He didn't know what day it was.
Time didn't flow here — it curdled, like pus in an unhealed wound. Not because the clocks had stopped. There had never been any. No sunlight filtering through cracks, no moonlight, not even the dim flicker of lanterns. Only a pale, trembling glow oozed from the veins across the ceiling — the light of a dead God, as the old ones whispered.
Though he'd long stopped believing in gods.
Or old men.
Or anything at all, really.
He sat with his back against the wall, scraping beneath his nails with a blunt shard of rusted metal. The grime was black and sticky like tar, clinging to every crack in his skin. The pickaxe lay beside him — heavy, blunt, its handle wrapped in a sweat- and blood-soaked rag. His hands trembled.
Every breath scorched his lungs.
The air was thick, like broth made from rotting meat. And it didn't smell like decay. No.
It smelled like fresh meat.
Just-cut. Warm.
He'd gotten used to it. Everyone had.
"Three-Thirteen!"
The warden's voice sliced through the silence, echoing down the narrow tunnel.
He stood up. Slowly, by habit — sudden movements could knock you over. Dizziness was common here. Faint, and you got beaten. Not out of cruelty — just to keep you from going soft.
The tunnel closed in around him like the throat of some vast creature. His shoulders brushed the walls, slick with a greasy film. Underfoot, something squelched — not water, but something thicker, with a yellowish tint. Bone secretion, the older miners called it. The deeper you went, the more of it there was, as if the God's body still tried to heal the wounds left by pickaxes and drills.
"God."
He'd never seen it. The ones from above said it died millennia ago, when the sky cracked and rained ash. But the body remained. Vast. Threaded with tunnels, hollowed by mines. People lived inside it like maggots in a rotting carcass.
And he was just another worm.
A slave.
No name.
No past.
A number branded on his back with red-hot iron: 313.
A crooked tattoo near his collarbone, done by one of the "doctors" when he was ten.
He'd been here ever since.
Today — Sector F.
Deeper than usual.
Rumor said the bones whispered there, if you pressed your ear to the wall.
He didn't believe it. But he'd seen one miner come back from there with empty eyes. He clawed at his own face for three days before falling into a shaft. No one searched for him.
It's dark down there. And few come back twice.
But if they said go — you went.
Questions were a luxury here.
And he didn't even have a name.
The walk took forever.
First came the narrow drift, low enough that he had to hunch to avoid hitting the ceiling. Then a descent down rusted rungs hammered into the wall. His hands slid along the damp metal, feet groping for holds in the dark.
One wrong step — and you'd fall into the black, where even your scream wouldn't echo.
The deeper he went, the thicker the air grew.
The heavier each breath became.
The tunnel narrowed until his shoulders scraped both sides. The veins in the ceiling, usually bright, now glowed dimly — like dying coals. Their crimson flicker danced on the wet walls, turning the passage into the throbbing throat of some beast.
Beneath his boots — not just mud. Something soft, yielding, like flesh.
Sometimes it moved underfoot, and then he walked faster.
Somewhere ahead — dripping.
Slow.
Precise.
Like a heartbeat.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
He stopped, listened.
Silence.
Only the wet breath of the tunnel.
Only the whispers in his own mind.
And then he knew he'd arrived.
Sector F.
Where the bones whisper.
Where the air reeks of fresh meat — and fear.
The walls were wet here, almost alive to the touch — smooth like polished bone. Sometimes he brushed against thick tubular veins, pulsing with faint light. They groaned when pressed.
He always turned away.
A deep pocket.
The air here was denser, more saturated. It smelled like something had just died.
Or someone.
Two were already digging. They didn't speak. Neither did he.
He picked up his pickaxe.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
His head emptied. Only the rhythm of the strikes remained, pounding in his temples. Pain in his elbows. Pain in his back. Sweat ran down his spine, stung his eyes.
He didn't think.
The stone — or what looked like stone — chipped away slowly. Sometimes it revealed strands, thin and translucent, like tendons. Those had to be cut. If they snapped on their own, the air filled with a sweet mist. One breath — and you'd laugh.
Two — and your limbs would freeze.
So cut carefully.
Not deep.
Not fast.
It was routine.
It was work.
Then — a scream.
To the left. One of the diggers collapsed. His body spasmed, fingers curling, eyes rolling back until only the whites showed.
"He breathed it in," the second muttered, not even turning.
313 set the pickaxe down. Crouched beside the body.
On the ground — a ruptured vein.
A faint vapor hissed out, sweet and smothering.
Too late.
"Wait for the warden," the second said, returning to the wall.
313 nodded. Stayed with the body.
Watched.
And felt only… exhaustion.
He didn't know the man's name. No one did.
They'd worked side by side for three years.
Sometimes shared bread.
Sometimes poured foul alcohol on each other's wounds to keep them from festering.
But he never knew his name.
Maybe that was for the best.
While the body trembled in its final convulsions, he leaned back. Rested against the wall. Closed his eyes.
The darkness behind his eyelids was cleaner than the air around him.
He wasn't special.
He didn't want to be a hero.
He just wanted… not to be here.
But he didn't know if there was even an "outside."
He just wanted… not to be here.
But he didn't know if there was even an "outside."
And if he once did — he'd forgotten.
These thoughts had followed him for as long as he could remember.
Clinging to the edges of his mind like mold on damp stone.
Whispers that never left, even in sleep — if sleep could still be called that.
He sat like that for a while.
Not thinking.
Just… remembering that he'd once wanted to escape.
Then, slowly, he stood.
Picked up the pickaxe.
And went back to work.