The sound of footsteps tells me my time is up.
I’ve been sitting in the corner of my cell for what feels like hours in a futile attempt to find some weakness in my situation. The electronic lock. The reinforced bars. The underground location that muffles sound and hope in equal measure. Everything about this place was designed to contain people like me—people who refuse to accept their fate quietly.
But now they’re coming, and I know what that means.
The door opens to reveal Raina flanked by two men I haven’t seen before—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in the same flowing white clothes but with an edge of violence that suggests they’re more than spiritual advisors. Guards. Enforcers. The muscle behind the mysticism.
Raina steps into the candlelit space, and I see the damage from our earlier encounter. A dark purple bruise spreads across her forehead where I slammed her into the bars, swollen and tender-looking. Her eyes, when they meet mine, hold no trace of the gentle understanding she used to project. Now there’s only cold purpose.
“It’s time,” she says, her voice flat and professional. No more attempts at conversion or comfort. We’re past that now.
I don’t move from my position against the wall.
“The ritual begins.” The word carries weight, finality.
One of the guards steps forward—the larger one, with hands like slabs of meat and eyes that suggest he enjoys his work. “She gonna cooperate, or do we drag her?”
Raina considers this, studying my posture. I’m sitting with my back pressed against the concrete, knees drawn up defensively. Everything about my body language screams resistance.
“Restrain her,” she decides.
The smaller guard pulls a coil of rope from his belt while his partner advances on me. I scramble to my feet, pressing harder against the wall, but there’s nowhere to go. The cell is six by eight feet. No room to maneuver, no space to run.
“Don’t touch me,” I warn, but my voice comes out weaker than I intended. Days of poor nutrition and psychological stress have taken their toll.
The large guard reaches for my arm and I twist away, but he’s faster than his bulk suggests. His fingers close around my wrist, and he yanks me forward with enough force to nearly dislocate my shoulder.
“Easy,” Raina says, but not out of concern for my welfare. “We need her intact.”
For now.
I try to wrench free, using techniques from defensive tactics training, but the guard knows what he’s doing. He spins me around, slamming my face against the wall while his partner works the rope around my wrists. The fiber is rough, hemp maybe, tied with the kind of knots that tighten with struggle.
“There,” the smaller guard says, tugging on the bonds to test them. “That’ll hold.”
They march me out of the cell, one on each side, Raina leading the way down a corridor I’ve never seen before. The walls are older here, carved stone instead of poured concrete. We’re moving deeper into the complex, away from whatever exit might exist.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want to know the answer.
Raina doesn’t respond. Her silence is more unnerving than threats would be. At least anger I could work with, could use to manipulate her psychology. This cold professionalism suggests someone who’s moved beyond emotion into pure function.
We reach another metal door with a keypad. Raina types the code in, shielding it from me and unlocks it with the kind of ceremony that suggests this room is special.
The door swings open to reveal something from a nightmare.
The space beyond is larger than my cell, maybe fifteen by twenty feet, with stone walls that weep moisture and a vaulted ceiling that disappears into shadow. But it’s what fills the room that makes my blood turn to ice.
Tables line the walls, covered with instruments that belong in a surgical suite or a torture chamber. Scalpels and bone saws. Needles and syringes filled with liquids in colors that don’t occur in nature. Clamps and retractors designed to hold human tissue in positions it was never meant to maintain. Everything gleams under candlelight, clean and sharp and ready for use.
Herbs hang in bundles from the ceiling—sage maybe and something that smells like rotting flowers. Glass containers filled with powders and tinctures line shelves cut into the stone walls. The air is thick with incense and the metallic scent of old blood that no amount of cleaning can entirely remove.
In the center of the room sits a stone table, its surface carved with the same spiral symbol I’ve been seeing throughout this ordeal. Dark stains mark the channels carved into the stone—drainage, I realize with sick certainty. For whatever fluids the ritual produces.
I'm fucked.
“Welcome to the preparation chamber,” Raina says, and for the first time since she entered my cell, emotion creeps back into her voice. Reverence. This place is sacred to her.
The guards force me toward the stone table, but I plant my feet, using my body weight to resist. “No. Whatever you’re planning, I won’t cooperate.”
“Cooperation isn’t required,” Raina replies, moving to one of the instrument tables. “Though it would make things easier for everyone.”
She begins arranging tools with the practiced efficiency of someone who’s done this before. Scalpel. Forceps. A syringe filled with something yellow and viscous. Each item placed with care, like components of a sacrament.
The guards drag me closer to the stone table despite my resistance. My feet slip on the floor, bare feet unable to find purchase on stone worn smooth by centuries of use. When they try to lift me onto the table, I go limp, making myself dead weight.
“Hold her,” Raina instructs, turning from her preparations.
The larger guard wraps his arms around my torso from behind while his partner grabs my legs. Together they lift me onto the stone slab, which is cold enough to shock even through my threadbare clothes. The carved symbols dig into my back through the thin fabric.
“The binding will help,” Raina says, producing leather restraints from beneath the table. “It reduces trauma during the transformation.”
I thrash against their grip, kicking at anything within range. My heel connects with the smaller guard’s ribs and he grunts, loosening his hold just enough for me to writhe partially free.
