"What is it?"
Lensin's voice echoed faintly in the cold, hollow tunnel. The sound bounced off the jagged stone walls and came back to him as a whisper — thin, ghostlike, as though the darkness itself were mocking him.
The woman didn't answer. She merely smiled, faintly, almost mechanically.
In the weak glow of the lamp attached to Lensin's helmet, her face appeared pale — almost translucent. The light brushed against her skin like moonlight upon still water, soft but distant, as if she belonged to another world entirely.
Lensin frowned slightly. Confusion flickered across his face, mixed with caution. He didn't know what she wanted, nor why she had followed him into this place.
Her eyes, cold and distant, showed no fear, no anxiety — only emptiness. They were calm in a way that made his skin crawl.
"What do you want?"
His tone was sharp, cutting through the silence like a blade of steel through air. His words carried no warmth, only the dull chill of suspicion.
But again, she said nothing.
She just stood there — quiet, still, smiling faintly as if lost in a memory only she could see. The weak light flickered across her features, making her expression seem both sorrowful and haunting.
When it became clear she would not answer, Lensin turned away. He had no time for the silent madness of others. He continued deeper into the mine, the dim light from his lamp shaking slightly as he moved.
His boots pressed against the rocky floor with a steady rhythm — crunch, crunch — echoing faintly down the narrow tunnel.
The deeper he went, the thicker the air became. Dust hung like a living fog, coating his throat with the taste of iron. The smell of ore and old sweat mixed together — heavy, suffocating, almost alive.
Here and there, the ground was uneven, marked by signs of old struggles, dried blood, and broken tools — remnants of the countless prisoners who had worked and died here before him.
Then he noticed something glinting faintly under his lamp's light — a pale object clutched in the hand of a corpse lying half-buried beneath the rubble.
He knelt, brushing the dirt away, and found a small piece of white chalk.
He turned it in his hand, examining it silently. No markings, no symbols — nothing unusual. Just a piece of chalk, yet somehow… out of place. In a mine of death and steel, this fragile object felt strange, almost wrong.
"Why would something like this be here…?" he murmured under his breath, barely loud enough for even himself to hear.
But what truly unsettled him wasn't the chalk — it was the woman behind him.
She was still there.
Still following him, step by silent step. Her presence lingered like a shadow that refused to fade, neither too close nor too far, always just within the edge of his light.
He stopped and turned toward her, irritation flickering in his eyes. His patience, already thin, was wearing away.
As though she sensed his annoyance, her faint smile faded. Her lips trembled. And then, without a sound, tears began to slide down her pale cheeks.
Lensin froze.
He wasn't sure what to make of it — pity, frustration, or simple confusion. The way the light caught those tears made them glimmer like droplets of melting ice. They reflected his lamp's glow in a way that felt heartbreakingly human, yet strangely unreal.
He studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
Her actions, her silence, her unsteady emotions — all of it pointed to one conclusion.
She's broken, he thought coldly. Her mind… is gone.
Whatever humanity she once had seemed shattered. She was a shell moving on instinct alone, perhaps clinging to the faint memory of warmth in a world of endless cold.
The fleeting flicker of compassion that had almost formed in his heart vanished. He turned away, ignoring her completely, his irritation now clear on his face.
But even as he walked away, the soft sound of her footsteps followed him again — light, persistent, almost soundless.
No matter how far he went, she remained behind him.
In the darkness filled with the rhythmic clangs of pickaxes and the labored breaths of other prisoners, her presence felt both eerie and fragile. She seemed like something not quite alive — a wandering remnant of sorrow that refused to disappear.
To her, however, Lensin was something more.
He was light — faint, cold, but still light.
The only thing in this endless void that gave off warmth, however small.
She couldn't explain it, but his presence made her feel… less lost. So she kept walking, following the dim glow that surrounded him.
Step by step, she drew closer.
Lensin felt the shift in the air. Instinctively, he turned, his body tense.
She was there — only a few paces away now.
Her face was illuminated clearly by his helmet light. He could see every detail: the soft strands of white hair falling across her forehead, the delicate curve of her jaw, and the faint shimmer of tears still clinging to her lashes.
