They didn’t kill me straight away. No, that wouldn’t have been enough to satisfy them.

The cruelty they harbored went beyond mere death. They wanted me to break, to unravel slowly, piece by piece, until nothing was left but a hollow shell.

The room was dark, so dark it swallowed every thought. Cold. Empty. I’d been through ups and downs before, my life swaying back and forth between chaos and control. But even in the worst of times, the problems would come and go, like the tide. This was different. This wasn’t a storm to weather. This was a void. A prison not just of iron and stone, but of my own mind.

And for the first time, I couldn’t escape it.

My hands were bound behind my back, cuffs biting into the flesh of my wrists. My shoulders screamed in protest, but they couldn’t overpower the noise in my head. I knew, even without touching it, that the implant containing Infra still sat somewhere deep in my skull. But it had been turned off. Silenced. Hadeon hadn’t spoken a word since my capture, meaning he couldn’t.

Slime had disappeared long before the betrayal. And for the first time since I had awakened in this wretched world, I was truly alone.

I wanted to scream at them, beg for death, anything to end this slow decay of my sanity. But no voice would come. My throat was dry, raw from the gag they’d kept on me for what felt like an eternity. My spine crackled and popped with every breath, twisted from being hunched over in this tiny, airless cell. I hadn’t straightened my legs in days. Or weeks? There was no way to know anymore. The joints in my knees had fused into an agonizing bend, my limbs cramping into permanent knots.

But the physical pain was just a whisper compared to the war inside my head.

When they first brought me in, they beat me—no, they took their time. A group of knights, fists clenched, no auras. They wanted to feel the impact. They wanted the satisfaction of flesh meeting flesh, of bone cracking under pressure. I was a traitor to them, someone who had been found with their leader’s decapitated head beside me. They didn’t want my death to be quick or clean. No, they wanted to taste my suffering.

I don’t remember much after the first few blows. I blacked out long before they were finished. When I woke, my body was stripped bare of any humanity. No clothing. Just my skin, bruised and bloodied, exposed to the chill of their disdain. They cleaned my wounds with urine. That I remember. The sting, the smell. The sound of their laughter. And then they bound me—cuffed my limbs, wrapped a noose around my neck, tight enough to choke, but loose enough to keep me alive.

They ripped my nails off, one by one. I only felt the first two before the pain dragged me into unconsciousness. When I came to, there was a bag over my head, stiff with sweat and blood.

If they hadn’t covered my eyes, they probably would have kept going—burned the images of their cruelty into my brain so I’d never forget. But the bag spared me. I didn’t have to see. I didn’t have to know.

When I woke up in this prison, the silence was worse than anything they had done. I hadn’t heard another soul since the day I was captured. Not even my own voice. The cell door would creak open from time to time, but no one ever came inside. No footsteps, no voices. Just the distant clang of metal and the mocking sound of the door sliding shut. It was like they were reminding me that I was forgotten. That no one cared.

My thoughts started to wander, searching for something, anything, to hold onto. But there was nothing. Every emotion I had felt—rage, despair, grief, hatred—had bled out of me. I was numb. A hollow echo of the person I used to be. The betrayal I had endured was almost bearable now because my mind wouldn’t let me dwell on it.

Instead, I began to consume myself. My sanity crumbling bit by bit, gnawed away by the isolation, the cold, the endless stretch of silence. I chewed on my thoughts like a starving animal, desperate to hold onto anything that resembled reason.

But there was nothing left.

I am never getting out of here. This place—this black hole of a prison—is all I will ever know. My thoughts flicker with the images of death, my own, my captors’. The idea of death used to terrify me, but now it feels like the only release. The only way out. But they won’t give me that mercy. No, they’ll let me rot here, alone, until the weight of my thoughts drags me under completely. Until I choke on the darkness, suffocated by the walls that close in more each day.

I had been moving too fast. My life had spun out of control, hurtling towards this inevitable end. And now, I’m paying the price. I used to think there was a reason for everything. That maybe, just maybe, I could find a way to fight back, to rise again.

But I was wrong.

Twice now, my life has been taken from me. The first time, I fought. I raged. I burned with the need to reclaim what was mine. But this time… this time, the fire has gone out. And all that’s left is the cold.

⥁

The darkness is alive. I know it.

It breathes. It moves. It presses against me like a second skin, thick and suffocating. I try to move, but there’s no room. My knees are drawn up to my chest, my back pressed against cold, damp stone.

I can’t stretch. I can’t even shift without scraping my skin against the rough surface. I’ve lost count of the days. I think it’s been centuries. Time has no meaning here, not without light, not without sound.

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The silence. It’s maddening. I’d give anything to hear something, anything—the drip of water, the scuttle of a rat, my own heartbeat. But it’s as if the world outside my cell has vanished. Only the sound of my breath keeps me company. Shallow, ragged. Sometimes, I hold it, just to see if the silence can swallow me whole. It always does.

I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be clothed, to feel warmth, to feel anything other than this cold. It seeps into my bones, gnaws at my skin. Every inch of me aches, cramped and raw. I shift a little, my body scraping against the stone, but it only makes things worse. The rough edges dig into my back, my legs. I can’t escape it. I can’t escape anything.

