Isolation

Back in their vision, a clarity pierced through the haze of the fight. 

Leoill found his limbs locked, unresponsive. Beside him, Gunther stood equally frozen, his jaw clenched, while Gammo's eyes, wide with shock, stared blankly at the scene. 

They had seen brutal ends before, but this... this was different. 

Only Jambiya, the one usually reserved, the one whose movements were always lazy, had broken out of paralysis. He had surged forward, a desperate, last-ditch effort to intervene.

But even his unexpected burst of effort had been futile. 

He couldn't stop the inevitable.

Homer was dead, his body a broken mess on the ground, and in the next breath, Nico, the blood-soaked Wraith, was gone. Dragged away by guards, he was thrown into solitary confinement. 

In Fjellheim, solitude wasn't just isolation; it was a slow, agonizing descent into oblivion. It meant barely any food, just enough to prolong the suffering. It meant the bare skin against extremely cold metal floors, leeching away what little warmth remained.

It was, in essence, a death sentence.

Gunther sat hunched on his cot, a knot in his gut. Across the narrow corridor, Leoill huddled, his face pale, his body still rigid with the shock of what he'd witnessed. Jambiya leaned against the cold, unforgiving wall of his cell, his usual laid-back demeanor replaced by a stone-faced stillness. And Gammo, who lay on his bunk, staring at the ceiling, his mind a mess of pain and disbelief. 

Separated, they each thought about what had happened. Nico – their Wraith, their star fighter who had clawed his way back from the brink – was gone. Not for a day, or even a few. 

Weeks. 

He wouldn't be out for weeks. The thought was a lead weight in their stomachs. Weeks in solitary meant starvation, frostbite, the slow, agonizing erosion of body and mind. 

It meant death, or something close to it, for a man already pushing his limits. Their gamble, their fragile hope for the tournament, had just been dealt a fatal blow.

"No one," Gunther rasped, his voice cutting through the stale air. "Not a single soul has ever come out of solitary alive." 

He paused, his gaze meeting each of their horrified eyes in turn. 

"Even one of the Absolute Eight. They put him in that cell. He died in there." 

The words hung heavy in the narrow confines of their prisons. Leoill's face, already pale, turned an ashen white. Gammo's jaw went slack. Even Jambiya's eyes, usually so impassive, widened.

Gunther managed a weak grin, a strain of optimism in the dim cell light. 

"It's alright," he mumbled, his voice unconvincing even to himself. "A guy who took dozens of blows from Sloth... he'll survive in there." 

The words hung, thin and brittle. Leoill, his face drawn tight with a raw, visceral despair, didn't let him finish. 

"Shut up..." he snarled, his voice cracking with a pain that cut through Gunther's forced cheer. "Don't give me false hope."

The bluntness of it, the bleeding honesty, was a physical blow. Gunther swallowed, a dry, painful gulp, the hollow sound echoing the sudden emptiness in his chest.

Jambiya turned, his face angled away from Gunther. He moved to the cell entrance. 

"I was the only one who tried to stop him," he said, his voice flat, emotionless. "The rest of you just watched." 

Without another word, he darted off, his figure disappearing into the dim corridor.

'Damn it.' Gunther cursed himself, a bitter, silent word. 

How could he have let this happen? He should have moved faster, stopped it, done something. But he hadn't. And now, Nico, their Wraith, was in the hole. The very place in Fjellheim that carried a guaranteed fatality rate.

Gammo, still hunched on his bunk, seemed to sense the crushing weight of Gunther's stress, a palpable aura of despair filling the shared air. 

"I've got more bad news," Gammo rasped, his voice low, almost reluctant. "But… I don't want to ruin your mentality even more." 

Gunther didn't flinch. He didn't care. What else was there to ruin? 

"Tell me now," Gunther commanded, his voice flat, devoid of any remaining hope. "There's nothing left I can do anyway."

Gammo sighed softly, the sound barely there in the cold silence. 

"Homer," he began, his voice was quiet, "was from the same group as Sizzle. That group is run by one of the powerful 'Absolute' members." 

The news settled heavily between them. 

"They're not happy about this. Two of their people, beaten by the same guy." 

This was serious trouble, a direct challenge to a very strong faction. But Gunther didn't react. He didn't even sweat, and his face showed no expression at all. 

The threat from the Absolute usually made people panic. But for Gunther, it changed nothing. He had simply lost all hope, not just in winning, but in staying alive.

***

Gunther scoffed, a sound of bitter resignation.

