Cassian snapped awake.
The moment his mind clawed back from the memory, the cold reality of the Gulag came rushing in like a tidal wave.
The foot was coming down.
But instinct hit first.
His arm shot up like a loaded spring, hand locking around the descending boot with surgical precision. The raw force behind the stomp stopped dead in midair.
"Huh?" his opponent grunted, caught off guard.
Cassian's eyes opened, glassy, bloodshot, and burning.
With a sharp twist of his wrist, he snapped the man's ankle sideways. A wet CRACK echoed through the pit like a tree splitting in half. The crowd gasped.
Before the man could even fall, Cassian's fist rocketed upward in a savage blow that landed squarely between his legs.
The Goliath let out a sound no human throat should've made and collapsed backward, thunderously crashing against the frozen concrete floor.
The pit exploded with noise. Inmates hollered, clapped, screamed. Some laughed. Some just stared, jaws slack.
But Cassian wasn't finished.
Clutching his ribs with one hand, every breath a knife in his lungs, he staggered forward, each step a battle. Blood dripped from his chin onto the cement. His eyes didn't blink. They burned with singular intent.
He straddled the writhing mass of muscle on the floor.
Then he began.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Each punch was heavier than the last. Raw knuckles hammering bone. The man tried to lift his arms, too late. The first few strikes broke his nose. The next dislocated his jaw. Blood sprayed across the dirt-caked floor like ink from a shattered pen.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
The crowd, once electric, began to fall eerily silent. One by one, the cheers faded into a hush. Now the only thing heard was the relentless sound of Cassian's fists hitting meat and bone. Over. And over. And over.
One inmate leaned toward the other, eyes wide.
"Jeez… you think maybe we should stop him?"
The other scoffed.
"You wanna get in between that? Be my guest."
Cassian was still at it. His shoulders moved like pistons. Blood smeared across his cheek and into his matted hair. His lips parted in a low, rasping breath, half cough, half growl.
His body was barely holding on. His insides screamed. But still, his fists didn't stop.
Until… they did.
He raised one final punch — his hand shaking in the cold — and held it there, trembling above the man's swollen face.
Five seconds.
Ten.
Then he heard it.
A whimper.
A gurgled wheeze.
Proof of life.
Cassian let his fist fall, slowly, not in violence, in mercy. He rose to his feet, swaying, ribs crunching with every movement.
No one said a word.
Hundreds of inmates stood frozen, eyes wide, breaths held. Some couldn't believe what they'd seen. Others just felt something change.
Then, eruption.
Cheering. Whistling. Roars of approval. Applause thundered through the pit like aftershocks. Rations, smokes, bottle caps, and crumpled bills were tossed into the air like confetti.
Cassian didn't hear it.
He was already turning away, dragging one foot in front of the other as he vanished into the sea of men. The crowd parted for him without a word.
Up on the watchtower, the man in the spotless prison garb exhaled slowly, watching Cassian limp into the crowd with the last of his strength.
He smirked.
Behind him, the hulking inmate stepped forward, reaching into his striped shirt pocket and pulling out a thick cigar. Wordlessly, he handed it to his boss.
The man took it with a nod and placed it between his lips.
A small flame sparked from the lighter in the big man's hands. The tip glowed, smoke curling upward into the cold air.
Despite the size difference, a full head taller and twice as broad, there was no mistaking the dynamic between them. The way the large man stood slightly behind, slightly bowed, always waiting for instruction.
This was loyalty. Obedience.
"Well shit," the boss muttered, a curl of smoke escaping from the corner of his mouth. "The kid's got a rage like I ain't ever seen..." He took another slow puff, eyes narrowing toward the pit. "Set up a meeting."
The bigger man gave a single nod. "Yes, boss."
---
Cassian barely remembered the climb.
His hands, bloodied and shaking, gripped the frosted edge of the pit. Somehow, through pain and blurred vision, he pulled himself out, staggering like a man already dead.
Each step toward the infirmary felt like a mile. His legs buckled more than once, and when he finally reached the door, he didn't knock.
He crashed through it.
A stack of papers flew off a desk. A chair scraped sharply against the floor.
Anya spun around, her eyes wide, the only pair of eyes in this whole damn prison that didn't carry hatred, suspicion, or hunger.
She gasped.
"Bozhe moi... What have they done to you?" Her Russian accent was thick, but her voice danced with grace. Elegant. Soft.
Cassian leaned against the doorframe, barely holding himself up. He was soaked in sweat and blood, fingers still trembling as they gripped his ribcage.
Anya was radiant even in panic. Her ginger curls were pinned up messily with a pen, tucked under a little white nurse's cap. Her brown eyes were deep and warm, lips red and full, shaped like kindness. A red cross armband hugged her sleeve, and her uniform, a crisp white nurses gown. She looked immaculate.
Until Cassian began to lose his balance and collapse.
She rushed under his arm, letting his weight fall across her shoulder as they hobbled toward the exam bed. His blood smeared across her face and clothing. His sweat soakeing through her gown.
She didn't flinch.
Cassian let out a choked groan as he dropped onto the bed, every inch of him on fire. He sucked in a breath, but that hurt more than anything.
Anya was already moving, gloves on, light above flicked to life.
Her fingers were precise, practiced, but gentle.
She checked his pulse. His pupils. Touched a cold stethoscope to his chest.
"Shallow breath. Heart racing," she murmured to herself. "Ribs… broken. Likely three, maybe more."
She pressed softly against his abdomen. He flinched.
"Internal bleeding."
She looked at him. "You need a hospital."
Cassian gave a weak smile, blood on his teeth. "I'm in one… aren't I?"
Anya's expression didn't change. She wiped a smear of blood from his face with the back of her glove.
"No," she said softly, almost to herself. "You're in hell."
"Tell me about it," Cassian muttered, his voice hoarse and barely audible.
His head lolled to the side, eyelids heavy. Every word scraped its way out through gritted teeth.
Anya pressed a cold compress to his ribs, working quickly but carefully. "It's not joke," she said firmly.
"You could seriously die here. You understand? Internal bleeding. Cracked ribs. Concussion, maybe worse." her broken English scraping together as many words as her knowledge on the language would allow.
She paused, brushing a sweaty strand of hair from his forehead.
"Someone like you shouldn't even be in a place like this. With a face like yours and hands that shake when you think no one's watching?" Her tone softened. "After all these years, and you still won't tell me how you ended up here…"
But then she stopped.
Cassian's eyes had already shut. His breath slowed, uneven but steady enough to know he'd passed out.
"Shit…" Anya cursed under her breath, dropping her tools and moving to check his vitals again.
The stubborn pulse still beat beneath his bruised skin.
She stared at him for a long second, the faint sound of cheering still echoing from the courtyard beyond the infirmary walls.
She shook her head and sighed, grabbing a fresh cloth.
"I swear, American…" she whispered, wringing it out and pressing it to his jaw. "If you die on me, I'll kill you myself."