The air was thick with the scent of damp stone and rusted iron, the only light a pale, ghostly glow from the moon slipping through the barred window high above. Shadows clung to the corners of the cell like living things, shifting with each ragged breath of the figure curled on the filthy floor.
"H-help... please... someone..."
The plea was weak, broken—not from an external tormentor, but from the agony writhing within his own body. Chains rattled as he twisted, his muscles seizing under waves of excruciating pain. His crimson eyes, usually sharp and bright, were now glazed with suffering, saliva dripping from his parted lips as he gasped for air. Sweat-slicked sigils pulsed faintly on his neck, their glow flickering like dying embers.
Every breath was a knife twisting deeper into his chest. His fingers clawed at his skin, nails leaving angry red trails as if he could tear the pain out with his bare hands. Tears streamed down his face, mingling with the sweat and blood staining his once-yellow compression shirt, now darkened with sweat and grime.
He didn't know how he had gotten here. The last thing he remembered was the hospital—the stricken face, the crushing weight of betrayal—before darkness swallowed him whole. And then... this. Three days? Maybe more. Time blurred in this hellish limbo.
But the chains weren't the worst of it.
The real torment was the memory—Jihoon's deception, the way he had looked at him with pity instead of love. The only person who had ever made him feel human had been lying all along.
A choked sob escaped him, his body trembling not just from pain, but from the hollow, gnawing void in his chest. He had tried so hard—so damn hard—to prove he wasn't the monster they all feared. He had never hurt anyone. Never given in to the darkness whispering at the edges of his mind.
But now?
Now, there was nothing left to fight for.
The void inside him yawned wider, and this time, it wasn't just emptiness that filled it.
It was rage.
Ryan's fingers dug into the stone beneath him, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. The sigils on his neck burned hotter, the chains around his wrists groaning as something awakened within him—something primal, something unforgiving.
He had been pushed too far.
And now... it had crossed the limit. His sanity. His patience. His hope. Everything he had effort into, has reached its limit.
The sound of footsteps shattered the oppressive silence—the first in three torturous days. Ryan's head lolled weakly to the side, his vision swimming as shadows loomed in the doorway, growing larger with each step.
"Ack—ah—!"
Another wave of agony wracked his body, his muscles seizing as he curled in on himself. He just wanted it to stop.
Clunk.
The heavy lock disengaged, the metallic echo bouncing off the damp stone walls. The door groaned open, and a towering figure stepped inside, his silhouette blotting out what little moonlight seeped into the dungeon. The two others remained outside, their faces obscured by black cloth—but their eyes—
Ryan's breath hitched.
Their eyelids had been forced shut, crude wooden sticks stabbed through the skin beneath their brows like grotesque pins. The flesh around the wounds was inflamed, angry red against the pallor of their skin. Their long, slicked-back hair did nothing to soften the horror of their mutilated faces.
But the man who entered—he was different.
His long black hair cascaded down to the middle of his back, swaying slightly as he moved. Ryan blinked through the haze of bloody tears, his vision struggling to focus as the man's shadow engulfed him. Then—
A smirk.
Ryan's pulse sputtered.
"W-who…?" His voice was a broken rasp, his throat raw from screaming.
The man knelt before him, the smirk never fading. And as Ryan's vision finally cleared, his blood ran cold.
Familiar.
Those eyes—vibrant green. The wrinkles etching the man's face, the sharp cut of his jaw—it was like looking into a warped mirror of his own future.
"W-what… who are y—"
The man's hand cupped Ryan's cheek, the touch startlingly gentle. Warm.
Almost loving.
Then he spoke.
And the world shattered.
Ryan's breath seized. His lungs burned. No—no, that's not—it can't be—
Darkness swallowed him whole.
The last thing he heard was laughter—deep, triumphant, mocking—echoing through the dungeon as his consciousness slipped away.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
A week had passed since Ryan vanished before Jihoon's eyes—swallowed whole by that writhing pit of shadow, its inky tendrils coiling around him as he fell into the abyss. A week of devastation, of unleashed power that left cities trembling in fear.
Jihoon stood rigid in the queen's chambers, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. He bit down harder on his lower lip until the metallic tang of blood flooded his mouth—but the pain did nothing to dull the gnawing dread inside him.
Jake paced nearby, his usual composure fraying at the edges. "What do we do now?" he muttered, voice strained. "If Ryan is really in their hands… then—"He cut himself off, glancing at Jihoon.
The sight made him stiffen.
Jihoon looked ruined. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath his hollow eyes, his face gaunt from sleepless nights. Every trace of his usual sharpness had been replaced by something brittle—like a man clinging to the edge of a cliff by his fingertips.
Jihoon's voice sliced through the tension. "We find him." His tone left no room for argument. "Before they twist him into something even they can't control."
Jihoon's fingers curled into fists.
Because he already knew.
And the truth was worse than any of them dared to imagine.
The chamber doors swung open with silent grace as the queen entered, her presence commanding immediate deference. Jihoon and Jake rose in perfect unison, bending at the waist in a rigid ninety-degree bow that strained their spines. Only when she gestured with a flick of her wrist did they dare straighten.
For Jihoon, this marked only his second audience with Her Majesty, yet her regal bearing still left him unsettled. Jake, experiencing the royal presence for the first time, stood unnaturally stiff beside him. What struck Jihoon most was the queen's preternatural calm - her measured movements and serene expression seemed utterly at odds with a mother whose son had disappeared.
A knowing smile played at the corners of her lips as she motioned toward the waiting chairs. Both men obeyed without hesitation, their bodies tense against the plush upholstery. The queen settled into her chair with effortless poise, her gaze shifting between them with unsettling focus.
"Shall we begin?" she inquired, her voice like silk over steel.
To be continued...…