“Goddamn it,” he snarls, grabbing for my ankles again. “Hold still, you crazy bitch.”
Oh, I’m the crazy one?
I’m not holding still. Not for this. I’ve seen what they do to their vessels, seen the results in the farmhouse and crime scene photos. If I’m going to die here, it won’t be quietly.
I manage to get one leg free and drive my knee toward the larger guard’s solar plexus, but he twists away and the blow glances off his ribs instead. Still, it’s enough to make him loosen his grip, and I roll sideways off the table, hitting the floor hard enough to jar my teeth.
The guards haul me back onto the stone table, using their combined weight to pin me down before I can even stand up. The smaller one sits on my legs while the larger one leans across my torso, making breathing difficult. But then Raina steps forward, her expression showing irritation.
“This is taking too long,” she says sharply. She looks at the guards with evident displeasure. “Leave us. I can handle one weakened woman.”
The larger guard hesitates. “Are you sure? She’s been nothing but trouble.”
“She is bound,” Raina’s voice carries absolute authority. “The preparation requires… privacy. Sacred space cannot be contaminated by your bruteness.”
The guards exchange glances but don’t argue. They release their hold on me and file toward the door.
“If you need us—” the smaller one begins.
“I won’t,” Raina cuts him off. “Go.”
The heavy door closes behind them with a resounding thud, leaving just Raina and me in the candlelit chamber. There is no electronic keypad on this side.
“Much better,” she says, turning back to me with renewed focus. “Now we can proceed properly.”
Raina approaches slowly, like someone used to dealing with frightened animals.
“You know, in ancient times, the vessels were considered blessed,” she says conversationally. “They were honored, revered. Their transformation brought favor to entire communities.”
She picks up the syringe filled with yellow liquid, holding it up to examine the contents in the candlelight.
“A gift,” she says. “It will take away the fear. Make the transition peaceful.”
She begins chanting in a language I don’t recognize. The words flow like water over stone, rhythmic and hypnotic. Not Latin, not anything European. Something older, more guttural, with consonants that seem to catch in the throat like fish bones.
While she chants, I work at the rope binding my wrists. The hemp is rough against my skin, but that roughness also provides friction. I learned knot work during training exercises—how to tie them, how to escape from them. The key is finding the weak point, the place where leverage can overcome strength.
Raina’s chanting grows louder, more intense. She’s facing away from me now, arms raised toward the ceiling, lost in whatever religious ecstasy the ritual demands. Her attention is completely focused on her performance.
This is my chance.
I flex my wrists, feeling for the rope’s structure. Hemp fiber twisted into three-strand line, probably half-inch diameter. Strong, but with a specific grain. If I can work one strand loose…
There. The binding shifts, just a millimeter, but enough to tell me the knots aren’t perfect. Twist against the grain, use bone structure for leverage, work the rope against itself.
Raina turns back toward me, syringe raised like a communion chalice. The needle catches candlelight, gleaming with lethal promise.
“The vessel accepts the gift,” she intones, stepping closer to the table.
Not this vessel. This one ain’t accepting shit.
She leans over me, needle positioned above the vein in my neck.
This is it. Now or never.
The rope binding my wrists has loosened enough for me to slip one hand free, then the other. My wrists are raw and probably bleeding, but I’m mobile.
I surge upward with all the strength left in my malnourished body, driving the crown of my head directly into the bruise on Raina’s forehead.
The impact sends lightning through my skull, but Raina gets the worst of it. She screams—a sound of pure agony that echoes off the stone walls—and staggers backward, the syringe flying from her hand to clatter across the floor.
She presses both hands to her forehead, doubled over in pain.
I roll off the table again, my feet hitting the stone floor. I could hurt Raina more. Could grab one of those surgical instruments and do real damage.
But I’m not them. I’m not a monster who tortures people.
Instead, I scramble toward where the syringe landed, scooping it up before Raina can react. The yellow liquid sloshes inside the plastic barrel—whatever drug they were planning to use to make me compliant.
“No!” Raina gasps, still clutching her forehead.
I grab the largest scalpel from the instrument table in my other hand, and brandish it like the weapon it could easily become.
“Stay back,” I warn.
Raina straightens slowly, hand still clutching the bruise. When she speaks, her voice carries the flat authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed.
“You have nowhere to go. Even if you reach the surface, you’re in the middle of nowhere. No roads. No help. You’ll die of exposure before you find civilization.”
“Maybe,” I concede.
I edge closer to the door, keeping the scalpel between myself and Raina.
“Scream for help,” I tell her.
“No.”
I rush towards her and press the syringe with the weird liquid against her throat, just hard enough to dimple the skin without breaking it. Raina’s eyes widen, but she doesn’t flinch.
“You won’t kill me. You’re not capable of that kind of violence.” I could cut her—have already hurt her twice—but cold-blooded murder isn’t in my psychological makeup.
Still, desperation can push people beyond their normal boundaries.
“Try me,” I say.
We stare at each other for several heartbeats, predator and prey roles uncertain. Then Raina nods towards the door.
“HELP,” she screams finally. "SOMEONE, HELP!"
