I walked out of the prison with Koda, the steps feeling longer than they really were, as if every meter separating us from Kazuya added weight to my chest.
The air outside was cold, and the fog was growing thicker, yet the smell of iron and rust from inside still clung to my nose.
We were only a few steps from the outer gate when the air split open with the sound of a massive explosion.
The walls shook like a beast waking from its slumber, followed instantly by the screech of torn metal.
Dust and stone fragments filled the air, and sirens wailed in all directions, as if the prison itself were crying for help.
This wasn't just an explosion… it was the beginning of an attack.
Out of the smoke, shadows emerged—moving with speed and precision—masked men dressed in black, armed with heavy weapons.
They didn't fire wildly; they advanced toward a specific target… inward, toward where Kazuya was.
Screams rose. Guards tried to fight back but fell one after another, some under gunfire, others from swift, brutal strikes.
Everything happened so fast, as if the attackers had rehearsed this scene dozens of times in their minds.
I tried to move, but the blast wave slammed me to the ground.
My head struck the cold floor, and a whirl of distant sounds surrounded me: shouts… orders… heavy footsteps.
Through flashes of consciousness, I saw them emerging from deep within the corridors, led by a thin man, hands bound, yet walking with steady steps, his eyes scanning the place…
Kazuya Shindo.
Even under the watch of his masked escorts, it felt as though he was the one leading them, not the other way around.
When he reached the courtyard before the gate, he stopped suddenly and turned his head toward me.
He saw me lying on the ground, my breathing ragged, my eyes barely open.
He smiled—a cold smile—and said, loud enough to be heard through the chaos:
— "Take him."
No one asked why.
Two of the men rushed toward me; one pulled out a sturdy plastic cable and bound my hands behind my back so tightly I felt my bones protest.
I tried to scream, but the air was leaving my chest.
They lifted me off the ground as if I weighed nothing and dragged me toward a black vehicle waiting beyond the torn gate.
The last thing I saw before the metal door shut…
was Koda's face through the smoke, running toward me—but the distance between us was growing…
Then everything disappeared.
---
I awoke to a faint trembling in the walls… a steady vibration, like the heartbeat of some vast metallic creature, coming from depths I couldn't see.
The air was heavy with the scent of rusted iron and burnt oil, mixed with a hidden chill that crept from the floor into my bones.
When my eyes opened, they met a dull gray ceiling, low enough to press down on the room, with a single lamp breathing a tired light, as if it was moments from burning out.
The chains binding my wrists to a ring sunk deep into the concrete radiated their coldness into my skin; their every scrape sounded like the chirp of a giant insect in an enclosed space.
Through a small gap in the door, another scene spilled in: a vast expanse, yet sealed tight.
Metal fences topped with coils of electrified wire coiled around the place like a massive snake guarding its prey.
In the corners stood tall watchtowers, their rotating lights sweeping the ground with cold white beams, pausing at faces as if dismantling them.
The ground was covered in thick dust, mottled with dark stains that could have been mud… or something else.
Rows of people moved in slow rhythm, shoulders hunched, faces empty, eyes drifting away from each other quickly—as if meeting someone's gaze was a crime.
Their clothes were uniform, somewhere between ash and shadow in color, stripped of any hint of identity.
At certain points in the camp, men dressed entirely in black stood, their faces hidden.
They moved in complete silence, as if quiet was the only language here.
In their hands, small notebooks and metal devices; before them, lines of the gray-clad, waiting their turn with a patience that felt like surrender.
Everything about this place was disturbingly precise:
The distances between the towers, the timing of the lights' rotations, even the number of steps between one guard and the next… there was not a single mistake, as if this camp wasn't built to prevent escape, but to reshape what was inside the prisoners before escape could even be imagined.
From afar, through the creeping fog, a human mass approached, surrounded by guards.
There was no need to see the face… his manner of walking was enough: slow, deliberate, head high, like a man who knew this place wasn't his cage but his domain.
When he passed near my door's gap, his steps halted briefly.
I didn't look directly, but the shadow that blocked the light was heavy, longer than a passing moment.
Then he moved again, swallowed by the fog.
Minutes later, the door opened.
A heavy hand gripped my arm, and the chains came loose from the floor ring.
The cold steel left my wrists but planted something deeper… the feeling that the shackle was still there, only now it had moved inside.
They led me out, the chains still on my wrists but now linked to a metal rod held by one of the guards.
Outside, the air was thicker, as if every breath had to pass first through a filter of dust and cold.
The camp, from the inside, was larger than I'd imagined.
Vast spaces, divided by inner fences and iron lines, like veins stretching from an unseen heart.
The movement within was precise—not the order of life, but the discipline of insects.
The first thing I noticed was the complete separation of men and women.
To the left, women moved in orderly rows, heads lowered, followed by black-clad female wardens with covered faces, noting something in small books after every pause.
To the right, men—under the same kind of supervision—marched in measured steps, their curt words barely audible, yet enough to plant obedience.
