untouched.

Right where I left it.

I pulled out a loaded magazine from the stitched pocket beside it.

Sliding it into the grip, I racked the slide back hard — the metal snapped into place with a satisfying click.

Then I ejected the magazine.

One bullet fell to the ground near my boots, chambered from the slide.

I picked it up, inspecting it for a moment before pressing it back into the mag.

From a small box sewn into the inner lining, I retrieved another round — placed it in carefully, then another.

Repeating the process until the magazine was full once more.

Eight rounds.

That's all I had.

But eight was enough.

I returned to the same spot where they had thrown me — the cold stone floor still stained with my blood and spit.

Lowering myself carefully, I laid down in the exact position. One arm tucked behind my back, fingers gripping the cold metal of the Walther.

Waiting.

But before that, I moved with caution.

Every step was deliberate.

I rolled my boots heel-first, planting them gently to avoid the loud clack against the stone. Even the faintest sound could draw suspicion — and I couldn't afford suspicion.

The cell was quiet. Still damp. Still dripping.

And so I laid there — motionless, breath steady.

Eyes half-closed. Body limp.

Hands hidden behind my back, curled tightly around salvation.

Let them come.

I waited—maybe an hour, maybe two—my fingers welded around the Walther's grip, pulse steadying itself to the rhythm of the slow drip overhead.

Thunk… thunk… thunk.

Heavy footfalls echoed in the corridor. The same weight, the same lazy cadence: Larno.

I let my eyelids hang half-closed, breathing so shallow the torch-flame barely stirred.T he steps halted at my gate; the stink of scaled hide and cheap wine reached me first.

"How's it going, buddy?" the abomination drawled, like we were old friends. "Mind if I come in and play? My last toy broke." A mocking sigh. "They say I can't kill you, but that doesn't mean I can't make you want to die."

Metal clinked as he fumbled a ring of keys from his pocket—one after another until the seventh slid free. Key met lock. Click. The rusty hinges shrieked as the cell door swung inward.

That was my cue.

I surged to my feet in one fluid snap, boots kissing stone with a thump. The pistol cleared my coat before my body had finished rising—arms locked, sight picture crisp.

Larno's yellow eyes widened, confusion dawning a second too late.

I leveled the front sight right at the center of his skull.

CRACK.

Muzzle flash painted the cell in white for a heartbeat; the smell of cordite bloomed, hot and savage. The round punched through scale, bone, and brain before he even drew breath to scream.

Larno toppled backward, dead weight thudding against the bars he'd just opened—keys still dangling from his slack claws.

The silence that followed was thicker than blood.

Seven rounds remained.

More in my pocket just in case.

I stepped toward the now lifeless body, my breath steadying.

My eyes dropped to his clawed hand — the key ring still dangling from his fingers.

These might come in handy later.

Knowing someone must have heard the gunshot, I didn't linger. I moved quickly, retracing my steps, searching for the same stairway I'd been thrown down hours ago.

The hallway was dimly lit — just torches flickering against damp stone walls, their flames casting long, twitching shadows.

There were no signs. No doors. Just the endless stretch of stone and the sound of my boots, now lighter with urgency.

I moved quietly, careful to keep my pace controlled. Footsteps too loud would bring attention. Footsteps too slow might cost me time I didn't have.

Minutes passed — or maybe it was only seconds — until I reached something different.

A wooden door.

Set into the right-hand wall. Slightly ajar.

Light bled from the gap beneath it — a soft, flickering glow. And within it… a shadow moved.

I crept closer, slow and silent. I leaned just enough to peer inside, but not enough to be seen.

And there she was.

The fox-eared girl from before — Silv.

She stood over a bloodstained bed, wiping it down with a damp cloth. Her movements were methodical. Cold.

On the bed lay a woman — still, pale, her body battered.

Silv's ears twitched slightly as she worked, but she didn't speak.

She wasn't mourning.

She was cleaning.

Without fear or caution, I kicked the door open.

Her ears twitched.

She turned — fast — but not fast enough.

Before she could fully face me, my arms were already around her neck.

She gasped, then squealed — legs flailing, clawing at my arms in panic.

She kicked. Struggled. Tried to break free.

But I didn't let go.

Not after everything I'd endured.

I held tight, locking her in place.

Seconds passed — thirty-four, maybe more — and her resistance slowly faded. Her kicks weakened. Her hands dropped. Her body sagged in my arms.

