The cell was cold, the air laced with the sharp tang of iron and mildew. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a pallid, sickly light over the rough-hewn walls. It was never fully dark in here, not in the way Luke remembered darkness from the days before. The bulb buzzed faintly, a reminder that even small mercies like silence were luxuries long gone.

Luke sat cross-legged on his cot, his back pressed against the damp stone wall. He stared at the faded tattoo on his wrist: 1461. The numbers didn't feel like his; they felt like chains etched into his skin. He traced them with a finger, as if trying to scrape them away.

He used to be someone. Once. A boy who dreamed of playing soccer, of going to university, of someday building a life worth living. But those memories were distant now, like pictures crumpled and shoved into the back of a drawer.

A soft sound pulled his attention—Jake shifting on his cot across the room. His best friend had always been restless, even in the days before, but here, the movement felt almost defiant, a refusal to sit still while the world crushed them.

"You ever think about it?" Jake asked, his voice barely audible.

Luke glanced over. "Think about what?"

"Who we were. Who we are. Doesn't it mess with your head?" Jake's green eyes caught the dim light, his expression raw, unguarded.

Luke hesitated, his fingers tightening on his wrist. "All the time."

The admission surprised him, as if the words had been dragged out against his will. Jake gave him a knowing look, the faintest shadow of a grin.

"I knew it," Jake said. "You've got that face."

Stolen story; please report.

Luke frowned. "What face?"

"The one that screams, 'I'm planning something.'"

"I'm not planning anything," Luke lied, turning away.

He studied the cell instead. Six men shared the space, each one marked by their assigned numbers and the same hollow-eyed expression of the broken. The walls were bare stone, cold and rough under their hands. The single bulb above flickered now and then, like it might die any second, though it never did.

The heavy clang of the door interrupted them, the sound ricocheting off the walls. A ripple of tension spread through the room as a vampire guard stepped inside. Tall, skeletal, his pale skin gleaming under the sickly light, he moved with an inhuman grace that made Luke's stomach turn.

"Line up," the guard commanded, his voice sharp and clipped.

The men scrambled into position, their chains clinking softly. Luke stood beside Jake, heart pounding as the vampire's crimson gaze swept over them. He knew better than to meet those eyes directly; even now, it felt like a death sentence waiting to happen.

"1461. 1482," the guard said, pointing at Luke and Jake. "East wing. Move."

Luke swallowed hard as he stepped forward. The east wing was a labyrinth, its walls decorated with grotesque paintings and tapestries that seemed to writhe under the torchlight. He'd been there before, hauling supplies or scrubbing floors until his hands bled.

This time, as the guard led them through the winding halls, Luke tried to absorb every detail. The tapestries, the locked doors, the patterns on the floor. His mind mapped each twist and turn, clinging to the hope that someday, this knowledge might save them.

As they passed one of the side rooms, Luke caught a glimpse of the grotesque power dynamics that ruled the mansion. A vampire sat in a high-backed, crimson chair, his pale fingers combing lazily through the hair of a young woman kneeling at his feet. She was wearing an intricate black dress, more decoration than clothing, her head bowed, her hands folded neatly on her lap.

Luke forced himself to look away, but Jake didn't.

"She doesn't even flinch," Jake muttered under his breath, his voice low but filled with something Luke couldn't quite name—anger, maybe pity.

"Keep moving," the guard snapped, his voice like a whip.

But Jake didn't move right away. His steps slowed, his eyes lingering on the woman.

Luke nudged him sharply, and Jake blinked, shaking himself out of whatever trance had gripped him. They hurried to catch up to the guard, who gave them a warning glance but said nothing more.

"She looked dead inside," Jake said after a moment, his voice hollow.

"They all do," Luke replied. His tone was flat, mechanical. He didn't dare let the words carry weight, not here.

But Jake fell silent, his jaw clenched, his fists tightening at his sides.

They turned another corner, and the corridor opened into a vast hall lit by flickering torches. The east wing loomed ahead, its doors carved with images of fanged beasts devouring prey. For all its grandeur, it was a mausoleum—a monument to the living dead.

Jake leaned close to Luke, his voice a whisper, barely audible. "One day, we'll get out of here."

Luke didn't reply. He didn't want to crush Jake's fragile hope, but he couldn't feed it either. Not yet.