The beam of his lamp hit her eyes directly, making the gray within them glint like burnished steel.
It was beautiful, and yet… unsettling.
He stepped back, cautious. His muscles tightened slightly.
He didn't know what she intended, what thoughts — if any — still lingered behind that fragile expression.
He exhaled slowly, his breath clouding faintly in the cold air.
"All right… can you at least tell me your name?"
His tone softened just a little. Perhaps he realized that hostility here would only lead to madness for them both.
For a long moment, she didn't move. Then, very slowly, she smiled again — faintly, hesitantly. The corners of her lips trembled before she whispered a single word.
"Onna."
Her voice was soft — impossibly soft — like a breath of wind slipping between the rocks. It wasn't loud, but it carried a strange clarity that pierced the quiet like a thread of silver weaving through darkness.
Lensin looked at her silently.
The name was short, simple, almost fragile — yet it lingered in his mind long after the sound faded.
He didn't reply. He only gave a slight nod before turning back toward the shadows ahead.
The sound of metal striking stone echoed once more — clink… clink… clink — swallowing the silence between them.
And as that rhythm filled the cavern again, the name "Onna" seemed to echo faintly within him, a ghost of a word that refused to die, flickering like a distant light in the dark.
Lensin nodded slightly, allowing her to follow him without a word.
The faint sound of their breathing echoed through the deep tunnels beneath the mountain.
Their footsteps struck the hard stone floor rhythmically — clack... clack... clack... — merging with the dripping water that fell from the ceiling at intervals, each drop marking time like a slow, forgotten clock counting backward into the dark.
The air underground was thick and heavy, filled with the smell of iron, dust, and something older — the scent of dried blood long absorbed into the rocks.
The tunnel walls bore the scars of rough excavation, grooves carved by pickaxes and drills, and blackened soot stains from torches used long ago.
The light from Lensin's headlamp swept forward, cutting through the darkness and revealing fragments of bones, glints of rusted tools, and old stains — grim evidence that this place was not merely a mine, but a grave for countless forgotten prisoners.
In that darkness that seemed to devour everything, the only other sound came from Onna's quiet breathing behind him.
Her presence was silent yet steady.
The dim beam reflected in her gray eyes flickered faintly like a candle in the wind — fragile, but alive, as if the faintest ember of warmth still lingered in that desolate place.
Lensin kept walking deeper into the tunnel until he came across a corpse — one unlike any other he had found before.
The body lay face down on the stone floor, limbs stiff as though carved from rock.
Its thick black cloak remained strangely intact, the fabric shimmering faintly under the lamplight, suggesting it belonged to someone of rank — someone who was not a mere laborer.
Lensin knelt beside the corpse, moving with measured care.
He turned the body slightly and noticed that its rigid fingers were clutching something — a notebook.
The cover was pitch black, scratched and scarred as if clawed by desperation.
He pried it loose gently and opened it.
Inside were pages filled with frantic handwriting — jagged, uneven lines written by a trembling hand.
Strange symbols and scattered words covered the pages, as if written by someone teetering at the edge of madness.
Lensin studied it for a long time, his eyes narrowing slightly as he turned each page.
Then, as he finished reading, a quiet laugh slipped from his lips — low, cold, and barely audible.
"I see... I get it now."
His voice was calm, but underneath it ran a current of understanding — and satisfaction.
The faint glow of the lamp caught his eyes, turning them the color of silver, like a man who had just uncovered a secret buried in the dark.
Before Onna could speak, a shout rang out from above —
loud, sharp, echoing through the tunnels like thunder breaking the stillness.
"That's enough! Your work is done for the day!"
The voice of the guard boomed through the passage, followed by the clatter of chains and the scraping of tools being dropped.
The prisoners stopped their labor.
Lensin looked toward the source of the voice and saw the glow of several torches flickering down the shaft, their orange light scattering across the swirling dust like drifting gold.
He calmly packed away his mining tools into an old wooden crate, then stood silently, waiting.
