Chapter 2 (Anna’s POV)

  I jolted awake to the copper-tinged snap of blood in my mouth and the clang of a chain yanking my arms overhead. Every muscle was soaked in fire. Darkness swallowed everything but a single guttering torch a few paces away—one lonely flame that hissed in the damp, mocking me for still breathing.

  I tried to shift my weight. Rust-coated manacles bit deeper into each wrist, grinding my shoulders in their sockets. My toes could barely brush the slick stone—hours of dangling had turned my legs into numb ornaments, pendulums ticking off a private, agonizing clock. Somewhere behind me, water dripped in an almost steady rhythm, counting the seconds until the next bootstep, the next question I would refuse to answer.

  A door groaned open. Cold air rushed in, heavy with mold and something sharper: hot iron. Footsteps—three, maybe four pairs—squelched through the shallow water on the floor. They didn’t bother to speak; they never did at first.

  The first blow was always free. A fist, a club, a boot heel—it never mattered. Tonight it was a backhand exploding across my cheekbone. Steel on bone; starbursts of white light flooded my vision. The chain jerked as I twisted, but there was nowhere to go.

  The torturer stepped into view, face hidden behind a stitched-leather mask already peeling at the seams. He tilted his head, studying me like a piece of meat on a hook—because to him, that was all I was. In his gloved hand gleamed a short iron rod glowing dull orange near the tip.

  I swallowed hard. The taste of rust thickened.

  “Name,” he said at last, his voice muffled.

  “You know it,” I rasped.

  The rod hovered near my collarbone, its radiating heat blistering my skin before it even touched.

  “Why are you here?” he asked, a cruel smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

  I spat blood at his feet, the crimson liquid splattering against the stone floor. “Go to hell,” I whispered, my voice hoarse and strained.

  He sighed, a sound of disappointment rather than frustration. “Very well,” he said, stepping back. “We’ll try another method.”

  Two guards advanced, their faces equally hidden behind masks. They carried a length of chain, the links heavy and cold. One end was attached to a hook, the other to a winch. They secured the hook to my ankle, the cold metal biting into my flesh. The winch creaked as they turned it, lifting my leg until it was stretched taut, the joint screaming in protest.

  The torturer watched, his arms crossed over his chest. “Tell me something interesting, and the pain stops,” he said, his voice almost gentle.

  I stared through swollen lids, my vision blurry and distorted.

  He sighed again, a sound of resignation. “Very well,” he said, nodding to the guards.

  They turned the winch, the chain tightening until my leg was stretched to its limit. The joint popped, a sickening sound that echoed through the room. I screamed, a raw and primal sound that tore from my throat. The pain was unbearable, a searing agony that seemed to consume every part of me.

  The torturer watched, his expression unreadable. “Last chance,” he said, his voice steady and unyielding.

  “Go to hell,” I whispered, my voice barely audible.

  He nodded, and the guards turned the winch again. My leg stretched further, the joint popping and cracking. I screamed again, the sound echoing through the room, a testament to my agony. The pain was unbearable, a searing agony that seemed to consume every part of me.

  Hours blurred: questions, blows, more iron. They dunked my head in a pail until my lungs tore for air, hauled me upright, demanded stories—lies—anything to amuse them. I offered silence wrapped in curses. When unconsciousness claimed me, they doused me in brine; salt carved new agony through the burns on my chest. The salt stung, a burning sensation that seemed to seep into every pore. I could feel the grains embedding themselves in my flesh, the pain intensifying with every passing second.

  Eventually, they unhooked the chain and let me crash to the stones. My knees buckled; I was nothing but ragged breath and quivering sinew. Two guards dragged me to a scarred wooden chair bolted to the floor. Leather straps lashed my forearms and calves to its arms and legs.

  Across from me stood a low table lined with tools: pliers, wire, needles thick enough to stitch canvas, a crank affixed to something hidden beneath oil-stained canvas. The masked man lifted the fabric, revealing a hand-cranked generator salvaged from pre-Collapse machinery, copper leads dangling like hungry worms.

  He clamped electrodes to my temples. “You truly are a beautiful one, My men where right, Tough too; Thought we’d try a different pitch,” he murmured.

