A woman sat on the floor of a damp basement. The air was a nauseating cocktail of the coppery tang of blood, mold, and a despair so thick it felt like a wet cloth pressed against her face. Her body was weak, every muscle screaming with exhaustion. Her weary eyes were fixed on the only source of light: a pale, silver blade of moonlight piercing through the iron grate high above. The silent night sky was an ironic luxury.
Beside her lay her fellow condemned. The corpse of a pregnant woman with a gaping wound in her head. Her lifeless eyes stared blankly at the wet floor, as if still trying to find a way out. Fresh blood, already beginning to blacken, had painted the wall before her with crimson strokes that had yet to dry, dripping slowly downward with a soft "plip… plip…" that broke the silence.
And in front of her lay an anomaly. A strangely tall man who had been thrown into this cell some time ago. He wore a thick military greatcoat and a silent metal mask, the likes of which she had never seen. One of his arms was a monstrous limb of solid steel, resting inert beside him.
Nu'al: "The ceremony is about to begin again, isn't it? Oh, gods…" she said with a desperate sigh, her voice hoarse from disuse.
She gazed at the perpetually weeping stone wall, which was covered in dark red scrawls.
Nu'al: "How many days have I been here? Five? Maybe seven now?" She dipped her little finger into a small pool of blood beside the dead woman, then continued her gruesome record on the wall. A diary written with a life that had been lost.
Nu'al: "I don't know much. But it's clear the madmen in this village worship something they call the 'Forest God.' The sinful aura in this forest is so strong, so oppressive… It feels like an invisible dome covers this entire area. Even simple magic feels like trying to lift a mountain."
She dabbed her finger in the blood of her unfortunate companion again, her hand trembling for a moment. It felt wrong, but it was the only thing keeping her from going mad herself. Writing, analyzing, trying to find a pattern in this insanity… and to leave clues for the next potential victim.
Nu'al: "Every night, they make an offering. But from the pattern I've seen… it's as if they take the 'best' first. They always choose the women, the healthiest, and the most 'pure.' I have no idea what kind of purity they mean…"
She finished writing another sentence, then let out a short breath. Her eyes flickered to the corpse beside her.
Nu'al: "She gave up in the end… Maybe I'll follow her soon…" she whispered. "At least… at least the baby will never have to face its hell here…"
Nu'al: "But, for all the time we were here with the other offerings, he was always ignored by those cultists. They just passed him by… Is it possible… that her pregnancy made her impure in the eyes of their god?"
Her gaze shifted again to the masked man.
Nu'al: "This man… the cultists just threw him in here like a sack of trash. I don't know where they found him…"
Nu'al: "He hasn't even moved an inch since the first time I saw him…"
Driven by a curiosity that overrode her fear, she scooted closer. Hesitantly, she pressed her ear to the man's chest, against the thick fabric of his coat. She waited in the silence…
**THUMP-THUMP… THUMP-THUMP…**
A heartbeat. Slow, powerful, and steady. It wasn't the heartbeat of a dying man, but the thrum of an efficient machine. He was still alive.
Nu'al pulled her head back quickly. She sat up straight and leaned her back against the cold wall once more. Her situation was just as terrifying as before. Death still awaited her in the uncertainty.