The city was dimmer than it had ever been. Escar lifted his gaze to the cavernous expanse of Rifts Scar, where smoke hung low like dying breath. "Hey, Bart," he said, following the older soldiers down the spiraling path that carved the city into its own ribs, "when do you think the mines reopen?"
Bart let out a dry laugh, scraping his boot against the mud. "Kid, let me tell you a secret-when things close down here, they usually stay that way." He kicked a piece of rusted pipe aside. "These slaves shit everywhere. The whole city's turning to filth."
"But there've been fewer missing people this month," Escar said, quickening his steps to match theirs. "That's good news, right?"
Bart spat. "Fewer missing because there're fewer left to go missing."
Kaleb, the third soldier, smirked beneath his hood. "Don't listen to him, kid. The Escar mines'll open soon enough. They always do."
"Oh, yes," Bart muttered, "listen to the all-knowing Kaleb. If he had half a brain, he'd leave like I plan to. You should too, kid-before this place eats you whole."
He turned sharply into a narrow alley carved from ancient stone. Escar shivered; his thick coat barely held back the blistering wind. "How much longer till we're there?"
"Two more turns," Kaleb answered, patting him on the shoulder.
Bart grinned, the yellow light catching on his cracked teeth. "It ain't too late to head up to the Black Rose. Bethsy's warm, soft, and sings like she means it. Her voice is sweeter than a cushion and twice as inviting."
Kaleb scoffed. "You're the only one who wants that wench."
"Wench?" Bart barked a laugh. "Bethsy's the warmest girl on this dead planet. She sleeps with men because she wants to, not because she's chained. And she costs less than a bottle of that swill you call wine."
"This girl sleeps willingly too," Kaleb said, smirking. "If you want warmth, Bart, buy yourself a blanket."
"The girl's dead," Bart muttered, his face hardening. "She doesn't talk, move, scream, cry-nothing. She's so dead, she doesn't even die."
"She's pretty though, right?" Escar asked, his voice small, uncertain. "The prettiest girl in the Scar?"
Bart scoffed. "Pretty? You don't fuck a girl's face, kid. You fuck her body. If she's as still as a rock, you'll be doing all the work. Buying her's worse than buying a statue-it's like renting one."
Kaleb chuckled. "Let him have what he wants, Bart."
Bart grumbled but said no more. They reached a red door at the alley's end, its paint faded and chipped, a faint glow spilling from the cracks. Kaleb pushed it open, and warm air thick with sweat and oil drifted out.
---
The chamber was dimly lit, flickering lights casting long, twisted shadows across the cracked walls. The air was heavy with the scent of oil, sweat, and despair.
"Russell, long time no see," Kaleb said to the man seated behind a colored wooden desk at the center of the room. "How's business?"
"Business?" Russell's smile cut thin. "It's your visits that've grown rare, my friend." His voice was smooth, but an edge of urgency threaded through it as his eyes flicked toward Kaleb.
Escar, disinterested in their talk, found his gaze drawn to the girl standing silently in the corner atop a red carpet. Her hands were bound with rough rope. Her form-slender arms, narrow waist, long neck, and soft curves-was like something sculpted by a god. The gown she wore was too thin for the cold, nearly transparent, clinging to her body like mist. Through it, he could see the faint pink hue of her nipples. Her long braid fell across her left breast, half-covering what the fabric did not. She didn't move. Her head was bowed, gaze locked to the floor, her pale face and glacial eyes unreadable.
---
"Bart. Never thought I'd see you here," Russell drawled, finally setting aside his ledger. "Forgot how to be cheap, have you?"
"I haven't lost my mind yet, old pimp," Bart shot back, scraping his boots against the mat.
"Then why are you here? To insult my establishment with your soot-stained clothes?"
"Actually," Bart said, smirking, "I followed the smell of shit-and it led me straight to you."
Russell's smile didn't falter. "We're here for the boy," Kaleb interjected, nodding toward Escar. "He wants to taste Ginger."
Bart snorted. "The girl's all bones. How do you keep her alive?"
"The girl's alive," Russell said smoothly, "and full in all the right places." His finger traced lazily toward the girl's chest. "Her lips taste like strawberries, her hair's the color of fire-red and gold-and her breasts are full and soft as milk itself."
"Never known the dead to give milk," Bart muttered, moving toward the fireplace.
"Care to test that theory?" Russell replied, scrawling something into his ledger.
"The boy's the fool who wants to buy, not me," Bart said, rubbing his hands near the heat.
"Then it's simple," Russell said calmly. "Fifty diamonds. One hour."
"That's almost two weeks' pay for a corpse," Bart scoffed.
"She's the image of Karina," Russell said sharply.
Bart raised an eyebrow. "You ever seen Karina? I haven't. Pretty convenient, calling any girl her image. By that logic, I'm the image of Herclion."
