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Chapter 7 - [7] New chains

Wang's eyes fluttered open to a flickering yellow light overhead.

His whole body ached—dry throat, pounding skull, raw nerves lit up like faulty wiring. It felt like he'd been run over by a freight train, then stapled back together with rusted nails.

A sharp, electric pulse spiked through the back of his skull the moment he tried to sit up.

"FUCK—!" he hissed through gritted teeth, slamming back down onto the cold concrete.

His head throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat. Something had hit him—hard. A flash of the desert. A buggy. A fall. Then nothing. Just that creeping darkness that swallowed everything.

Now, the cold hard floor greeted him like an old enemy.

He blinked a few more times. His vision slowly sharpened.

He was in a room—small, maybe four meters by three. Bare concrete walls. No windows. One overhead light that buzzed with dying fluorescent flickers. No decorations. Just the essentials.

A metal bucket sat on his left.

Toilet, he guessed. Or maybe a twisted joke of one.

In front of him was a plastic bowl.

Steam still rose from it.

Food.

Wang pushed himself upright with his left hand, breathing like each rib was cracked. His right side was dead weight—no surprise there. The stump was freshly bandaged now. Someone had cleaned it. Treated it. Wrapped it in gauze that wasn't soaked with filth.

Where the fuck am I?

His arms were chained—thick iron cuffs around each wrist. The chain itself ran down to a metal ring bolted into the wall behind him. It was just long enough for him to sit upright and maybe lean forward a little—but not stand.

He tugged at it half-heartedly. It rattled back, tight and solid.

He could barely lift his head without that stabbing sensation returning to the back of his skull like an icepick.

And yet...

The smell of the food—plain rice and what looked like slices of boiled meat—was driving him insane. His stomach twisted and growled like an angry animal.

He hadn't eaten since that goddamn ration bar back in the buggy. He didn't know how long it had been—days? Hours?

Wang didn't wait.

He crawled forward, dragging the chain with him, every muscle in his back screaming.

He grabbed the bowl and shoved the food into his mouth with shaking fingers.

No utensils.

Just primal hunger.

The rice was sticky, the meat rubbery, but it could've been filet mignon for all he cared. He devoured it like a dog that hadn't been fed in weeks, grains sticking to his face and fingers, hot broth spilling down his chin.

He finished in seconds.

Breathing heavy.

Staring at the empty bowl.

Still hungry.

Still in pain.

Still fucked.

And now fully aware.

He wasn't dead.

But he sure as shit wasn't free.

***

After only God knows how long, the heavy wooden door creaked open.

Wang squinted as soft light spilled in from the hallway, cutting through the flickering buzz of the single bulb overhead. A figure stepped into view—young, slight, but confident in her steps.

She was maybe sixteen, seventeen at most. A lean native girl, barefoot, with short brown hair that curled just under her ears, messy in an endearing way. Her tan skin had the rough sun-kissed glow of someone who'd lived outdoors her whole life. She wore a black tank top with dust-stained leather shorts and a small hunting knife strapped to her thigh. A worn pouch hung off her belt, and a tan streak of warpaint ran from just beneath her left eye down to her jaw.

Strapped to her back—a fucking sniper rifle.

Not a toy. Not a makeshift pipe gun. A real, military-grade bolt-action rifle with sand-colored paint and etched feather patterns along the barrel. The leather sling looked handmade.

Wang stared, barely comprehending, still reeling from blood loss and the revelation of being... here.

She froze when she saw him.

"Oh shit," she breathed. "You're awake."

Her voice was soft, surprised—not frightened. Australian accent, with a native lilt in the vowels.

Wang blinked hard, swallowing dry air. "Yeah, no thanks to whoever the fuck chained me up like a dog."

She looked toward his bandaged stump, then back at his face.

"I'm... sorry about that," she said, stepping forward cautiously. "It was just a safety thing. You were unconscious when my father found you. Bleeding out. Didn't even know if you were still alive. We patched you up, gave you food, water."

"Right," Wang muttered. "Nice of him to fix me just so he could chain me to the wall."

She winced, then crouched a few feet away from him, arms resting on her knees.

"He's cautious around branded ones."

Wang narrowed his eyes. "Branded?"

She pointed at her own neck, then nodded toward his.

"You've got the letter 'M' burned into your neck. You didn't notice?"

He instinctively reached up with his good hand, fingers brushing the patch of scarred skin under his jaw. It was tender. He hadn't seen it in a mirror. The other prisoners had talked about it, but everything had been a blur since the boat. Since the desert. Since the pain.

"What the fuck does it mean?"

She hesitated.

"My name's Aiyana, by the way," she said, trying to shift the tone. "My dad's one of the watchmen up here. We live off the land, outside the city zones. He used to be a ranger before... you know, everything went to shit."

Wang stared. "You're avoiding the question."

She sighed.

Then pointed again. "That brand—'M'—stands for murder."

Wang blinked.

Once.

Then again.

"...What?"

"Murder," Aiyana repeated gently, her voice steady but not judgmental. "Every prisoner sent to the island gets branded with a letter. One letter per crime. S is for smuggling, F is fraud, A is arson, R for rape..."

She trailed off, watching his reaction.

Wang didn't move.

The room felt like it shrank around him.

Murder?

He felt his pulse pound against the inside of his skull. A loud ringing started in his ears.

"I didn't—" he started, but his voice cracked. "I don't... remember..."

Aiyana's expression softened. "You really don't?"

"No," he said, staring at the wall. "I don't remember fucking anything from before the boat. Some flashes. Some heat. A courtroom maybe. It's all just noise."

She stood slowly, approaching the edge of his chain's length, crouching again.

"You were branded. That means they convicted you. Someone thought you killed a person."

"No," Wang muttered. "I don't fucking believe that."

"I'm not saying you did it," she said quickly. "I'm just saying... that's what the system marked you for. And people here—outside the cities—they see that letter, and they assume."

"Jeez," he breathed.

His hand gripped the chain, knuckles whitening.

"I thought it was for 'male,'" he laughed bitterly. "Or maybe 'misfit' or some other dumb shit. I thought—fuck, I didn't kill anyone."

He looked up at her suddenly. "Did I?"

Aiyana hesitated. "I don't know you. I just know what they carved into you."

He looked back down, chest heaving.

She sat beside him now, cross-legged, close enough that he could hear the shift of leather against her skin.

"Listen... people out there? They'd have left you for dead if they saw the 'M.' But my dad... he still believes in giving people a chance. A real one. Even the branded."

He stared at the food bowl.

"Then why chain me up?"

She shrugged. "Wouldn't you?"

Wang didn't answer.

The silence was thick, heavy with the weight of things unremembered.

Finally, she stood up again. "I'll bring you more food later. You should rest."

As she turned toward the door, Wang spoke.

"Aiyana?"

She paused, glancing back.

"Thanks," he muttered, eyes still fixed on the floor. "For not freaking out. Or shooting me."

She smiled faintly. "I only shoot people when I know they deserve it."

Then she was gone, the door creaking shut behind her with a soft thud.

Wang leaned his head back against the wall.

His mouth felt like ash.

M for Murder.

And he didn't even know who the hell he was.

Q: What would you do next if you were Wang in this situation?

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