Bam.
"Aghh!"
A kick woke me up.
Thud.
I was shoved against the wall.
My whole body screamed—not from the kick itself, but from everything before it.
My eyes opened instantly, vision still half-blinded by swelling. Dried blood clung to my skin, it felt sticky.
I tried to move my arms out of instinct.
But—
"Argh."
Pain stopped me.
My broken bones protested, the pain was sharp and overwhelming.
I clenched my jaw under the immense pain.
It felt like my bones cracked further each time I moved my arms, pieces of them cutting into skin.
I turned my head despite the agony in my jaw, forcing myself to look at the guards.
My vision was still obscured, but I could see four silhouettes.
The one in the front appeared a bit clearer than the rest.
Scarface.
He bent down, picking a piece of paper off the ground as he spoke.
"Awake, little noble?"
He laughed as he spoke, and the others joined him.
Step.
He stepped closer.
His voice turned firm, and a smell of alcohol cut through the air every time he breathed.
"How is it on the ground? Comfortable? A noble fallen all the way down to a slave. How sad, right? Hahah."
Another voice chimed in.
"Abandoned even by his own family. Hahah."
Scarface nudged me with his boot.
Right at my stomach, into my broken ribs.
"Arghh!"
Pain exploded, it felt like a bone piercing my flesh, and my body jerked back.
He pulled his boot back and continued, amused.
"Don't nobles usually bribe the magistrates when their little hobbies are exposed? Seems like your family gave up on you."
He crouched down, staring directly at me.
"Nobles love saying their blood is purer. Their talent better. That they're smarter."
He chuckled.
"In the end, you're all the same."
He laughed sharply.
"You know who our best customers are?" he continued. "Nobles. Even though the Empire forbids slavery, they still come. Pockets full, ready to buy their next toy. Hahah."
He paused for a moment, letting his words hang.
Rustle.
He then lifted the papers in his hand and waved them in front of my face.
It was the newspaper.
"We read something funny, you know?"
His mouth then made an 'o' shape as if he remembered something.
"Oh, right—hahah. Guess you didn't have the time to read this yourself. You were quite busy, right? Hahah."
The others laughed with him before he straightened again and began reading aloud in a flat, mocking voice.
"He is not part of our family. He is a disgrace. He is not our blood. We took him in out of pity."
"Hahah!"
Their laughter echoed in the cell.
My focus sharpened as he spoke.
Those words—
He folded the paper and tossed it aside.
"That was the Marquis' statement," he said casually. "When they asked him about his bastard son."
Those words shouldn't have affected me anymore.
But they did.
The tribunal.
The verdict.
Anton's cold voice.
The memories resurfaced again, stabbing into my heart, but before I could sink into it, was I grabbed by the hair, head yanked upward.
"Argh!"
It hurt.
Drip.
His voice rang.
"Look, he's crying."
Another round of laughter broke out.
Drip.
I hadn't even realized it myself.
Drip.
That I cried.
I thought my tears had long dried up.
But the tears slid down anyway, warming my cheeks before falling to the ground.
Drip.
He continued.
"We'll sell you in a few hours."
My focus snapped at his words.
'Leaving?'
'This place?'
'This hell?'
Hope sparked—small and light.
Then—
He crushed it.
"So we get our payback now," he said calmly. "Before we send you away."
The flatness of his voice made my body tremble.
'Pay back?'
I didn't understand what he meant.
But it didn't matter.
Thud.
His hand released my hair, making me fall down again.
A second later, firm hands grabbed my arms.
"Aghh!"
A cry of pain escaped me as my bones curshed further under their tight grip.
I tried to resist, but moving my arms only brought more pain, my legs were too weak, and I gave up, letting them do what they wanted.
They dragged me up, turned me toward the wall, and forced me down until I was kneeling, upper body bent forward.
Rustle.
My shirt was pulled up and over my head, blinding me.
I didn't resist it.
I couldn't.
They were just too strong.
Everything turned dark, and cold air brushed against my exposed skin.
A pair of hands pressed my shoulders down until my forehead touched the floor.
The position stretched my arms further, pain flared up.
"Argh!"
I was then held down in that position, blinded, with only darkness around me.
They didn't speak.
Step.
I only heard breathing and footsteps coming closer.
Then—
A voice cut through.
"Hold him tight. It'll turn unreadable if he moves."
The guards restraining me laughed.
"Hahah. Want it to look good or what?"
The voice chuckled.
"You know how nobles love fancy decorations."
Then—
Cold touched my back.
A hand.
Then metal.
