"So, what the hell do we do?" Renzo whispered, voice barely audible beneath the thunderous roar of waves crashing against the vessel's iron hull.
"The first thing we need to do... is just to figure out the surroundings." Zay muttered back, eyes scanning the room.
Before Renzo could respond, the vessel lurched downward violently—waves slammed into it from every side like battering rams, each strike groaning through the bones of the ship.
A guard stomped over to their cell, fury in his steps. With a twisted grin, he unfurled his whip and snapped it through the bars, striking a prisoner across the chest. Flesh split open instantly, blood spraying against the wall as the man howled in agony.
"Filthy scum!" the guard snarled, lashing again. The next strike tore deeper, leaving the man crumpled and gasping, his shirt already torn to ribbons, his skin now little more than pulp.
Zay and Renzo didn't need to look at each other to feel the weight of their situation. Their own bodies were already marked—long, angry whip scars stretched across their backs, interlaced with shallow stab wounds that had barely clotted. The wounds throbbed with pain.
Their clothes were nearly useless—thin, dark-brown tunics so loose they barely hung to their frames, soaked with filth and salt. The pants were torn-off remnants of something longer, hacked to knee length, crusted with mud and blood, providing no warmth, no protection—just a layer of misery.
Between them, a small, grimy porthole rattled as the ship dropped again. A colossal wave struck—and water blasted through the tiny window like a cannon. It drenched them instantly.
But this wasn't normal water. It was glacial, unnatural—like death itself became liquified. It carved through the air and slammed into their wounds, sending a surge of agony through their spines. It felt like a thousand needles—no, a thousand venom-tipped stingers—piercing into every fresh lash and cut. Their backs arched. Their lips parted in silent screams.
Another wave crashed. More water shot in.
Their hair clung to their faces. They began to shiver, bodies trembling uncontrollably as the icy flood dragged the heat from their skin and twisted the pain into pure agony.
As they shivered uncontrollably, one of the other prisoners twisted his lips into a grin and let out a cruel laugh.
"What a bunch of bitches!" he cackled, his voice cracking as he jabbed a finger toward Zay and Renzo. "They can't even handle some water!"
Another prisoner beside him snorted and leaned forward, eyeing the two trembling figures. "Pathetic," he muttered, before breaking into his own wheezing laughter.
But their mockery died in their throats the moment two guards turned sharply toward them. Cold amusement flickered in their eyes as they approached the cell. Without a word, they unfurled their whips and let them sing.
The first strike sounded like lightning tearing across the sky—then the second, the third. Flesh ripped like wet parchment. Blood sprayed onto the floor and splattered across the cell walls. The prisoners' dirty orange tunics were shredded, torn away in ribbons that fluttered with each crack of the whip, revealing raw, flayed muscle beneath.
"Filthy... fucking... rats!" one of the guards bellowed, winding his arm back with a snarl. "Don't you... dare find joy in this world!"
Crack. Crack. Crack... Crack... Crack. Crack.
Six consecutive lashes carved bloody lines across the the first prisoner—the one who had started laughing. His screams rose high and sharp, echoing through the iron belly of the ship.
The second guard joined in, and together they painted the prisoner's chest in blood. The rhythm was sickening.
Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack...
Twelve more savage strikes followed. The prisoner writhed, his body spasming uncontrollably. Blood streamed down his legs, pooling at his feet. Every breath he tried to take came with a gurgled scream.
Then one of the guards stopped. He reached into a pocket on his deep blue uniform and pulled out a small, glinting blade. He crouched, lifting the end of his whip—and with unnatural calmness, attached the blade to the tip.
Zay's eyes narrowed. Renzo's stomach turned.
The guard gave the whip one final tug to ensure the blade was secure… then reared back and hurled it forward.
"N-NO—!"
The sharpened tip tore into the prisoner's neck with a wet thunk. The blade dug in deep—twisting slightly as the guard yanked it back, tearing flesh open like his neck was some sort of fruit. The prisoner screamed, voice shattering as blood spurted from his throat, painting the floor in dark crimson.
Zay and Renzo didn't speak. They didn't move. They didn't even try to breathe very often.
Another wave slammed into the ship. Ice-cold water gushed through the porthole and doused their backs. But the pain of the cold water felt like a grain of sand compared to a vast desert of sand, the horror of human torture just a few feet from them.
