Three pairs of footsteps echoed through the staircase. Sabir and Warren struggled to carry Zabo up the stairs. They gritted their teeth and pushed him upwards towards the physicians’ quarters. The chains tied to Zabo’s wrists still trailed from his arm, the iron links clinking and scraping against the stone steps with every shaky movement.

A creeping sense of anxiety washed over Sabir. Every time the chains would smack against the stairs, fearful that he may step on the chain, tripping them all up. He could tell just by Zabo’s heavy breathing alone that he was a mess. Each step seemed to drive more pain into his battered form, and worse of all his tightly shut jaw, stifling his pained screams.

Sabir glanced at Zabo’s right side, where his shirt had been completely burnt and singed, revealing his exposed ribs. Blood soaked through his shirt, dripping onto the floor, creating a trail of splatters. He grimaced at the sight. He closed his eyes, tightening his grip around Zabo’s arm, hoping to ease some of the pain, but there was only so much he could do.

“Hang in there, Zabo,” Sabir muttered.

Zabo let out a strangled scream, his voice echoing through the stairwell. “Whatever they did to me in Kajima Labs... it’s only gotten worse! I swear it’s like the effects have reversed or something!”

On the other side of Zabo, Warren showed a spark of interest at the mention of Kajima Labs. “Wait… you went to Kajima Labs?” He shifted his grip on Zabo, his expression darkening. “If Noah took you there, then there’s no telling what he did to you. I know he likes to do…experiments with Doctor Valenkov. He’s also a bit of a nutter.”

“I could’ve sworn I was given ambrosia.” Zabo mumbled.

“Ambrosia?” Sabir asked, raising an eyebrow. A feeling of familiarity crossed his mind, but he couldn’t place where he had heard the word from.

Warren glanced at him. “It’s a miracle drug, pretty much. Heals wounds, recovers fatigue, all that good stuff. But it’s expensive, crazy expensive. Noah usually carries a vial or two on him. But I’ve never heard of its effects being completely reversed.”

At that moment, Sabir’s memory flashed back to his first encounter with Noah Voltaire in the Limbo. He remembered the strange liquid Noah had forced him to drink when he’d been half-dead from his injuries. It had saved his life, and Sabir had thought little of it beyond being grateful for surviving. But now, realizing that it was ambrosia, a drug so valuable it could buy someone’s life several times over, made him uneasy.

To use something so valuable on me, Sabir wondered about Noah’s intentions. Sabir’s outlook on Noah had grown even worse. To have used something so valuable in order to get what he needed made him feel sick. Was it all an investment for him, or was it all just a matter of pride in completing his mission?

They finally reached one of the top floors and staggered into the physician’s room. The scent of disinfectant hit Sabir’s nose, sharp and sterile, mixed with the faint metallic tang of dried blood. The room itself was impersonal and cold, almost devoid of any personal touch. Along the walls, neatly arranged shelves held various medical supplies, vials of strange-colored liquids, neatly stacked bandages, jars of herbs and tinctures, and rows of gleaming surgical instruments that looked as though they had never seen a speck of dirt.

They saw in the room's corner a bed with its bedding only half done; however, the snow-white sheets were too clean to seem inviting, as if reserved for a corpse. Beside it, a wheeled metal tray held an array of surgical tools, scalpels, forceps, clamps, all polished to a shine, reflecting the cold, artificial light from the overhead lamps. A large glass cabinet stood against the far wall, filled with old, weathered tomes and bottles with labels written in a language Sabir couldn’t understand. Everything about the place screamed efficiency, functionality, and order, but it lacked warmth. It was more a place for fixing broken things than healing people.

The physician, an older man with thinning gray hair and sharp, clinical eyes, looked up from his desk as they entered. He wore a spotless white coat, and his gaze flicked over the trio with the detached scrutiny of someone used to assessing damage rather than people. His face, pale and angular, twisted into something sour as soon as he laid eyes on the group, particularly on Zabo’s bleeding form.