I keep the syringe at her throat, scalpel steady in the other hand.
A guard appears in the doorway, his eyes taking in the scene - Raina pressed against the instrument table, me standing behind her with obvious desperation.
“Step away from her,” he commands, moving into the chamber.
I push Raina toward the table with all the force I can muster and dart forward, catching the man off-guard. In the confusion, I manage to press the syringe against his arm - the fast-acting sedative Raina had prepared for the “ceremony.”
He staggers backward, already becoming sluggish. “What did you—”
I don’t wait to see him collapse. I rush past him into the corridor, slamming the heavy door behind me. I hear the lock engage. Through the door, I can hear Raina shouting, but the guard’s voice has gone quiet.
The corridor stretches ahead like a stone throat, lit by torches set into wall sconces. My bare feet slap against the floor with each step, the sound echoing off walls that seem to close in as I run. I count doors as I pass them. Some are open, revealing storage rooms filled with supplies I don’t want to identify. Others are closed, marked with symbols. The corridor turns left, then right, then splits into three branches.
Just how big is this place?
I choose the center path based on nothing but instinct, hoping it leads toward the surface. The stone walls give way to more poured concrete. I’m getting closer to something, though whether it’s freedom or another trap remains to be seen.
Footsteps echo behind me, growing closer. My only advantage is desperation and the element of surprise.
The corridor ends in a ladder. Fuelled with adrenaline, I start climbing as fast as I can, pushing my hand against the cellar door and praying to whatever God that may exist that it's open.
Evening air. Cool and clean and carrying the scent of pine instead of incense and death.
I’m outside.
The church sits about fifty meters away, its gothic windows glowing with candlelight. Around me stretches open field, exactly as Raina described—no roads, no buildings, no immediate help.
But I’m alive, and I’m free, and that has to be enough for now.
I start running toward the tree line, hoping to put distance between myself and the complex before they organize a proper search. The grass is wet but I barely notice.
That’s when I hear the gunshot.
The sound cracks across the field like thunder. Not distant—close, maybe from inside the church itself.
I stop running, every instinct screaming warnings I don’t want to hear.
Elias.
It has to be him. No one else would come here. He’s inside that building, facing God knows how many cultists. I should keep running. Should use this distraction to escape while everyone’s attention is focused elsewhere. It’s the smart play, the survivor’s choice.
A coward's play.
I turn back toward the church.
I make it maybe ten steps before a figure emerges from the shadow of the building’s north wall. Male, tall, dressed in dark clothing instead of the cult’s white robes. He sees me at the same moment I see him, and we both freeze for a heartbeat that stretches like eternity.
Then he moves.
The guard covers the distance between us faster than should be possible, eating up ground with the loping stride of someone who knows how to run. I pivot toward the tree line where I might lose him, but my legs are weak from days of captivity and poor nutrition. He’s going to catch me.
I hear his breathing behind me, rapid but controlled. Professional pursuit, not panicked chase. This man has done this before.
Twenty meters from the trees, he tackles me.
We go down hard, rolling through grass that provides no cushion against the impact. My upper body hit the ground first, driving the air from my lungs, then my hip. Stars explode across my vision.
The guard is already moving, trying to pin me down, but I still have the scalpel. I swing it wildly, more threat than attack, forcing him to back off.
“Easy,” he says, grabbing for my wrists. “No need for anyone to get hurt.”
I kick him in the groin and he stumbles back. I struggle to my feet, ribs screaming in protest. The scalpel feels small and inadequate in my hand, but it’s all I have.
He smiles—not cruel, just confident. “Where you gonna go? It’s twenty miles to the nearest road.”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“Will you?” He takes a step closer. “Come back inside. Make this easy for everyone.”
I back toward the trees, weapon raised. My feet find uneven ground, roots and stones that threaten to trip me. The guard follows with the patience of someone who knows the outcome is inevitable. For a moment, something that might be respect flickers in his eyes.
“Well,” he says, pulling something from his belt. “Can’t say I didn’t try to be reasonable.”
The object glints in the starlight—metal, compact, purpose-built for violence. Taser, maybe.
I don’t wait to find out.
I lunge forward with the scalpel, aiming for torso, hoping to disable rather than kill. He sidesteps with fluid grace, grabbing my wrist as I pass and using my own momentum against me.
We grapple in the darkness, his training evident in every movement. He knows leverage, knows pressure points, knows how to use an opponent’s strength against them. But I know pure desperation, and sometimes that’s enough.
I stomp on his instep with my heel, feeling bones shift beneath the impact. He grunts but doesn’t release his grip on my wrist. I drive my knee toward his groin again, but he twists and takes the blow on his thigh instead.
“Persistent,” he acknowledges, wrenching the scalpel from my hand.
The blade disappears into the darkness, and with it my only weapon. Now it’s just hands and teeth and the absolute certainty that I won’t go back to that preparation chamber.
I scratch at his eyes, trying to blind him temporarily, but he catches my hands, grabbing my neck in a chokehold that cuts off air and blood flow simultaneously.
As consciousness starts to slip away, frenzied despair gives me one last burst of strength.
I scream for Elias.
