The nights were the worst.
Not because they were quiet, but because they weren't. Not really. The silence in this place never felt empty—it pulsed with memory. With breath that wasn't his. With phantom hands that still bruised when he closed his eyes.
Seo-Yun had learned to stay awake as long as he could. If he slept, the dreams came—blood-soaked, suffocating, full of heat and teeth and whispered lies. If he stayed conscious, he could control something. Anything.
But even waking wasn't safety anymore.
Not with what was growing inside him.
His stomach had started to feel heavier. Not rounded—not yet—but weighted. Sometimes, late at night, a phantom cramp would twist through his core, sharp and low, and he would bite down on the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.
The nausea came and went like tides. Some mornings, the scent of his own sweat made him gag. Other times, it was fine. Manageable. But it was worsening.
And they hadn't noticed.
Yet.
Seo-Yun knew how they watched. How Varian's sterile evaluations cataloged every shift in behavior. He had learned to keep his posture slack, his eyes dull when they passed. He let his trembling mimic trauma instead of sickness. He mimicked survival.
But it was getting harder.
Today, the cell door opened with a hiss, and Seo-Yun didn't even look up. That was safer. Pretending to be nothing at all.
"Still alive," a familiar voice murmured. Not cruel. Not kind. Just amused.
Alpha Ryven.
His scent slid into the room like oil—dark and thick and wrong. Seo-Yun felt his stomach twist, but he didn't flinch.
"Did I damage you too deeply?" Ryven asked, crouching down in front of him. "You don't smell broken yet."
Seo-Yun raised his eyes slowly. "Disappointed?"
Ryven smiled. "No. It's better this way. The ones that take longer always last longer."
Seo-Yun didn't speak.
Ryven's gaze traveled lazily down his body—stopping at the sharpness of his hips, the slight hollowness beneath his ribs. "They're feeding you less," he murmured. "Strange. You're not even close to heat again."
Seo-Yun tensed. He could feel it—the scent masking he'd been doing was slipping. His body wanted to give him away.
Ryven stood. "Maybe you're defective," he said, though there was no anger in it. Only interest. "If you are, Kaelith will end you. And if you're not…"
He let that sentence hang.
Then he left.
Seo-Yun exhaled, shaking.
He was running out of time.
That night, the child came again. She didn't speak at first. Just knelt and placed a small cloth bundle beside him: dried fruit, crusted bread, and a thin vial of water.
He didn't look at her.
"You're shaking more," she said. "You're sick."
"I'm not," Seo-Yun whispered.
"You are. I saw the blood last time. It wasn't yours."
His hands clenched. "Don't say anything. If they find out—"
"I won't," she said quickly. Then added, more softly, "But you're not going to survive here much longer."
Seo-Yun looked up. The girl's eyes were too old for her face. She had seen too much. Maybe she was born here. Raised in this nightmare.
"I need to get out," he said. "Before they find out."
She reached into her tunic and pulled out something small—metallic. A pin. Sharp.
"They change the patrols every seventh night," she whispered. "Use this. Hide it. If you're going to run… that's the window."
Seo-Yun stared at the object like it was a miracle.
Not freedom. But the idea of it.
She didn't wait for thanks. Just slipped away like a shadow, leaving him alone again.
Seo-Yun pressed the pin into the seam of his mattress, hidden, his pulse racing.
He didn't know if he could escape. He didn't know if it would work. But for the first time since he was caged, something hot bloomed behind his ribs.
A splinter of purpose.