"Fifty diamonds," Russell repeated, his voice hard. "I don't bargain."
"I'll pay," Escar growled.
Bart turned, stunned. "You will?"
Escar nodded, grumbling under his breath. Russell's eyes gleamed.
"The terms are set," he said, cutting Bart off before he could protest. "Take her rope and head to the second room on the left, my young friend."
Russell smiled, satisfied, as Escar turned down his radio and set it on the counter. He stepped toward the girl, her stillness unnerving him.
"So, Bart," he heard Russell say behind him, "any news from the mines?"
"No dead bodies coming up," Bart answered. "Which means one of two things-either they're too mangled to bring up without panic, or the shifts that go down to collect them join them in the long sleep."
Escar seized the girl's arm, wrenching it free from the rope that bound her wrist. Her hand hung limp, as though detached from the rest of her-and the rest of her seemed detached from the world itself. She offered no resistance, no movement. It wasn't as if he dragged a willing girl to bed; she simply wasn't there at all.
He closed the door behind them, leaving Bart, Kaleb, and Russell alone with their whispers and the faint, rhythmic sound of diamonds clicking against wood.
Escar grabbed the girl and tossed her onto the bed from the ground. As he kicked off his leather boots and loosened his tunic, he turned back to look at her face—just her face. Her glacial eyes shone as bright as a thousand mountain springs. Her hair wasn't red or yellow; it was something in between—something far more pristine than anything he had ever seen. But those glacial eyes weren't looking at him; they were tilted to the side, avoiding his presence.
"Look at me," he said commandingly. The girl seemed not to hear his words; she didn't even flinch.
Escar raised his hand as high as he could, then brought it down with all the force he could muster. A sharp slap tilted the girl's head to the right as her cheek turned crimson.
"I said look at me," Escar uttered aloud. The girl still didn't flinch. He grabbed her by the shoulder and slapped her again to the left with the back of his palm, so hard that even his own knuckles started to burn—but the girl didn't move. Even though the slap burst her lips, she didn't open her mouth, not even to sigh.
Escar lowered his pants and tossed his coat aside. With only his shirt on, he approached the girl lazily. He extended his hand and grabbed her left breast—the one half-covered by her golden hair. He gave it a squeeze before brushing the hair aside with one finger. Then he seized her thin dress and tore it apart without ceremony, in one savage motion.
Still, the girl sat motionless on the bed as Escar prepared to ravage her—it was as though her soul had long fled. Escar's rough hands gripped her breast, pawing greedily, but she neither resisted nor acknowledged him. She didn't scream, didn't weep, didn't even tremble. Her eyes remained fixed on a distant point beyond the room, dull and lifeless.
He squeezed her breasts and pinched a nipple so hard that its pink turned red, then laid her on the bed and lowered himself on top of her.
He took a kiss from her burst lip and looked at her. She wasn't looking at him; her gaze drifted toward the ceiling. Slowly, he turned her head so their eyes could meet. She didn't pull away as he did. When their eyes finally met, a chill ran through him—she still wasn't really seeing him. Her eyes were there, but fixed on something far beyond him, a distant point he could almost see reflected in their glassy depths.
Escar grunted in frustration. "What's wrong with you?" he snarled, shaking her. "Don't you feel anything?" But the girl remained silent, her breathing slow and steady—as if she were a corpse animated by the barest thread of life. Her eyes unsettled him. He wanted them to see him, to acknowledge that he existed. Yet that look—fixed toward him but not on him—made him feel like a helpless child before her. Maybe it was him she imagined dead.
Slowly, he pulled himself upright and turned her onto her back so her gaze could no longer pierce him. Then he began again from where he had left her. He touched her bare back—her smooth skin sent a chill through him. He jerked his hand away and stared at his palm, shivering. The clock on the wall ticked. Ten minutes gone. Fifty more to endure. Already, he felt diminished, as though some quiet curse was working its way through his veins.
"How much longer till he's done?" Bart asked, shifting his weight impatiently.
Kaleb shrugged. "I don't know." Then, turning to Russell, he added, "What do you think?"
Russell exhaled through his nose, fingers still toying with a diamond. "It's his first time with Ginger. I'd wager he'll be done in half an hour. But some men stay-try to wring every second from the time they've paid for."
"She's your best, I suppose?" Bart pressed.
"Yes," Russell admitted, his voice smooth as oil. "I've had few who matched her."
"What happened to them?"
A pause. Then, dismissively, "They grew too old. Had to make room."
Kaleb stiffened. "You sold them off?"
Russell's smile didn't reach his eyes. "No one buys used-up slaves. If they can't be used anymore-and I use them until there's no use left..." He let the implication settle like cold dust. "People call me a monster, but it pisses me, truly. To see such beautiful things wither-time and time again."