“Master Warren,” the physician said, standing up from his desk, his movements precise and deliberate. He spoke stiffly with formality, though there was a deep undercurrent of respect that laced his tone. “You grace me with your presence.” Although his voice sounded respectful, Sabir noticed his eyes never met Warren’s. instead it felt like he was looking past him.

He glanced at Sabir and Zabo, his expression turning colder. This time Sabir could feel the man’s gaze. The feeling of disdain, as if he were looking at a bug, but the moment he turned back to Warren, his entire demeanor shifted, becoming deferential. “I see you’ve brought in another... project,” he said, eyeing Zabo’s chains and tattered clothing with distaste. His words were careful, though it was clear he was holding back harsher thoughts. He spoke as if addressing a guest of the Voltaires, but beneath the civility lay judgment.

“Yes, Doctor Vanholm,” Warren said smoothly, not feeling perturbed, even with Sabir stiffening. “He needs treatment. Don’t mind the chains. Focus on the wounds.”

The physician gave a curt nod, all traces of disdain vanishing the moment Warren spoke. “Of course, Master Warren. As you command.” He moved toward the bed with a practiced calm, his hands already reaching for the sterilized instruments on the tray beside it.

As Vanholm approached Zabo, he hesitated for a moment, glancing at Warren with a brief look of concern. “Master Warren, you’ve always been... well, you rarely ever came here,” he said carefully, his respect for Warren clear in the cautious way he phrased his words. “Are these... individuals truly people you wish to help?”

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“Just treat him. No more questions.” Warren replied, giving a faint dismissive wave.

The physician bowed slightly before replying. “Understood,” he said, before turning his attention to Zabo. The doctor’s entire demeanour shifting to that of a dutiful doctor, Sabir could tell that the physician didn’t just serve the Voltaires, he revered them, and Warren’s very name commanded his respect, even if he didn’t respect him as a person.

Frederick’s fanatical grin flashed through Sabir’s mind, the similarity in behaviour unsettling. He couldn’t understand why people put these so-called nobles on a pedestal, as if they were divine beings. They were powerful, of course, but what had they done to be deserving of such praise and respect? They were neither Samaritans nor heroes, just regular humans, filled with their own greed and desires, no different from the people of The Limbo.

The waving hand of the physician cut Sabir’s thoughts off, motioning for him and Warren to place Zabo on the bed. They complied, carefully lowering Zabo onto the white sheets, wincing as Zabo groaned in pain.

Vanholm carefully peeled away Zabo’s shirt, revealing the bruised and battered flesh underneath; the physician didn’t react, though there was a slight twinge of displeasure. “The Voltaires have given me the finest of instruments, the finest medicines. Yet somehow, I end up treating the lowest of the low,” he muttered under his breath, too quietly for Warren to hear but loud enough for Sabir to catch the hint of contempt in his voice.

His hands moved with careful precision, despite his grumbling, his gloved hands inspected Zabo’s ribs and he calmly stitched inspected his wounds with delicate care. “Master Warren,” the physician spoke; his eyes never leaving the wound. “It seems you’ve brought another stray on death’s door.” His eyes quickly shot towards Sabir, before focusing back on Zabo.

Sabir bristled at the comment, unsure whether to be offended or to laugh. A stray? It was clear, even the physician viewed him as subhuman: he wasn’t one of them, just another wild dog off the streets. Sabir glanced at Warren, whose face remained impassive, offering no defense or apology.

There was nothing left to do for them, but watch nervously, waiting for the diagnosis. After a long silence, the physician sighed. “It seems it’s not as bad as I had first thought. Some major burns, but he’ll live. Master Vincent and Noah could testify to that, the way they used to fight. His ribs are also cracked, but they’ll heal with time. Some bandaging, and he’ll be fine.”

Warren stepped forward. “Will he be physically fit in a week?”