There was no crossing between the two, no glances, no signals, as though an invisible wall split the place.
In every corner, I saw broken-faced people…
Some muttering to themselves, eyes unfocused; others swaying as if their inner balance had been lost.
There were smiles without cause, muffled laughs unrelated to anything, and twitching gestures repeated unconsciously.
These were no longer prisoners… they were patients abandoned mid-treatment.
Between the rows and corridors stood low residential blocks, their windows small and covered with wire, their doors marked by numbers, never names.
I couldn't tell if they were just for sleeping or for resting, but from one came the smell of cooked food mixed with faint smoke—suggesting communal kitchens.
At the camp's edges, I saw huge warehouses with tightly sealed metal doors, each guarded by two armed men.
No signs indicated what they held… but from under one door seeped the faint scent of fuel.
And then—amid all the metal and discipline—something different…
A small library, the only wooden-walled building in a world of steel.
Its narrow windows let in thin slivers of light, as if it belonged to another place entirely.
Inside, I saw a few shelves, scattered books, and people sitting at low tables, reading or writing in absolute silence.
There was no guard at the door—as though the place needed no protection, or perhaps it was a trap for anyone seeking meaning in this void.
With every step, it became clearer: this camp was not built merely to hold bodies…
It was built to remake minds, to march to a single rhythm, where every detail—from food to silence—was part of an unspoken curriculum.
When the light began retreating from the sky, I realized the camp was transforming into a completely different creature from the one I'd seen in daylight.
The tall towers were no longer just watch structures—they were luminous eyes pulsing over every corner, their white beams carving sharp lines into the ground, slicing the dark into monitored spaces where nothing could hide.
Even the air changed; it grew colder, carrying with it a faint hum from the generators, as if the place was preparing for a new ritual.
I pretended to comply when the guard left me at a small residential building, but he didn't stop me from wandering the outer yard around it—perhaps because they knew escape was impossible.
I moved slowly, making myself seem aimless, while my eyes caught and stored every detail.
Residential buildings:
Inside, the rooms were cramped, each with four metal beds and a small locker per person, devoid of personal belongings.
I heard no laughter or casual chatter—only scattered murmurs and the occasional cough.
The doors couldn't be locked from inside… there was always the possibility of someone entering at any moment.
Separation of genders:
Even at night, the invisible barrier between men and women held.
From a distance, I saw women's lines led to their buildings by the wardens, while men were directed by male overseers.
No contact… not even a chance to look.
The broken ones:
In a dim corner between two buildings, I saw a small group moving without purpose, their faces pale, their eyes sunken.
One man shook his head endlessly; another ran his fingers along the wall as if reading something no one else could see.
No one approached them—they seemed part of the camp yet outside its system.
The warehouses:
I passed near two of them.
From the first came the smell of fuel and industrial oil; from the second, a sharp scent like cleaning agents or disinfectants.
Through a gap in one metal door, I glimpsed stacks of wooden crates marked with numbers, some stamped with red lines.
The library:
Even at night, it was lit with warm, small lamps.
Inside, it wasn't crowded—just a few people bent over their books in deep silence.
Through the glass, I skimmed the titles: old philosophy books, translated religious texts, works on psychology, and volumes with vague titles and no authors.
Every book bore the camp's stamp… as if knowledge here was as monitored as the prisoners.
Night patrols:
About every ten minutes, a group of armed guards passed through the main paths, their steps synchronized, their eyes scanning as though searching for any movement beyond what was necessary.
One stopped in front of me for a few seconds, then moved on… that silence heavier than any spoken threat.
The guard led me wordlessly down a narrow dirt path lit by widely spaced yellow lamps until we reached a low-walled building with a heavy, rusted metal door.
He pushed it open with his shoulder, producing a long creak, as if the place hadn't been opened in a long time.
Inside, the smell of old sweat and damp fabric.
The room was wide but divided into rows of opposing metal beds, each with a coarse gray blanket and a small steel locker at the head.
Dozens of men moved quietly inside—some sitting on their beds, others folding clothes mechanically—their faces all sharing the same pallor, as if blood had abandoned them long ago.
The guard didn't let me choose where to sit or explore; he led me to an empty bed near the far wall.
On the small table by the door sat a large metal pot and neatly arranged plastic cups.
A black-clad man with a hidden face approached, filled one cup with a dark liquid smelling of burnt herbs and damp metal, and handed it to me.
He didn't speak—but the way he stood was enough to tell me refusal wasn't an option.
I took it, the heat seeping into my fingers, and drank in quick gulps to get rid of the bitter taste clinging to my tongue.
Within minutes, my limbs began to grow heavy, a strange warmth spreading in my chest, followed by a slowing of my vision, as if the world was shrinking into a single dark point.
The men's voices faded; the lights became distant circles moving slowly.
The last thing I felt before collapsing onto the bed…
was the guard's hand pulling a coarse blanket over me, then his footsteps walking away.
And then…
Nothing.
Only a heavy darkness, without dreams, without time.