  Crack-crack-crack—the wheel spun, and lightning detonated in my skull. My vision tunneled; I couldn’t feel my tongue, couldn’t move my jaw; the world became a white flash scouring thought itself. The pain was indescribable, a searing agony that seemed to consume every part of me. I could feel the electricity coursing through my veins, the muscles spasming and twitching uncontrollably. The smell of ozone filled the air, a sickening reminder of the torture I was enduring.

  When coherence stumbled back, I found myself wrenching against bonds slick with my own sweat. Smoke curled from singed hair. The torturer waited with predatory patience, fingertips steepled.

  “Tell us a story,” he said, his voice laced with amusement.”

  They didn’t know about the gate, the key, or any other person. They were torturing me for sport, for their own twisted entertainment. I refused him again; refusal was the only currency I had left.

  The generator hummed back to life. The electricity coursed through my body, the muscles spasming and twitching uncontrollably. The pain was unbearable, a searing agony that seemed to consume every part of me. I could feel the electricity coursing through my veins, the muscles spasming and twitching uncontrollably. The smell of ozone filled the air, a sickening reminder of the torture I was enduring.

  Time fractured; days and nights dissolved. Between sessions, they locked me in a grate-floored cell barely large enough to curl up in. Rats scuttled through gutters beneath, gnawing at scraps falling from my wounds. I spoke to them sometimes—better company than the masked ghosts stripping me of humanity piece by piece.

  Sleep never stayed. Whenever my eyes drifted shut, nightmares pried them open: Joshua’s face, distant and horrified; Roamers crowding the shattered plaza; my own screams echoing off walls slick with ancient sorrow. I clung to consciousness because unconsciousness was worse.

  On the fifth—seventh?—return, they strung me upright but left my feet on the ground. The torturer’s mask gleamed with humidity—or sweat. He whispered, almost gentle. “Tell me something entertaining, and the pain stops.”

  I stared through swollen lids.

  He sighed, stepped back, signaled. Two guards advanced with a length of chain threaded through weighted hooks. One hook pierced the me behind my knee; the other sank into the opposite shoulder. The chain drew taut like an obscene garrote meant for limbs, not necks.

  “Last chance,” he said.

  “Go to hell,” I whispered.

  He nodded. The guards pulled. The chain tightened, the hooks biting into my flesh. I screamed, a raw and primal sound that tore from my throat. The pain was unbearable, a searing agony that seemed to consume every part of me. I could feel the hooks tearing through my flesh. The blood flowed freely, the crimson liquid pooling on the stone floor.

  At some delirious point, I began counting cracks in the ceiling, using them as constellations to navigate each incoming wave of agony. Eight cracks meant I still lived. Nine deserved a medal. Ten bought another breath of defiance.

  I reached twelve cracks.

  They brought another prisoner once—young, barely sixteen, eyes huge and hollow. They strung him up across from me and forced me to watch. I memorized every tremor; someone needed to remember. When they hauled his body away like garbage, my will didn’t crumble—it crystallized. If they broke me, they broke every name I still held sacred: Joshua, Father, the Anna who once was.

  I whispered those names like a litany. The torturer tried to drown them with iron and flame, but the words leaked out between clenched teeth. Even in unconsciousness, they echoed.

  One waking—dawn or midnight, impossible to tell—they introduced a new method. I was stretched prone on a table, ankles shackled, wrists bound above my head. A glass vial rattled; its stench burned my nostrils—acidic, metallic.

  A single drop landed on my forearm. Skin bubbled instantly, an excruciating hiss that arched my spine off the wood. The acid burned through my flesh, the pain searing and unbearable. I could feel the flesh dissolving, the muscles and tendons exposed to the air. The smell of burning flesh filled the room, a sickening reminder of the torture I was enduring.

  They said they would brand each city onto my flesh until I named the right one. I laughed, cracked and broken. “You’ll run out of skin before I run out of lies.”

  I shouldn’t have provoked them—part of me knew better. Another part no longer cared. Defiance was the last freedom they couldn’t chain.

