The stone cell smelled like damp metal and bad decisions.
Tomora dragged a hand down his face, fingers catching on dried blood and sweat. His breath came out sharp, controlled only because he forced it to be.
"Fine," he muttered. Then louder, through clenched teeth, "Fine. I'll do your damn training."
Across the cell, the hooded figure's shoulders lifted in clear satisfaction.
"Good attitude," he said—and immediately leaned back against the wall, folding his arms and closing his eyes.
Tomora blinked.
Once.
Twice.
"…Yo," Tomora said slowly. "Why the hell are you sleeping now?"
One eye slid open beneath the hood, bright with amusement. "C'mon, kid. Get us outta here. I'm counting on you."
Then the eye closed again.
A second later, soft snoring filled the cell.
Tomora stood there, chains clinking faintly as his fingers curled into fists. His jaw tightened so hard it hurt.
"You are unbelievable," he whispered.
The snoring continued. Loud. Comfortable. Almost smug.
Tomora turned away before he did something that would definitely add "public execution" to his list of problems. He started pacing instead, boots scraping against stone, mind racing even faster than his feet.
Think.
The cell. The runes. The chains. The walls—same nullifying material as the collars. No power. No brute force. No obvious weaknesses.
He tried anyway.
He tugged at the chains until his shoulders burned. Nothing. He pressed his palms against the wall, feeling for seams, cracks, anything that felt… wrong.
Nothing.
He closed his eyes and focused inward, trying to reach that shifting place inside him—the place where lightning had once lived, where water had answered his breath.
Silence.
Hours passed.
He tried mimicking the concept of the door—imagining himself as hinges, as space, as the idea of "open."
Nothing.
He cursed. He whispered. He shouted silently into his own skull.
Five hours.
Five miserable, humiliating hours of trying trick after trick, thought after thought, while the hooded figure slept like a spoiled cat.
By the time Tomora slumped against the wall, sweat cooling on his skin, his legs shaking, the frustration felt heavier than the chains.
"Stupid power," he muttered. "Stupid training. Stupid hood."
Behind him, the snoring stopped.
Tomora didn't turn.
There was the soft sound of fabric shifting. A long, exaggerated stretch. Bones cracking.
"Man," the hooded figure said cheerfully, "that was a good nap."
Tomora's eye twitched.
The hooded figure stood, rolled his shoulders, and yawned. "Whew. Alright."
He walked toward the cell door.
Tomora frowned. "What are you doing?"
The man scratched his side. "I gotta pee."
Before Tomora could even process that sentence, the hooded figure reached out—
And opened the cage door with one arm.
No struggle. No power flare. Just a quiet click and the heavy door swung open like it had been waiting for him.
Silence crashed into the room.
Tomora's eyes went wide. His mouth opened. Nothing came out.
The hooded figure froze.
Slowly—very slowly—he looked at the door. Then at Tomora. Then back at the door.
"…Huh," he said.
Then, awkwardly, he closed it again.
Click.
He turned around with a laugh that was just a little too forced. "Oops. Looks like they forgot to lock it."
Tomora stared at him.
Stared.
His face went through several expressions in rapid succession: disbelief, confusion, realization, rage.
"You—" His voice cracked. "You opened it."
"Nooo," the hooded figure said quickly. "I mean. Probably not. Old locks, you know? Medieval craftsmanship. Very unreliable."
"I have been trying to open that door since MORNING," Tomora snapped. "I pulled it. I pushed it. I stared at it like an idiot. And you expect me to believe it was unlocked?"
The hooded figure shrugged. "Look at the bright side. We're free."
Tomora lunged forward as far as the chains allowed. "WAIT TILL WE GET OUT OF HERE, YOU HOODED DEVIL. I'LL KILL YOU."
The hooded figure burst out laughing. Not mocking—just genuinely amused, doubled over slightly, one hand on his stomach.
"Relax, relax," he said between chuckles. "Sometimes the best moves are the ones nobody expects."
He tapped his temple. "Use your mind."
Tomora growled. "I used my mind for FIVE HOURS."
"Exactly," the man replied calmly. "And that's why it worked."
Tomora paused.
The hooded figure tilted his head. "You weren't supposed to open the door."
"…What?"
"You were supposed to realize you couldn't." The man gestured around the cell. "This place isn't meant to be beaten with power or tricks. It's meant to wear you down. Make you desperate."
Tomora frowned, anger slowly twisting into something else. "…Then why open it?"
The hooded figure smirked. "Because I wanted to pee."
Tomora stared at him.
Then, against his will, a short, sharp laugh escaped his throat. He immediately scowled. "I hate you."
"Yeah, yeah," the man waved him off, unlocking the door properly this time. The chains fell away with a heavy clang, biting one last time before releasing him.
Tomora rubbed his wrists, wincing. "You're lucky I'm exhausted."
"Oh, I know," the hooded figure said. "That's why I waited."
They slipped into the corridor, shadows swallowing them whole. Voices echoed somewhere distant. Torches flickered, casting warped shapes along the walls.
Tomora leaned close, whispering furiously. "Next time you leave a note and vanish, I'm burning your hood."
The hooded figure chuckled softly as they moved. "Next time, try opening the door without touching it."
Tomora froze mid-step. "What?"
The man didn't look back. "maybe use that big head of yours."
Somewhere ahead, a guard walked by the cell they closed it it was dark.
Tomora grinned.
"Oh," he muttered, rolling his shoulders despite the pain. "I'm definitely killing you later."
They disappeared into the shadows, calculated steps and danger trailing behind them like a promise.