Then… limp.

I let her fall.

She hit the stone floor with a soft thud, crumpled and unconscious.

Just to be sure, I knelt beside her and placed two fingers beneath her nose.

Still breathing.

Good.

She'd be useful later.

Next, I turned to face the bloodstained bed — only to be met with a familiar face.

Kaela.

Her body was nearly unrecognizable. Mangled from brutal abuse.

Her arms were twisted upward, bent at unnatural angles. Her legs curled downward, broken and stiff.

I stared for a moment.

And I felt nothing.

No rage. No sorrow. No grief.

She had been a pawn — like so many others.

A tool in a far greater scheme.

But even tools, when broken, deserve to be put away with some dignity.

Out of respect — or perhaps out of habit — I grabbed a piece of the blood-soaked sheet and draped it over her.

Covering what was left of her.

Then I stood in silence.

I turned to the fox-tailed girl just as her eyes fluttered open.

"Forty-seven seconds," I muttered, kneeling to seize a fistful of her hair. "Forty-seven seconds to wake—that's impressively quick."

She hissed and lashed out, claws slicing at the air, aiming for my face.

I didn't flinch.

The Walther came up smooth and steady.

BANG.

The round punched through her thigh. Blood spattered the flagstones; her scream echoed off the damp walls, raw and jagged.

Pain wiped the defiance from her brown eyes, replacing it with terror.

"Are we done playing?" I asked, voice even, raising the muzzle until the dark bore was centered between her eyes.

"Keep struggling," I said coolly, "and the next one finds your skull."

She nodded affirmingly 

"I ask questions — you talk to answer. If you don't answer, you get shot. If you talk when I don't ask, you get shot. Any sudden movements—" I leaned in slightly, "—you get shot. Is that understood?"

She nodded, trembling.

But that wasn't enough.

Bang.

I fired into the same leg — the same wound.

She screamed, the sound sharp and animalistic, echoing down the hallway like a warning siren.

"I hate repeating myself," I said, voice low and measured.

She jolted upright, trying to compose herself through the pain.

"I'm sorry!" she sobbed, her breath hitching between words.

Bang.

This time the bullet tore through her foot.

Another scream.

"That wasn't the question," I said flatly.

Bang.

Another shot — same foot.

"Stop screaming. It's annoying."

Her mouth clamped shut, the sobs still there but muffled now, pushed down with pure survival instinct.

"Now… answer the question."

"Y-Yes," she choked out, lips wet with spit and tears.

"See? Was that so hard?"

"N-No..." she whimpered.

"Good," I nodded. "You're actually smart. Too bad I was starting to look forward to putting a bullet in your other leg."

I stood over her now, pistol still raised but steady.

"First question," I said, eyes locked on hers. "How many guards are on patrol... and how many humans are locked up in here?"

"Me and one other guard," she whimpered. "It should be… ninety-one humans."

"Two guards and ninety-one humans?" I repeated, voice flat. "You expect me to believe that?"

"I swear on my life, that's all that's down here," she said, her voice shaking. "The rest of the guards stay upstairs. They throw the humans down, but they never come down themselves. Larno… he's enough to fight forty humans by himself."

"Hmmm?" I let the sound drag low in my throat, as if unconvinced.

A pause.

Then: "I believe you."

Truth was — I did.

If more guards were stationed here, they would've stormed in the moment the gunshots rang out. The screams alone should've drawn attention. But nothing came. Nothing moved.

This place was meant to be forgotten — even by its own.

"Next question," I said, leveling my voice. "Where are the humans?"

"I… I can't explain it," she stammered, "but I can lead you there."

"Good," I said. "Get up, then. Let's walk."

I leaned in close to her ear — low, cold, deliberate.

"Just remember... this little tool of mine is pointed at the back of your skull."

She froze.

I saw it in her eyes — the panic swelling, the will breaking — but she stood. Barely.

Her legs trembled under her weight. She could barely take a step.

I caught her around the waist, holding her upright — not to comfort, but to control.

With my other hand, I pressed the muzzle of the Walther to the back of her head. Firm enough that she could feel every inch of it.

She walked.

I guided.

And I was ready to pull the trigger at the first sign of betrayal.

We walked until we reached a heavy iron door.

It wasn't too big, but not small either — solid and imposing.