Then came the pain.
"AGHH!"
Slrrsh.
The pain was unlike anything before.
Something sharp cut through my skin and into my flesh. My back burned, then cooled as something wet ran down it.
I thrashed, limbs flaring around.
I tried to move.
No, I needed to move—move away from that pain.
My body trembled, head shaking left and right as I clenched my jaw.
But another cry escaped me.
"ARGHH!"
The guards held me down firmly, but I moved nevertheless. Instead of the guards—the shackles reacted to my resistance.
They tightened viciously, cutting into my flesh.
His hand moved again—
Slrrsh.
Another deep cut into my flesh.
"GHAA—"
The collar constricted around my throat, cutting me off mid-scream.
My breathing turned shallow and desperate. Screams turned into gasps, then died down completely.
Slrrsh.
His hand kept moving, knife cutting further into my back.
Carefully.
Slowly.
Precise.
As if he was carving something.
My body shook uncontrollably through it all, consciousness wavering.
Then, as the darkness was about to engulf me and take the pain away.
"Boy."
He spoke.
"You remember counting, right?"
He spoke calmly, the knife pausing as he spoke.
"Let's try something different."
Slrrsh.
The knife moved again, cutting a deep line into my flesh.
His calm voice accompanied the pain.
"What letter am I writing?"
Slrrsh.
The blade cut further, another line.
My jaw clenched, it felt like I was being skinned alive.
Then like the devil's whisper.
"If you guess right—we'll stop."
'Stop?'
Everything vanished for a moment at this word.
There was no pain.
Only that single word.
Stop.
I wanted them to stop.
I begged for it.
I would do anything.
Just for that pain to end.
Tap.
A hand tapped my shoulder, it felt strangely warm.
"Go on. Guess."
The pain returned then.
Slrrsh.
Another cut.
My lips trembled as I forced something out of my throat.
"...A."
I prayed for it to be right.
For them to stop.
But—
Nobody heard my prayer.
"Wrong."
Another cut.
Then the next.
It hurt.
It hurt so much that everything turned dark.
The pain seemed to vanish with every passing second, and my body felt lighter and lighter.
Then—
"What is it now?"
His voice rang again, clear enough to pull me back from wherever I was going.
My lips trembled.
"...G."
The knife paused.
Silence.
Then—
"Wrong."
The knife moved and cut again.
A cut.
Pain.
Darkness.
Then another question.
Every time I neared unconsciousness, he stopped and asked.
The same question.
I answered.
And every single time—
"Wrong."
And the knife would move again.
Over and over.
Again and again.
Then—
The knife stopped again.
But there was no question.
Only his cold, pleased voice.
"Looks good," he said, brushing fingers over my wounds. "What do you think, Tass? Quite the artwork, right?"
A chuckle broke out from somewhere.
"Hmm. You'd make a fine artist. Hahah."
Pat.
His hand patted my back as he stood up.
"Hahah. I always knew I had some kind of talent for this."
Another voice chimed in.
"Let me do one too."
Step.
"Go on. Just don't ruin my work."
And—
The knife returned.
***
I blacked out every time they stopped cutting, only to wake when they started again.
The skin on my back had stopped belonging to me.
It didn't feel like my own body anymore.
So why was I still feeling pain?
I didn't know.
I didn't know anything.
I only knew what they were doing.
Writing.
No.
Carving.
Words.
Four of them.
Into my skin.
And every time the knife paused, they asked the same question.
"What is it?"
And every time I received the same answer.
"Wrong."
It didn't take long before I couldn't even feel the knife clearly.
Each cut felt like a strange tracing rather than writing.
My body screamed—the pain was still there, sharp and overwhelming.
I didn't guess anymore.
I just stammered out the same letter over and over.
"...A."
There were moments when I begged.
I begged for it to end.
The pain.
The knife.
Even hope.
I didn't want it.
Because it left only despair behind.
I—
I just wanted to rest.
Then—
It appeared.
Her face.
Lisa.
My mind steadied—just for a moment, but it was enough.
Hold on.
Stay alive.
She must be alone.
Maybe afraid.
Maybe hurt.
I can't die.
Not before I find her.
Not before I save her.
The knife stopped.
The pain didn't.
A pause.
Silence.
Then a voice I couldn't hear.
Hands left me.
The cloth shifted, falling and touching torn skin.
Thud.
I fell onto stone.
A moment passed.
Or maybe longer.
Then—
Before my eyes closed.
I spoke one last time.
"...A."
There was no answer.
'It must have been right.'
My eyes closed, and darkness descended.