The prisoner's screams began to gurgle. His voice broke into half-choked sobs. He tried to get away, but the shackles held him fast.
The guard wasn't done.
He struck again. And again. And again.
The blade-tip lash embedded itself into his neck, his shoulder, his chest—each time leaving behind a new river of blood. His body convulsed, jerking like a marionette on frayed strings.
Then, at last, the guard stepped back.
Without ceremony, he pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the cell. He stepped inside, calm and casual—like this was routine. Without a word, he drew his short sword and drove it through the prisoner's chest, straight through the heart.
The man's eyes widened. Blood spilled from his lips, his chest, his nose. Then he fell forward, lifeless.
Lightning flared through the porthole, casting stark silhouettes of the prisoners onto the cold floor. Rain pounded the ship like a divine execution—judgment crashing down from the heavens to claim the soul deemed unworthy of life. Thunder followed in its wake, booming so violently it rivaled cannon fire, shaking the vessel to its bones.
The guard stood over the lifeless body, eyes wide, breath heavy—and then he moaned. A low, depraved sound that slithered through the air like spreading rot.
Then came the laughter. Deep. Unhinged. It tore from his throat in wild peals that echoed through the cell, chilling every soul inside to the core.
He slowly pulled the sword free and looked around at the other prisoners. All of them had gone still. Their eyes stared straight ahead. None dared look up.
No one spoke.
No one even breathed loudly.
Because none of them wanted to suffer the same fate as that unlucky bastard.
As the ship rocked violently, its groans echoing like the death rattle of some ancient, forsaken beast, the guard cast one final look across the cell. He stood firm, his boots slick with blood, then flicked his short sword with a sharp motion—splattering crimson droplets across the cold iron floor.
Silence followed. Thick, choking silence.
No one moved. No one dared to breathe too loudly. The air felt tight, like the whole cell held its breath.
The guard licked his lips, his eyes glinting with sick pleasure. Then, slowly, he turned away. With a clink of metal, he locked the cell behind him, slipped the key into his pocket, and vanished into the storm-rattled corridors.
As his footsteps faded, the tension finally cracked.
Every prisoner exhaled at once—a shuddering, almost reluctant release—as if the air itself had turned to ice in their lungs. Then, lightning flashed through the small porthole.
The cell lit up in a single, searing burst.
Their eyes met in that instant—Zay, Renzo, and the others. Stark silhouettes etched across the blood-streaked walls, their shadows dancing against the cold iron floor like silent ghosts. None of them spoke. They didn't need to.
In that shared look, an understanding nod passed between them.
If they didn't escape…
They were all going to die here.
Just like the poor bastard lying broken and dead on the floor, still shackled.
'...This place is gonna be a bitch to escape from,' Zay thought.
He watched in silence. The guards moved with eerie precision—almost robotic. As if they weren't human at all, just spirits, following predetermined paths from death. Or maybe they'd just been trained to move that way. It was hard to tell.
After fifteen minutes of observation, all of the guards disappeared from the chamber where the cell was held at. Zay began counting—every second, by the second.
One... two... three... four... five...
He continued, his eyes sharp, unmoving—until a guard finally emerged from one of the four corridors the others had vanished into.
'One minute, fifteen seconds.'
That's how long the guards were gone for. Zay's eyes locked onto the figure stepping into the chamber—it was a woman emerging from the corridor.
'There wasn't a woman among the guards earlier… that must mean they probably had a shift swap… or something,' Zay thought.
Thunder roared overhead, shaking the very bones of the ship. The vessel pitched violently, nosediving into a massive wave before lurching back upright. Water slammed against the hull like a war drum, but the prisoners held firm, gripping the edge of the wooden bench they were all seated on, their knuckles pale and strained.
More footsteps echoed.
More guards emerged from the other corridors, and just like her, each one looked different from those before them—new crimson uniforms without an insignia, new faces, new menace in their eyes.
Zay leaned into Renzo's ear, his voice low beneath the storm.
"One minute, fifteen seconds. That's the time I've calculated… the window we have before the new ones come in, after the others leave."
Renzo didn't speak. He only nodded once—sharp, silent.
If Zay's timing was right, they had seventy-five seconds to break free…