Click.

Carefully, I reset the lock and withdrew my hands, gripping the lockpick with cautious precision.

By the fifth day, I had already gained the ability to escape this cage at will. The ropes binding me could be undone, the lock was simple to pick. But I hadn't made a move.

This is a pirate ship. The constant swaying underfoot serves as a reminder that we're still at sea. Escaping doesn't promise safety—or even survival. If I'm caught, they might lock me somewhere truly inescapable.

I lifted my head, my breaths labored and uneven, blurring my vision. Beyond the iron bars lay the same impenetrable darkness as always: filthy, chaotic, and cluttered. These are the spoils of piracy, poorly managed because they won't be kept for long. There's only one explanation—they'll dock soon.

For now, staying here is the safer choice.

Leaning against the wall, I carefully slid the lockpick back into my braid, securing it tightly.

But...

My gaze lingered on the lock. Fever burned through my body, relentless and oppressive, making it hard to focus.

Day sixteen… How much longer do I have to wait?

"Cough, cough, cough…"

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No, not yet. It's still not time to escape.

I stared at the unchanging surroundings. Frustration mixed with exhaustion as my heavy eyelids betrayed me, and sleep dragged me back into its suffocating darkness.

...

...

Bang!

A sudden, violent jolt shook me awake.

"Raaagh!" "Wahahaha!" "Bark, bark!"

The noise was deafening, impossible to ignore. My body still burned with fever, and even lifting my head felt like an insurmountable task. But this was no time to wallow.

I forced my eyes open. The chaos in the storeroom didn't surprise me—I'd already pieced it together from the noise. What did catch my attention, however, was the behavior of my cellmates.

Normally, they barely reacted to anything, saving their frenzied energy for mealtimes. But now? They clung to the iron bars, their faces etched with anxiety.

"What's going on?"

My voice was barely more than a whisper, but it was enough to reach her ears.

"R-Renee-nya…"

The most spirited among them looked at me with a strained smile, one that failed to mask her fear.

"Maybe… the ship's docked."

The way her eyes darted to the side as she said "maybe" told me she already knew.

For slaves, docking doesn't mean freedom—it means something far worse. Life aboard this ship, as miserable as it is, might still be better than what waits beyond.

Who could say?

"I see… cough..."

That was all I needed to know. I turned away, my attention leaving them.

The stench of the air was as foul as ever, but it was noticeably colder now than when I first arrived. The change in weather was one reason, but there was something else. If the geography here mirrors my homeland, then this ship is heading north.

I tilted my head back, staring at the black ceiling above me. It's futile—here, at the very bottom of the ship, there's no way to glimpse what's happening on deck.

But imagination is a weapon. Thinking is my only weapon.

To stop thinking—

That would be no different from death.