The blonde guard — the same one as always — approached with his usual emotionless face.
The sound of metal cuffs locking shut echoed: clink.
The routine was precise, practiced, and impersonal.
Everyone was ordered to return.
Hundreds of heavy footsteps filled the tunnels, the rhythmic march blending with the muffled hum of breathing and the metallic jingling of chains.
The stench of sweat and dust clung to the air, thick and inescapable — the scent of life barely enduring beneath the earth.
As they emerged from the mine, the faint light from the upper lamps grew stronger, washing the corridor in pale yellow.
They walked back through narrow corridors until the wide dining hall came into view — a space filled with the sour smell of old food and the hum of quiet exhaustion.
The metallic clatter of trays and utensils echoed throughout.
Each prisoner lined up, taking their meal trays in silence.
The food was meager — a lump of boiled meat, a piece of dry bread, a thin soup that smelled faintly of iron.
Yet none complained.
They ate like people who knew that surviving another day was victory enough.
Lensin sat at his usual table — a long metal surface cold to the touch, its edges dulled by years of use.
Only two people occupied it: himself and Onna.
The air between them was still, filled only with the muted noise of other prisoners eating and the occasional clang of spoons on trays.
As they ate, Lensin lifted his gaze and asked her quietly about her life before prison.
His voice was calm, distant — not intrusive, merely curious.
Onna answered each question without hesitation, her tone soft and even, like ripples across still water.
Her eyes did not lift from her tray; it seemed as if she were speaking not to him, but to some invisible past she could still see.
The ceiling lights flickered occasionally, casting her face in alternating bands of shadow and light — like an unfinished painting, never quite complete.
Then, a group of men approached and sat down beside her.
Their chairs scraped the floor loudly, the sound cutting through the quiet hum of the room.
Lensin's eyes shifted toward them instantly — sharp, instinctive, cautious.
Normally, when Onna sat with him, her smile carried a distant chill, a smile that never truly reached her eyes.
But when those men arrived, that faint smile disappeared completely.
Her face turned blank — her expression emptied, stripped of all emotion.
It was as though the warmth had been extinguished from her entirely.
Lensin noticed immediately.
He said nothing, merely watching, waiting, his gaze steady like a drawn blade.
For a while, the men did nothing — until one of them suddenly reached out and grabbed Onna's hand.
The act was small, but crude — and it broke the silence like a snap of dry wood.
Onna froze, her eyes widening, breath catching for just a second.
Lensin stiffened.
He remembered her telling him that she had never been harassed before.
This — this moment — was the first.
Before he even realized it, Lensin had already stood up.
The screech of his chair striking the stone floor cut sharply through the low murmur of the hall.
He reached across the table, took Onna by the arm, and guided her to sit beside him instead of across.
His face remained composed, but his eyes carried a hard glint — a silent warning.
The men's expressions darkened, irritation flickering across their faces, but none of them dared to act.
The tension hung in the air like a drawn wire — invisible yet tight enough to break at the slightest pull.
And then, as if nothing had happened, the ambient noise of eating and murmuring resumed.
Lensin felt the weight of that silent hostility pressing in from the side, but he ignored it.
He sat back down, picked up his spoon again, and continued eating with deliberate calm.
His every movement was measured, unbothered, unafraid.
Onna turned to him then.
Her face softened — just a little.
For the first time, her smile was not cold.
It was genuine — fragile, tender, and real.
Her gray eyes shimmered faintly under the dim light, reflecting gratitude more profound than words could express.
"Thank you."
Her voice was quiet — softer than the whisper of wind through stone — yet it carried enough warmth to shift the air between them.
Lensin gave a small nod.
No words followed, only silence — but in that silence, something subtle changed.
The distant steel in his eyes seemed to ease for a moment, replaced by something faintly human, faintly alive.
And as the evening dimmed, the hall falling into its dull, gray monotone once more, Onna's small smile lingered.
It was the only light in that place of cold iron and despair — faint, fleeting, yet real enough to remind one man that, even here, even now, there still existed something that could be called warmth.
Something that proved he was still alive.