chapter 7
1467 Words
POV: Riven
It starts with the trays.
Three times a day, like clockwork—metal doors slide open, and the handlers shove food into the slot without a word. Slop. Bread hardened to stone. Water that smells like bleach. But it’s not the food I’m watching.
It’s them.
The rhythm of their steps. The timing of their blinks. How long they linger at the hatch. Which one grips the keycard too loose. Which one can’t stop twitching near his left eye. I learn them all, catalog them like weapons I haven’t earned the right to hold yet.
I fake hunger. I fake sickness. I fake boredom. What I don’t fake is patience.
On the sixth cycle, I start coughing—dry, hacking, throat raw. I double over beside the wall and spit something thick and red onto the floor. Not blood. Not all of it.
The sound draws them closer.
Two guards this time. One hesitates by the door. The other crouches to look inside, muttering about “contaminants” and “med units.” His tone’s all annoyance. No real concern. No suspicion.
Good.
While he’s distracted, my arm snakes through the hatch. Fast. Desperate.
My fingers close around the hem of his jacket. I fumble—dig lower—until they brush the thin edge of plastic and metal.
The keycard.
He yells, jerks back too late.
I yank it free and let my body drop hard onto the ground, groaning like I’ve blacked out.
The other guard curses, kicks the bars, and they storm off, muttering about calling a supervisor. They don’t check if they’ve been robbed.
My pulse kicks up behind my eyes. I roll onto my side slowly, slipping the keycard into the inner lining of my boot. My hands shake. I clench them into fists and press them against the floor until they stop.
Tonight.
It has to be tonight.
---
The lights dim around the sixth hour. That’s my window.
I press my ear to the door first, count the bootfalls in the hallway. Three guards at the far checkpoint. Two more rotating near the cells. But there’s a blind turn between my block and the water filtration corridor—five, maybe six seconds where line of sight breaks.
I wait until the next footsteps pass. Silence settles.
My fingers move fast. I dig out the keycard from the seam of my boot, jaw tight, breath shallow. It’s slick with sweat. My pulse’s so loud in my ears I almost miss the low click of the scanner.
The door unlocks.
I slip into the corridor like a shadow uncoiling from stone.
No alarms.
Yet.
My feet land soft on bare stone, heel to toe, quiet as a ghost. The hallway stretches ahead—dimly lit, lined with vents that hiss and hum, metal grates rattling under the weight of my nerves. I move fast, but not reckless. Every step mapped out in my head.
A right. Then another left.
The corridor forks. I freeze, press flat against the wall as distant voices echo—two guards laughing about some failed pit fight, the one who pissed himself before shift. I hold still until their chatter fades into nothing.
Then I run.
Soft. Controlled.
My breath burns sharp at the edges. My bones ache to shift—but I clamp down on it. If I change now, I’ll leave blood. Claw marks. A trail.
I reach a junction—blank concrete and rusted pipes. A narrow crawlspace gapes to my left. I drop to my knees and slip in.
The service tunnel is colder than I expect. Iron tang fills my nose. Mold curls up the walls. Mildew clings to every surface, and water drips like ticking clocks. My skin crawls, but I keep moving.
This is the part I mapped in my head.
Guards talk. They forget you’re listening. Especially the ones that think you’re half-feral, half-broken.
They mentioned a bypass route—something old, used for draining overflow between labs and surface sensors. I remember the phrase “don’t run power through corridor six again—it triggers the whole west wing.” That’s where I’m going.
The floor’s wet. Slippery.
I crawl through it anyway, cuts reopening along my knees and elbows. I don’t stop.
And then—I see it.
The exit panel.
Painted over. Faded red. Marked MAINTENANCE ONLY in half-rusted stencil.
My breath catches.
I made it.
I f*****g made it.
My fingers reach for the latch—nails cracked, palms bleeding. I shove against the lock—
—and a sensor blinks red.
A half-second later, the alarm screams to life.
The alarm is a banshee—piercing, frantic, endless.
Red light flashes. Sirens scream. Metal walls shudder as the emergency protocols kick in. Somewhere behind me, the thrum of boots hits the floor like war drums.
I don’t stop to think.
I run.
Down the hall. Over cables and past broken ducts. Sparks burst from a half-dead control box. The corridor coughs smoke, choking the air. The ceiling groans like it’s ready to collapse.
I shove open the panel door—my shoulder cracks from the force—and stagger into the last hall before the surface.
The exit is there.
It’s right there.
A rusted hatch half-covered in frost and old blood. A final lock, old-style mechanical. I fall to my knees, grabbing the lever. My fingers are slick with blood and sweat and I wrench it with everything I have.
It groans.
It gives.
I gasp.
And that’s when the shadow falls across me.
Cold. Massive.
A presence that makes my spine stiffen before my brain even catches up.
I whip around—heart exploding in my chest.
He’s already there.
Ghost.
Silent. Still. Masked. Watching me.
No weapon drawn. He doesn’t need one.
I lunge anyway—what else is left? I claw at his mask, his throat, his chest. My fingernails break against his armor. I kick. I bite. I throw every piece of my rage, my fear, my hope into hurting him.
He doesn’t flinch.
He doesn’t speak.
He doesn’t even breathe loud enough for me to track.
He absorbs me.
Like stone.
Until I’m panting. Shaking.
And when I rear back for one more strike, one last swing—his hand snaps forward.
Fast.
Brutal.
The blow hits the side of my head like a steel hammer.
Everything goes white.
Then black.
I don’t hit the ground. Not really. It feels more like falling into a chasm where even the pain is too stunned to scream.
There’s nothing for a while.
No pain. No sound. Just dark.
Then, slowly—light.
Not the artificial kind. Not the flickering fluorescence of cells or the cold white hum of labs. This is different.
Golden.
Real.
Sunlight bleeds through tree branches above me, dappling warm across my face. The wind rustles through leaves, carrying a scent I almost forgot existed—pine sap, wild earth, the musk of life without chains.
I’m barefoot. Walking through tall grass. My hands are clean. My chest doesn’t hurt. And something soft brushes against my shoulder—fur.
A wolf.
Black fur, silver eyes. Watching me with something that isn’t hunger. Something older. Familiar.
I reach out.
Its nose touches my palm, warm and steady, and my breath hitches with—
Peace?
Something rumbles—no, shudders.
The wolf jerks back. The light flickers.
A howl—deep, broken—rips across the dream like a fault line. The sky splits. Blood pours down the trees like rain. The air rots. My feet sink in mud that isn’t mud—it’s bone. Crushed teeth. Fingers.
Wake up.
No.
WAKE UP.
—
I gasp.
Metal beneath me. The tang of antiseptic. The tight burn of restraint.
I’m in a different cell now.
Smaller. No window. Reinforced steel around every corner. My wrists are bound tighter than before—metal cuffs linked to the wall, chafing deep into raw skin. A collar I don’t recognize bites into my throat. The air hums with chemical dampeners.
They’re not letting me try again.
I twist. The chains rattle.
Footsteps.
I freeze.
A figure stands in the corner.
Arms folded. Silent. Immobile.
The same mask. The same unmoving stance.
Ghost.
My chest tightens.
He’s not a guard.
Not exactly.
He’s my shadow now.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look away. Just watches.
Always watching.
The panic bubbles up fast, bitter and acid-hot. Not because I’m afraid of pain—I expect pain.
It’s what I don’t understand that rattles me.
He could’ve killed me.
He should’ve.
Why didn’t he?
What does he want?
The silence thickens.
I glare at him. A promise in my stare.
I won’t break.
But something in me knows—
This isn’t over.
It’s just begun.
- Writer