Roughly 10 feet tall (3.05 meters) and 6 feet wide (1.83 meters). Enough to make you feel small in front of it.

"Is this the place?" I whispered into her ear, voice low and close.

"Yes," she replied, her voice barely holding together.

"Open it," I said firmly, keeping the muzzle of my Walther pressed against her skull. I wasn't about to turn my back now.

"I… I can't," she confessed. "Only Larno had the keys."

"Here," I muttered, dangling the ring in front of her. I released my grip on her waist, but kept the gun steady — inches from the back of her head.

She snatched the keys with trembling hands and limped toward the door.

One by one, she tried them. Her fingers shook so badly she fumbled more than once.

Then — click.

The lock gave in.

She placed both hands on the door and pushed with everything she had. Her injured leg buckled slightly, but she gritted her teeth and kept going.

I didn't offer help. I wasn't here to play savior.

With a loud screech, the iron door groaned open — metal grinding against stone, the sound sharp and deep enough to echo through the hallway behind us.

The air that escaped was stale, cold… and laced with something else.

Something human.

Something suffering.

I walked behind her, the barrel of the Walther still fixed to the back of her skull — unwavering, steady.

Once close enough to the threshold, I spoke a single word:

"Walk."

She didn't hesitate. She limped forward without a sound.

I didn't help her. I wouldn't be seen assisting filth.

As she led me into the chamber, the full extent of what lay beyond the door began to unfold.

It wasn't a hallway.

It was a holding block — or perhaps a graveyard that hadn't finished burying its dead.

Rows of iron-barred cells lined both sides of the stone corridor, vanishing into the darkness at the far end. The torches on the wall cast flickering shadows, but even the firelight seemed afraid to touch what was inside.

The stench hit me first.

Piss. Feces. Blood. Rot. A stew of human decay so thick it clung to the back of my throat.

I looked to the left — a corpse, slumped against the bars, jaw unhinged, eyes glassy and sunken deep into a skull too thin to belong to the living. Flies danced in and out of its hollow mouth.

The cell beside it housed a woman — or what remained of one. Skin stretched taut over bone, her collarbone jutted out like twin blades. Her eyes followed me with dull, glassy fear… or hope. I couldn't tell the difference.

A child lay curled in the corner of another cell — unmoving, his ribs visible with each shallow breath. Beside him, a man sat cross-legged, holding the child's hand with both of his — praying, or pretending to.

Others pressed their faces to the bars as we passed, lips cracked, eyes wide, begging not with words, but with the vacant, soul-drained stares of the forgotten.

None of it was selective.

Women. Men. Children.

Starved. Diseased. Broken.

Some wept. Some stared silently. A few tried to speak, but their voices were little more than dry rasps that never fully formed words.

This was not a prison.

It was a warehouse of suffering.

Forgotten by the world. Abandoned by mercy.

And now… seen by me.

I stopped.

The air was thick with death — the stink of rot, feces, and despair.

But I didn't see weakness.

No.

I saw opportunity.

This wasn't a broken people. It was a raw mass of desperation — unshaped, unled, unclaimed.

People who, if unchained, would follow the first hand that offered them freedom.

They would follow me.

Pawns.

Without hesitation, I seized the fox-girl by her matted hair and yanked her head back.

"Open every cell," I ordered, voice like stone.

She didn't argue. She didn't cry. She obeyed — broken completely now.

I followed closely as she moved down the corridor, dragging her injured leg, unlocking each rusted gate with trembling hands.

Click.

Clang.

The first door swung open, and a woman stumbled out — gaunt, barely standing. She looked up at me with hollow eyes that slowly filled with tears.

Then she dropped to her knees.

"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you... thank you…"

Another gate opened. A child hesitated, then ran forward — clutching my leg with tiny, shaking arms. "I thought we were gonna die…" he choked out.

His mother tried to pull him away, but she too fell to her knees beside him.

More cells opened.

A man stepped forward, spine crooked from weeks of confinement. He looked at me — not with suspicion, not with hate, but with something disturbingly close to reverence.

He bowed.

One after another, they came.

Women cried.

Men knelt and touched their foreheads to the floor.

Children clung to my coat, tears streaking down sunken faces.

Not one of them asked who I was.

They didn't care.

I was the first light they'd seen in what must have felt like eternity. The hand that opened the door. The face standing over their captor's corpse.

They didn't see a man.

They saw a savior.

And I… I saw soldiers.