  Hours drifted like ash. When exhaustion finally dragged me under, I dreamed of the modern city—sunlit glass towers, traffic humming, people alive and oblivious to the sky’s darkening seams. I walked among them, unseen, a revenant in chains. I tried to warn them as the first cracks lanced across the horizon, heralding the plague. My throat produced only a wet gargle. Their happiness felt like a dagger. I woke screaming.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  The cell shrank each time. Burns wept. Infection sent fever crawling through my veins; chills wracked me, yet sweat drenched my skin. I prayed to see Joshua’s face, even in dreams, but the fever replaced him with the mask.

  A distant horn wailed—one of theirs, signaling shift change or new captives. Nothing good ever followed that horn.

  The door slammed open.

  They carried rope thicker than the chain, coarse hemp soaked in something dark. Drops splattered like black petals on the stone. I met the torturer’s gaze—or the empty holes where eyes should have been.

  I spat blood at his boots.

  He nodded once. The guards closed in. They secured my arms and legs to the table, the rope biting into my flesh. The torturer picked up a knife, the blade glinting in the dim light. He ran the tip along my arm, the cold metal sending shivers down my spine.

  “This will hurt,” he said, his voice steady and unyielding.

  I stared at him, my vision blurry and distorted. “Do your worst,” I whispered, my voice hoarse and strained.

  He smiled, a cold and cruel smile. “Oh, I intend to.”

  He began to cut, the blade slicing through my flesh with ease. The pain was excruciating, a searing agony that seemed to consume every part of me. I could feel the blade cutting through my flesh, the blood flowing freely. The torturer worked methodically, his movements precise and calculated. He cut deep, the blade sinking into my flesh, the pain intensifying with every passing second.

  I screamed, a raw and primal sound that tore from my throat. The pain was unbearable, a searing agony that seemed to consume every part of me. The torturer worked methodically, his movements precise and calculated. He cut deep, the blade sinking into my flesh, the pain intensifying with every passing second.

  The torturer stepped back, his work complete. He studied me, his expression unreadable. “You’re stronger than I thought,” he said, his voice steady and unyielding.

  The guards unsecured my arms and legs, the rope falling to the floor. I was barely conscious, my body wracked with pain. They dragged me back to the grate-floored cage, the lock slamming home. Blood crawled across the bars beneath me, dripping into the dark where rats waited. Fever dreams blurred with waking horror until the two realms felt the same—a maze of hurt with no exit.

  Yet the pain endured—a stubborn flicker behind my eyes. I clutched it with what remained of my soul.

  Doors swung both ways, and if Joshua ever stepped back through, I needed some part of me worth saving.

  The minutes turned into hours, and the hours into days. The torture never stopped, each session more brutal than the last. The torturer seemed to take a perverse pleasure in my suffering, finding new and more inventive ways to inflict pain. He brought in tools I had never seen before, each one designed to cause maximum agony. There were clamps that bit into my flesh, screws that twisted into my finger beds, and needles that pierced my skin, injecting a burning liquid that felt like fire coursing through my veins.

  I lost track of time, the days and nights blending into a never-ending stream of torment. My body was a map of wounds, each one a testament to the cruelty of my captors. The burns wept, the flesh raw and exposed. The infections spread, the fever raging through my veins. I was a shell of my former self, a broken and battered husk, but I refused to give in. I refused to let them break me.

  The torturer came to me one day, his mask gleaming with humidity—or sweat. He whispered, almost gentle. “Tell me something entertaining, and the pain stops.”

  I mustered as much hate into my swollen eyes that I could and stared at the man with utter contempt, at his retreating form.

  The torturer came to me one day, his mask gleaming with humidity—or sweat. He whispered, almost gentle. “Tell me something entertaining, and the pain stops.”

  I stared through swollen lids, my vision blurry and distorted. “You can’t stop what’s coming,” I croaked. “Entropy is already here.”

  He sighed, stepped back, signaled. Two guards advanced with a length of chain threaded through weighted hooks. One hook pierced the tendon behind my knee; the other sank into the opposite shoulder. The chain drew taut like an obscene garrote meant for limbs, not necks.

  “Last chance,” he said.

  “Go to hell,” I whispered.

