Luke walked in silence, his wrists bound in steel as he and the others were escorted deeper into the fortress. The air smelled of oil, metal, and sweat-the unmistakable scent of a place built for war.

The halls were filled with people-humans. Not broken slaves, not cowering survivors, but people moving with purpose. Some were dressed in worn coveralls, their hands stained with grease as they worked on strange, half-disassembled machines. Others carried weapons some familiar, others alien in design.

Luke’s gaze swept across them.

Some held standard firearms, ordinary assault rifles and heavy SAW machine guns, their barrels worn but well-maintained. Others gripped sleek, black weapons that hummed faintly, their surfaces etched with glowing blue veins of something not quite natural.

A few bore massive black bows, their limbs twisted with swirling energy, but oddly, there were no quivers, no arrows in sight. Magic. That was the only explanation.

Then there were the swords. Polished steel sheathed at the hips of warriors who looked like they had stepped straight out of an old-world battlefield. Their armor was lighter than a knight’s, more flexible, built for speed. And yet, they carried themselves with an air of lethal precision like the man who had saved them.

Lucas.

Luke turned his head slightly, catching a glimpse of him ahead, walking unshackled. He didn't look back. Didn't speak.

As they moved, they passed a group of officers high-ranking men and women dressed in dark, decorated uniforms. The kind worn by those who had seen real war. Their eyes, sharp and cold, followed the group, but none of them spoke.

Luke felt it; the weight of suspicion.

They were prisoners here.

A sharp metal door slid open, and one by one, they were pulled apart.

Luke was shoved into a small, windowless room four steel walls, a single table, two chairs. His restraints were removed, and the door sealed shut behind him with a heavy clang.

Silence.

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Luke sat, his muscles tense, his body still coiled from the days of running, fighting, barely surviving. He didn't move.

Minutes passed.

Then an hour.

Then more.

No one came.

Luke exhaled, staring at his hands. The scars, the callouses, the faded marks of a life spent in chains. He understood the caution they had come from captivity, after all. But this? This was excessive.

His fingers curled into a fist against the metal table.

What do they think we are? Spies? Traitors? Lab rats?

His thoughts grew darker, twisting in the quiet, as the minutes stretched into hours.

Still, no one came.

And so, Luke waited.

Waited in the cold, in the silence, with nothing but the echoes of his past clawing at the edges of his mind.

Luke sat in the dimly lit room, his back pressed against the cold steel of the chair. The air was thick with the scent of old dust and something faintly metallic, like dried blood. A single bulb flickered above him, casting erratic shadows against the bare concrete walls.

He had lost all sense of time. Hours bled into one another, each minute stretching into eternity. He clenched his jaw, his broken hand pulsing with pain beneath the crude bandages. His body ached with exhaustion, but sleep was impossible.

A camera, mounted in the far corner, blinked red. Watching. Recording.

Beyond that lens, two men observed him in silence.

“He’s been sitting there for hours. Not restless, not panicked”. Sergeant James leaned closer to the screen, his fingers drumming against the desk. “Most prisoners pace, fidget like hell, some cry. But him? He”s just… waiting”.

General Hatch folded his arms, his expression unreadable. His face was lined with years of war and sacrifice, his sharp blue eyes locked on the monitor. “And that doesn’t concern you?”

James exhaled through his nose. “It concerns me plenty. Look, we’ve seen it before-vampires using humans as spies, plants, weapons. Maybe he doesn’t even know he’s compromised. Maybe they let them go for a reason”.

Hatch narrowed his eyes as Luke subtly shifted in his chair, rolling his sore shoulder. “You think a group of half-starved slaves just coincidentally escaped a vampire stronghold?” His voice was low, contemplative. “With nothing but a broken hand?”

James snorted. “Sounds damn near impossible.”

There was a long pause.

Then James said, “We could end this now. A bullet each, quick and clean. They’d never have to suffer again. It might even be mercy”.

Hatch didn’t respond immediately. His gaze remained on the screen, watching the flickering light reflect in Luke’s tired but unwavering eyes.

“There’s a chance they’re exactly what they claim to be,”Hatch finally said, voice edged with quiet deliberation. “And if they are, they’ve seen things we need to know. We hear them out.” His fingers curled into a fist. “Then they decide their own fate.”

James sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You’re the General.”

Hatch turned away from the screen and strode toward the door. James followed, adjusting the strap of his rifle.

The metal door groaned open, the dim light spilling into Luke’s cell. Two figures stepped inside, their movements slow, calculated.

Hatch and James sat down across from him, their expressions carved from stone. They weren't just looking at him.

They were examining him.

Waiting.

Judging.

Luke met their stares without flinching, his fate hanging in the balance.