The physician frowned, raising an eyebrow. “In a week? That’s not wise, Master Warren. If he moves too much, his wounds will reopen.”

Warren cursed under his breath. “Elektra isn’t gonna be happy.”

Ignoring Warren’s muttering, the physician began cleaning Zabo’s wounds. Zabo’s body twitched with every touch, and soon he was screaming as the physician started sewing him up.

“Stop your ruckus, boy,” the physician scolded, his voice harsh and annoyed. “Or I’ll sew your mouth shut next.”

As he worked, the physician finally noted the chains trailing from Zabo’s wrists. His eyes narrowed, and he tugged at one link, clearly irritated. “These chains are in the way. What kind of fool drags himself up here with this mess attached to him?”

Warren shrugged, glancing at Sabir. “Not much we can do about it.”

Once the physician finished stitching and bandaging Zabo’s wounds, he stood back and crossed his arms. “He can stay here to rest, or you can take him elsewhere, though I’d recommend tossing him on the street where he belongs. Criminals like him have no business in a house like this.”

Warren shook his head. “I’ll take him with me to my room.”

Sabir stepped closer to Zabo, concern etched on his face. “Do you need help?”

Zabo grunted, pushing himself up with a surprising burst of energy. The sudden movement made the physician panic.

“You fool!” the physician barked. “Don’t make any sudden movements! You’ll tear your stitches.”

Zabo ignored him, his face twisted in defiance. “If an old wound reopens, it’s just a reminder of your weakness,” he said, his voice strained but resolute. “And I’m not weak.”

The physician rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath. “All hunters are the same. No sense of self-preservation.”

Zabo stood, his steps slow but determined, dragging the heavy chains behind him. Warren and Sabir quickly moved to follow as Zabo began walking toward the exit.

“Wait up!” Warren called, exasperation in his voice. “You don’t even know where you’re going!”

Zabo didn’t respond, continuing down the corridor, his chains clattering against the floor. Sabir and Warren exchanged glances, then hurried after him.

Watching Zabo’s limping form from behind, Sabir couldn’t shake this uneasy feeling. Noah had Zabo put through hell, and yet here he was, refusing to acknowledge his pain, refusing to let himself appear weak. He respected Zabo’s resilience, but yet he wondered if it was truly strength or just stubbornness.

In truth, Zabo was his only staunch ally. He was in the same boat as him. Both prisoners of the Voltaire family, they’d need to band together to survive. Warren had his allegiances to his family, even if they didn’t value him, his last name was still Voltaire. How were he and Zabo going to escape now they were needed for a dungeon expedition, with their exact role still unclear?

The thought made Sabir’s stomach tighten. He did not know what was waiting for them in that dungeon. Elektra’s plans remained mysterious, and considering Zabo’s condition, he doubted their chances if they faced something too dangerous. And yet, despite everything, Sabir clenched his fists, determined to survive. No matter what.

He glanced at Warren, who was walking in silence beside him. Warren had been quiet ever since the physician’s room, a storm of thoughts likely brewing behind his calm demeanor.

They caught up to Zabo, who had stopped at the end of the hallway, leaning against the wall to catch his breath. Warren was the first to speak.

“You really should’ve let us help you,” Warren muttered. “Elektra’s gonna have our heads if you’re not fit for the dungeon.”

A low chuckle escaped Zabo’s lips, but it carried an undertone of pain. “I’ve been through worse. Besides, I’m not going to that damn dungeon, no I’m making my escape.” He looked towards Sabir to his side and nodded his head. “We’re gonna be leaving.”

Sabir bit his lip, not entirely sure how they would go about it. Whilst escaping the crazy clutches of the Voltaire’s sounded great, revenge lay heavily on Sabir’s mind. He glanced at Warren, whose face showed pure concern.

But Zabo had made up his mind. And as Sabir and Warren moved to support him once again, Sabir couldn’t help but think about what awaited them all in the days ahead.

Whatever it was, it would not be easy.