I try to focus on my thoughts, but even they are slipping away. I can’t remember my name. I think I had one once. Didn’t I? Or was that someone else? It feels like a dream—some distant, fading memory of a person I might have been. I don’t know who I am anymore. All I know is this darkness, this small, suffocating space that won’t let me breathe.

Sometimes, I think I hear things—voices, whispers just beyond the walls. But when I strain to listen, there’s nothing. Just the void. Am I imagining it? Or are they real, those whispers, mocking me, waiting for me to break? I don’t know. I don’t know what’s real anymore.

My hands, they don’t feel like my hands. When I move them, it’s like they belong to someone else. They brush against the cold stone, numb, lifeless. I claw at the walls sometimes, just to remind myself that I’m still here, still trapped. But the pain, even that feels distant now, like it’s happening to someone else. I’m fading. I’m disappearing into the black.

I close my eyes, but it doesn’t matter. There’s no difference here. Eyes open, eyes closed—it’s all the same. I wonder if I’ll ever see again. If I even remember what light looks like. Maybe there is no light. Maybe it never existed. Maybe I was born in this cell, and the world outside is just a lie I tell myself to stay sane.

But I’m not sane, am I?

No. I feel it slipping. Slowly, quietly, like sand through fingers. My mind is unraveling, fraying at the edges. Thoughts don’t stick anymore. They drift, float away like smoke, leaving nothing behind. Soon, there’ll be nothing left of me. Just the cold. Just the dark. Just this cell.

⥁

The door groaned and screeched, a sound that clawed through the silence like nails on stone. A sound. A sound! It vibrated through me, reawakening something I hadn’t felt in… how long? Time had dissolved into nothing here, a black fog that wrapped itself around my mind and squeezed. I wanted more of the noise, needed more. But my body, lifeless and numb, refused to move. Not a single inch.

The weight of my own ribs pressed against the cold, unyielding floor, sharp as razors beneath my skin, threatening to puncture through. How long had I been lying like this? Curled up like a broken toy. Time didn’t exist in the dark. Darkness never told me the truth.

He was a cruel friend, but a reliable one. Always there, always watching, though he never came closer. He’d let me stew in the silence, never warming, never speaking. I never offended him, never pushed too hard. Yet still, he kept his distance. But that’s okay. He’ll come around. He has to. We all break, eventually. He’ll be just like me. Just like I became.

I felt my lips crack open, though I wasn’t sure if I was speaking or just thinking aloud.

“Can this even be called a fall from grace? Weak to pathetic isn’t really a fall, is it?”

“Bring him.”

Warmth.

No. No, no, no! I don’t want warmth. I hate warmth. Why were they taking me from the cold? From the silence. From my friend. The darkness. I was going to make him my best friend, I was so close. We had an understanding. I didn’t want to leave him, not now. There’s no reason to. I have everything I need here. They can't take me.

They can't.

But why couldn’t I speak? Why couldn’t I scream at them to stop? My mouth remained sealed shut, the words trapped in my throat. My mind raced, frantic, but nothing came out. It’s because they pulled me away. Pulled me from my home.

This was their fault.

The smells of the outside world assaulted me, flooding in like a tide of filth. Sickening. Sweet, inviting. I gagged on it. Where had the staleness gone? The rotting stench of my own filth? They were taking everything from me. Piece by piece. Stealing it.

Light.

Light crashed over me, burning, tearing at my skin like fire. It was blinding, overwhelming, as if it had claws, slicing through my eyes and sinking deep into my brain. I had only just met him, this brutal enemy of darkness, and already he hated me. Why? What had I done? What had I done to deserve this assault?

My body creaked and cracked as they forced me to unfurl, like an ancient machine grinding back to life after years of stillness. It hurt.

It hurt.

The pain of straightening out, of stretching these twisted limbs, was unbearable. I had been safe, curled up, protected. Now everything was wrong. Out in the open. Vulnerable.

They tossed me onto something cold again, but this time it was too high. Too sharp. My bones rattled beneath the pressure. I winced, wanting to fold back into myself, but the cuffs—no, my body—wouldn’t let me.

“Jai Boone. Do you know your crime?”

Jai Boone… The words floated in the air, strange and unfamiliar. Jai. Boone. Was that me? Was that supposed to be my name? It didn’t sound bad. No, not bad at all. I think Darkness would’ve liked it. He and I could talk about it. I’ll ask him, “Hey, Darkness, they say my name is Jai. What do you think? You like it?”

“Jai Boone, do you know your crime?”

He said it again. Why? Did he want me to thank him for the name?

Why should I?

He took me from my friend, from the darkness, from the silence. I owed him nothing. Nothing but my contempt. I just wanted to go back.

“He’s lost it. Toss him outside and bring a healthier body. We’ll hold the execution and get this over with.”

Lost it? No. No, I hadn’t lost anything. I found something. I found my home. I found the dark, the cold. I found what I needed. They didn’t understand. They couldn't.

They lifted me again, warmth engulfing me, but it didn’t burn this time. It cradled me, carried me, and I felt something inside me shift.

Was it relief? Happiness? No. I don’t remember what those things feel like.

But I knew one thing—they were taking me back. They were bringing me home. I could feel it in my bones, the cold creeping back in, the familiar weight of nothing wrapping itself around me.

I didn’t need light. I didn’t need warmth.

Not anymore.

Darkness was all I had.

Darkness was all I needed.