Inside the iron coffin, time lost all meaning. Only the omnipresent roar, seeping through the frigid hull plates, battered John Cressy's bones and eardrums without mercy. The air was putrid—thick with oil, rust, diesel, and the stench of some unnameable, rotting fluid—each breath a swallow of viscous, metal-flecked muck. The heat was suffocating; sweat oozed from every pore, soaking his jacket and undershirt, then chilled on his skin, leaving a clammy, icy prickle.
He huddled in the narrow crevice between pipes and bulkhead, avoiding patches that glistened with grease or leaked murky fluid. His military flashlight had long died, and absolute darkness enfolded him—save for the occasional sliver of near-invisible light through a hatch seam, or the faint red and green glows of instrument panels, like the dozing eyes of a beast in the dark.
His senses, strained to their limits, sharpened beyond measure. Through the engine's monotonous howl, he picked out every细碎 sound from above: heavy footfalls on deck, snatches of muffled conversation, a sudden laugh torn apart by the wind. He tracked subtle shifts in the hull's tilt and vibration, reading the course's微调, feeling the sea's power.
Mostly, he stayed motionless as stone, chest rising only with slow, deep breaths. It was a skill learned in war: slowing his metabolism to a crawl, lying in wait like a coiled viper, ready to strike.
But unlike those desert ambushes, his mind wouldn't stay blank. Every roll of the ship shook a bottle of painful memories, spilling them into the dark.
Lily's face materialized, vivid as day. Not the frightened girl in the silly white dress from the photo, but earlier versions: chasing pigeons across a park's rough grass, sunlight gilding her flying hair, laughter like wind chimes. Curled on the old couch, listening to his sanitized "adventures," her moon-bright eyes wide with wonder. Waking from nightmares, clinging to his neck, sniffling, until his rough palm patting her back lulled her to sleep.
Those images burned with warmth, a cruel contrast to the icy reality around him.
Then Martha's shriek would slice through, a rusted saw on his nerves: "Poor kids are born to be rich folks' toys!"
Her voice,疯狂而病态地认命, echoed on repeat. Next, the烫金 crest on that silver folder glinted in the dark, cold and arrogant. Legal jargon coiled into hissing snakes. Finally, Lily's "admission photo"—her forced, broken smile, eyes drowning in terror.
Grief, rage,杀意—like steam in a pressure cooker, they built and clashed inside him, searching for release. His nails dug crescent-shaped blood into his palm; the faint sting anchored him to清醒.
He couldn't lose control. Not yet.
Lily no longer needed a father crushed by pain. She needed a… terminator. A cold, precise instrument of destruction, forged in the hell he'd survived.
He forced his mind to tactics. He mapped the island in his head—from Batty the cripple's fragmented tales, from what he knew of private islands, of the elite's obsessions and security habits. Landing spots? Blind spots? Power grids? Guards? The villa's layout? Where they kept… or "housed" the children?
Every plan hinged on unknowns. This was a suicide mission. He knew that.
But it no longer mattered.
The engine's pitch shifted, slowing; the hull's vibration ebbed. John snapped alert, muscles tensing like a hound at the crack of a rifle.
Already? Impossible. It hadn't felt that long.
Above, footsteps thundered—more, faster, chaotic. Muffled shouts, carried away by the wind. Then a low, rhythmic hum approached, nothing like the Conch Shell's decrepit engine.
A patrol boat.
Batty's trembling voice echoed: "…patrols… real tight…"
John held his breath, pressing an ear to the vibrating bulkhead. A megaphone's garble drifted down, unintelligible. The Conch Shell's engine sputtered to near-silence, the ship bobbing with the waves.
An inspection. A boarding.
Time dragged, each second stretching to an age. He imagined the deck: flashlights blazing, uniformed guards with automatic weapons, Batty stammering, showing manifests… if they demanded to check the hold, even this filthy crawl space…
His hand moved silently to his waist, closing around the pistol's cold grip. Fingers brushed the trigger guard. If the hatch opened, if light flooded in…
He calculated the odds of bursting out, taking down every boarder. Slim, almost nonexistent. But that wasn't the point. How many could he kill? How much chaos? Could he get close enough to the island before going down?
A cold equation of bloodshed unfolded in his mind.
The voices above rose and fell for minutes. Then, a sharp signal. The megaphone's drone faded, retreating.
The Conch Shell's engine roared back to life, lumbering back on course.
The threat passed.
John loosened his grip, fingers numb from strain. Sweat on his back had turned icy against the steel.
The patrol boat confirmed Batty's fear—and the island's evil. It was a fortress, walled off from the world, ruled by its own dark laws.
The engine steadied. The journey resumed.
In the dark, John opened his eyes. The last flicker of human emotion died in them.
Only the cold, focused gaze of a scope remained.
The raven had slipped past the watchtowers, gliding silent toward its prey.