Luke had barely sat down on his cot when the cell door opened again, and Jake was shoved inside.
He stumbled forward, collapsing to his knees with a strangled groan. His shirt was in tatters, barely clinging to his bloodied back. Crimson streaks ran down his arms and legs, his face swollen and bruised almost beyond recognition.
"Sit him up," the guard barked at Luke.
Luke hurried to Jake's side, lifting him under the arms and dragging him to his cot. Jake hissed in pain, his teeth gritted, but didn't fight.
From the doorway, a second guard carried a bucket of salt water and threw it over Jake without warning.
Jake screamed, the sound raw and animalistic, as the salt seeped into the open wounds across his back. His body convulsed, his hands clawing at the cot as if trying to dig into the stone beneath.
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Luke's hands clenched into fists, the urge to lash out boiling in his veins, but he forced himself to stay still. He couldn't do anything—not now, not yet.
The guard sneered. "Be grateful. Keeps the infection away. If you're lucky, you'll live to see tomorrow."
The door slammed shut behind them, leaving the room in silence, save for Jake's ragged breathing.
Luke knelt beside him, grabbing the thin blanket from his cot and draping it carefully over Jake's trembling frame.
"Jake," he said quietly.
Jake didn't respond, his face buried in the crook of his arm.
"We'll get out of here," Luke whispered, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. "I swear to you, we'll get out. And they'll pay for this."
Jake let out a weak, bitter laugh, his breath hitching as he fought back tears.
Luke sat back on his cot, staring at the tattoo on his wrist—1461. It felt heavier than ever, like it was pressing into his very soul.
The lightbulb above flickered faintly, casting long, wavering shadows across the cell. Shadows that felt alive, twisting and stretching, whispering promises of vengeance in the quiet darkness.