"I'd rather let the Absolute kill me," he stated, his voice flat, "than shoulder any more responsibility." 

His words, an admission of complete surrender, struck Gammo with a sharp impact. It wasn't just annoyance that flared in Gammo; it was a profound, genuine rage at Gunther's absolute capitulation.

Gammo's jaw tightened:

"Why did I even follow you in the first place?" he demanded, the words edged with a simmering resentment. 

Gunther's eyes, dull and distant, finally focused on him. 

"I don't know," Gunther rasped. "You were just a dog looking for a family." 

The insult struck Gammo with immediate force. His fist launched, aimed squarely at Gunther's head. Gunther didn't flinch. He didn't raise a guard. He took the blow head-on, his body swaying with the impact.

Gunther, a fresh bruise forming on his jaw, met Gammo's gaze.

"Feel any better now?" he rasped, his voice flat. Gammo's teeth clamped shut.. His body moved, ready to launch another brutal blow. 

But before his fist could even twitch, Leoill, moving with a desperate urgency, lunged forward. He barely managed to grip Gammo's arm, his fingers digging in.

"It's useless," Leoill muttered. The words were a bitter truth, stopping Gammo mid-motion.

Gunther's gaze dropped to the cold, stained floor. 

"Avoid anyone's party," he muttered, his voice low. "Stay close to any trusted guards you can find." 

His words were a direct order, a warning. The reason was unsaid but understood. They had angered the powerful, those backed by an Absolute. 

"We'll be hunted," he finished, the truth settling like ice.

Gammo scoffed: 

"You're a dumbass," he retorted with contempt. "I won't hide like some cowering dog."

He paused, his eyes slightly irritated.

"And I sure in hell won't work with you." His voice dropped. "You do bring the luck of the devil, Gunther."

Gunther merely raised an eyebrow, the brief twitch the only sign of reaction. He completely halted his action, whatever faint impulse had stirred within him. 

His thoughts drifted.

So many of his fighters were dead now, bodies buried beneath the snow or lost to the icy winds. More still had simply left, their faces etched with a profound, simmering hatred for him.

He was cursed. 

A black hole that consumed all hope, all loyalty. A bitter truth settled over him, cold as the Fjellheim air: he was likely the most hated prisoner in this entire desolate outpost.

Gunther's thoughts, heavy with self-loathing, were abruptly interrupted by a sudden presence. 

Jambiya appeared in the doorway of his cell, causing a slight jolt of surprise in Gunther. 

"Already back?" Leoill teased.

Jambiya merely scoffed. 

"Had no choice." 

Then, another shadow detached itself from the dim corridor. A menacing figure emerged, his dark hair slicked sharply back from his forehead, with a distinctive, almost rigid sweep. His eyes were equally dark, unreadable depths. He looked to be around 5'9, a compact but undeniably dangerous presence.

"Who the hell are you?" Gunther demanded, his voice rough. 

The man's dark eyes fixed on him. 

"Lucilfero," he replied, his voice calm. 

"Leader of Sizzle. And Homer." 

The names struck Gunther cold. He immediately scrambled back, fear clawing at him. In the same instant, Leoill, driven by a surge of desperate impulse, launched a wild roundhouse kick.

It was fast, fueled by adrenaline. 

But Lucilfero merely raised an arm, his block effortless, the impact halting Leoill's momentum completely. There was no doubt. This guy wasn't ordinary.

"Why in such a rush?" Lucilfero sighed, his voice low, full of disappointment.

"What are you doing here?" Gunther demanded, his voice tight. 

Lucilfero's dark eyes surveyed him, unblinking. 

"Just looking for answers," he replied, almost bored. Regarding Homer's death. I wasn't present, you see." 

Gunther, however, crossed his arms. 

"I've got nothing to tell." 

Lucilfero let out a second sigh. 

"Oh?" he murmured, the single word hanging in the air. "I see."

Leoill, unaware of the subtle threat, spoke up with a hopeful, almost naive tone:

"You do? That's good!"

Lucilfero moved with terrifying speed. His hand shot out, grabbing Leoill's head in a vise-like grip. 

Before Leoill could even gasp, Lucilfero slammed him down, smashing his head against the cold concrete floor. The impact was sickeningly clear. Lucilfero didn't even glance at Leoill's crumpled form. 

His dark eyes locked onto Gunther. 

"I'll ask again," he stated, his voice now devoid of any calmness. "More information. Or we'll have war."