Three days. Maybe four. Or five.
Kai no longer knew if it was day or night. The light from the trapdoor came and went, irregular as a dying pulse. No pattern. No rhythm. Just flickers of sickly yellow and long hours of dark.
He'd settled into a pattern of his own, more out of necessity than choice.
Wake.
Drink from the rusted pipe in the corner—the only thing keeping him from shriveling. The water was metallic and bitter, and every sip left his lips stinging with copper. But he drank it slow, like a ritual. A sacrament. One that proved he was still alive.
Then, he meditated.
That was the rest of the day. Or most of it.
Breathing. Visualizing. Refining the thought.
Not just a creature anymore. A companion. A tool. A guardian born from need. He imagined it tunneling, pressing through bedrock, curling against him when the cold became unbearable. He whispered ideas aloud. Sometimes barely moving his mouth. Sometimes speaking straight into the stone.
"Keep going."
"Survive."
"Don't let me rot here."
People still came to the trapdoor now and then. Shadows above. Laughter. A splash of piss once. Rocks.
Mocking voices. Never the same ones twice—except one.
A man with a nasal tone and a dry, performative sarcasm. He was always eating something loud. Always called him names .
Kai learned his name through the others. Not thrown down directly, but mentioned.
Admin they called him
One thing he noticed in the lawless city is that there are nicknames people use instead of their real names. Names like rock
Admin, Buzz litho
Strange names indeed
Admin's watching today.
Processing boy's in a mood.
Admin. Apparently one of the staff who ran the intake center. Not there when Kai was first tossed in, but he was present now. Watching. Judging. Bored.
Kai didn't react.
Didn't answer.
Didn't even look up.
He just kept meditating.
Even when the trapdoor slammed. Even when they kicked down bones. Even when his knees ached and his voice cracked from dryness. He kept breathing. Kept refining.
And eventually— he'll escape
-
When he awoke, his arms were empty.
But something hovered in front of him.
A speck. No larger than a firefly. Faintly pulsing.
He blinked, vision blurry, and reached out with trembling fingers. The speck didn't move away. It floated there—weightless, slow—glowing with soft, muted light. Not golden. Not warm. But aware.
It shimmered like condensation in the air. Spiritual, not solid. A half-made thing.
Not eyes. Not claws. No body yet. Just presence. Just potential.
Kai exhaled, slow and ragged. His pulse matched its rhythm—weak, flickering. It was tethered to him somehow. Or maybe birthed from him.
He could feel it. Not in his hands, but deeper—along the edge of his soulprint. Like a signal finally reaching a dying satellite. It didn't speak. It didn't form thoughts.
But it existed.
A spiritual beginning.
Not summoned by command. Not forged through ritual. But drawn out of him. From his hunger. From his will. From that quiet promise whispered in the dark: dig through it. survive.
He didn't smile. Didn't cry.
He just stared at it.
And for the first time in the pit, he wasn't alone.
Not fully.
Not anymore.
The trapdoor creaked open again.
Kai didn't look up. He didn't need to. The sound had its own language now—hinges dragged slow for drama, boots scuffing just above the edge, the faint rustle of a snack wrapper. It was them again.
A trio this time. Two he didn't recognize. One he did.
The one with the smug, stretched-out voice and the ever-present crunch of dried fruit or nuts between sentences. The Processing Center administrator. The one they called "Admin."
"Hey, Muck!" Admin called, voice dripping down like oil. "Still playing house with dirt and ghosts down there?"
A second voice chimed in. "Swear he's gonna start laying eggs if he squats any longer."
Laughter followed, sharp and unkind. Boots shuffled overhead.
Kai sat still, breathing in. Slow. Focused. He felt the tiny presence still floating beside him—dormant. Faint. But there.
He didn't speak.
Didn't flinch.
Admin clicked his tongue. "What's the point if he doesn't bark, huh? Kinda boring."
A third voice muttered something.
Then Kai heard a zipper.
He looked up just in time to see the golden arc of urine falling from the edge of the trapdoor. It splashed across the pit floor with a wet slap. A second stream joined it, hitting the bones and the corner wall. But it was the third stream that struck true.
It hit the puddle.
His puddle.
The one he drank from.
The one that had kept him alive.
It hissed into the mossy water, sending ripples through the shallow pool like acid through memory.
Laughter rained louder than the piss.
"Ohhh, right in the reservoir!" one howled.
Kai stared at it.
The water darkened.
A smell rose faintly where it mixed with fresh rust. It wasn't just filth. They'd eaten something spicy—he could smell it. Pickled onions. Bitter starch.
His hands clenched. But he didn't move.
Didn't rise.
Didn't speak.
Disgust curled through him like an infection. But he clamped it down. Tight. Swallowed it like the metal-taste water he'd endured for days.
"You should thank us," Admin called, zipping up. "Some places don't give you seasoning."
The others laughed harder. A final rock was tossed down, bouncing near his foot.
The trapdoor slammed shut.
Darkness returned.
Silence.
But this time it was heavier.
Kai sat in it. Breathing through his nose. His throat burned. His ankle throbbed. The tiny speck beside him pulsed once, faint and uncertain, as if disturbed by his fury.
"I'm not breaking," he whispered.
The pit could mock him. The world could watch. But he wouldn't let them have his voice.
Not yet.