  He nodded. The guards pulled. The chain tightened, the hooks biting into my flesh. I screamed, a raw and primal sound that tore from my throat. The pain was unbearable, a searing agony that seemed to consume every part of me. I could feel the hooks tearing through my flesh, the tendons stretching and snapping. The blood flowed freely, the crimson liquid pooling on the stone floor.

  At some delirious point, I began counting cracks in the ceiling, using them as constellations to navigate each incoming wave of agony. Eight cracks meant I still lived. Nine deserved a medal. Ten bought another breath of defiance.

  I reached twelve cracks.

  They brought another prisoner once—young, barely sixteen, eyes huge and hollow. They strung him up across from me and forced me to watch. I memorized every tremor; someone needed to remember. When they hauled his body away like garbage, my will didn’t crumble—it crystallized. If they broke me, they broke every name I still held sacred: Joshua, Father, the Anna who once was.

  I whispered those names like a litany. The torturer tried to drown them with iron and flame, but the words leaked out between clenched teeth. Even in unconsciousness, they echoed.

  One waking—dawn or midnight, impossible to tell—they introduced a new method. I was stretched prone on a table, ankles shackled, wrists bound above my head. A glass vial rattled; its stench burned my nostrils—acidic, metallic.

  A single drop landed on my forearm. Skin bubbled instantly, an excruciating hiss that arched my spine off the wood. The acid burned through my flesh, the pain searing and unbearable. I could feel the flesh dissolving, the muscles and tendons exposed to the air. The smell of burning flesh filled the room, a sickening reminder of the torture I was enduring.

  They said they would brand each city onto my flesh until I named the right one. I laughed, cracked and broken. “You’ll run out of skin before I run out of lies.”

  I shouldn’t have provoked them—part of me knew better. Another part no longer cared. Defiance was the last freedom they couldn’t chain.

  Hours drifted like ash. When exhaustion finally dragged me under, I dreamed of the modern city—sunlit glass towers, traffic humming, people alive and oblivious to the sky’s darkening seams. I walked among them, unseen, a revenant in chains. I tried to warn them as the first cracks lanced across the horizon, heralding the plague. My throat produced only a wet gargle. Their happiness felt like a dagger. I woke screaming.

  The cell shrank each time. Burns wept. Infection sent fever crawling through my veins; chills wracked me, yet sweat drenched my skin. I prayed to see Joshua’s face, even in dreams, but the fever replaced him with the mask.

  A distant horn wailed—one of theirs, signaling shift change or new captives. Nothing good ever followed that horn.

  The door slammed open.

  They carried rope thicker than the chain, coarse hemp soaked in something dark. Drops splattered like black petals on the stone. I met the torturer’s gaze—or the empty holes where eyes should have been.

  “Tonight,” he said, “we teach you how to beg.”

  I spat blood at his boots.

  He nodded once. The guards closed in. They secured my arms and legs to the table, the rope biting into my flesh. The torturer picked up a knife, the blade glinting in the dim light. He ran the tip along my arm, the cold metal sending shivers down my spine.

  “This will hurt,” he said, his voice steady and unyielding.

  I stared at him, my vision blurry and distorted. “Do your worst,” I whispered, my voice hoarse and strained.

  He smiled, a cold and cruel smile. “Oh, I intend to.”

  He began to cut, the blade slicing through my flesh with ease. The pain was excruciating, a searing agony that seemed to consume every part of me. I could feel the blade cutting through muscle and tendon, the blood flowing freely. The torturer worked methodically, his movements precise and calculated. He cut deep, the blade sinking into my flesh, the pain intensifying with every passing second.

  I screamed, a raw and primal sound that tore from my throat. The pain was unbearable, a searing agony that seemed to consume every part of me. I could feel the blade cutting through muscle and tendon, the blood flowing freely. The torturer worked methodically, his movements precise and calculated. He cut deep, the blade sinking into my flesh, the pain intensifying with every passing second.

  The torturer stepped back, his work complete. He studied me, his expression unreadable. “You’re stronger than I thought,” he said, his voice steady and unyielding.

  The torturer came to me one day, his mask gleaming with humidity—or sweat. He whispered, almost gentle. “Tell me something entertaining, and the pain stops.”