The next morning came without a sunrise.
No light. Just a shift in the cold, the smell of rusted air, and the shriek of steam from the broken pipes overhead. That's how you told time in the Chains by pain and metal, not clocks.
The boy sat in the same spot where she'd been taken.
Her blanket still lay there, folded and damp, already beginning to soak in the grime. He didn't touch it. He just stared.
His stomach growled, but he didn't move. He hadn't eaten the rest of the bread. He couldn't. Not after she
A shadow passed by.
He looked up. One of the older boys. Muscle-skinny, eyes sunken, grin too wide.
"Still mourning, rat?" the older one sneered. "She's gone. You should be glad. One less mouth to feed."
The boy didn't answer.
The grin widened. "Maybe I'll take your corner, now that you're alone."
The boy stood.
He didn't say anything, but his silence was sharp. Like a blade just before it cuts.
The older boy flinched. Just a little. But he backed off.
Because the boy didn't cry like the others. Didn't beg. Didn't plead.
And in the Chains, that made him dangerous.
That day, he hunted.
Not animals, there were none. Just scraps, broken machines, and things people left behind when they didn't need them anymore.
He traded a bent nail and two spoon handles for a half-rotted potato.
Another for a strip of bandage he didn't need.
He was saving. Preparing.
Because he'd heard the whispers again.
"The Pit's calling," someone said near the steam vents.
"Another round soon. Bloody show."
"Warden wants fresh blood."
He knew what it meant.
Every few weeks, the guards held a "trial" a public punishment where the "unclaimed" were sent to fight in the Ring. No weapons. No rules. Just fists, teeth, and the slow hum of the crowd screaming for blood.
Losers died.
Winners died later.
Unless…
Unless you were different.
Unless you became something more.
That night, the boy sat alone, watching the pipes.
And for the first time, he did something dangerous.
He spoke. Not out loud. Just a whisper, low and deep, to no one.
"I will never be taken," he said. "I will never kneel again."
The Chains didn't answer.
But something shifted.
Far below, deeper than any tunnel, a breath stirred.
Something old.
Something forgotten.
Something listening.