Bart studied him. "Ever let one go free?"
"No." Russell's gaze drifted, as if sifting through memory. "But I lost one once. Sari. Earned nearly as much as Ginger does now."
Bart leaned in. "What happened to her?"
"Died in that foolish revolt twenty years back-the one Kenta crushed." His jaw tightened. "A waste. She had fifteen good years left in her."
A heavy silence followed. Then Bart nudged Kaleb. "Let's go up to the Black Rose. Have a drink with my fat Bethsy."
Kaleb nodded. To Russell, he said, "When he's finished, tell him we're at the Black Rose. Upper floor."
Without another word, the two men stepped out of the brothel into the dim-lit alley, their boots echoing against the floorboards as they left Russell alone-with his diamonds, his ghosts, and the muffled sounds from the room beyond.
Escar opened the door and stepped outside, fastening the buttons of his coat. Before closing it, he glanced back inside-his chest heaving with exertion and something else: unease.
The girl's dress hung in tatters, yet she made no move to cover herself. She simply stood there, stripped of dignity but not of that eerie, hollow strength that clung to her like a shadow.
"Where are they?" Escar asked, his voice rough with spent exertion.
Russell didn't look up from his ledger. "Went up to the Black Rose. Said they'd be waiting for you there-with their fat Bethsy."
Escar grunted, adjusting his belt as he strode toward the door. Just as his hand touched the handle-grabbing his radio and leaving the bag of diamonds behind-Russell's voice slid after him like a blade.
"If you ever wish to return... we're relocating to Braken's Deck. Fifteenth floor. You know the place-the old restaurant."
A pause, weighted like a coin on a dead man's eyes.
"We'll be waiting."
Escar hesitated-just a breath, just a flicker-then stepped into the night. "It's fucking cold outside," he muttered as he exited. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing the brothel's thick silence once more.
Escar breathed heavily and wiped the cold sweat from his brow. He couldn't shake the image of the girl-the hollow, lifeless stare, the way she had stood there like a broken doll, untouched by his violence. Something about her gnawed at the edges of his mind.
He switched on his radio; it came to life with a harsh screech.
"Center to Escar-report your position," the voice barked through the static.
"Shit," he muttered, then pressed the button. "Escar to Center. Ninetieth floor, left wing, Brimstone Alley."
"I've been trying to reach you for fifteen minutes, Escar! Where the fuck were you?"
The voice crackled again. "There's a cold mass near the mine entrance. Go check it out, then report back."
Any other time, he would've ignored the order. Who went into the mines alone? But they had him cornered-with his pants down, as he thought bitterly. He sighed, pressed the transmitter again, and muttered, "Roger, Center. On it."
He started his descent, winding down the spiral paths that coiled through the mine city's depths. The lower he went, the colder it grew.
Clutching his rifle tighter, he felt a faint pull-a whisper of longing he couldn't explain. Maybe he'd pay for another hour once this mess was over. Maybe he'd make her react. The thought festered, lingering in his mind as he moved.
His boots echoed sharply in the narrow, cold corridors of Rifts Scar, the dim yellow lights above flickering and casting long, restless shadows. The deeper he went, the heavier the air became-thick with oil, rust, and something older.
He'd been here before, deep in the bowels of MelasOon, but tonight felt different. The usual background hum-gruff voices, distant laughter, the clatter of trade and cruelty-was gone. In its place was an unnatural stillness, a silence that pressed against his skin.
He wanted to turn back, to climb up toward the Black Rose and drown his nerves in ale and warmth.
"Damn it," he muttered, tightening his grip on the rifle. He wasn't meant to be this deep, but orders were orders. With a grunt, he adjusted his gear and started down the crumbling stairway toward the mine shafts.
As he descended, his thoughts betrayed him, dragging him back to the girl-her red hair glinting under the dying lights, her lips full and motionless, as if frozen in another time. She should have fought. She should have screamed. Instead, she had simply... endured. It unsettled him in ways he didn't understand.
And yet, the idea of returning to her-of forcing something, anything, from that frozen mask-gnawed at him like hunger.
The yellow lights faded the deeper he went, giving way to a faint reddish hue that seemed to seep from the very walls. The air turned colder, heavier, metallic against his skin. Ahead, the sprawling mines loomed. The hum of distant machinery vibrated through the ground, mingling with the low groan of unseen passageways shifting in the deep.
The farther he walked, the more the lights stuttered and died, throwing jagged shadows across cracked stone. His boots grew quieter on the uneven ground, swallowed by the oppressive silence.
Without realizing it, he was lost. The familiar paths blurred into one another, the landmarks he thought he knew twisted into strange, distorted shapes.
The entrance to the mines gaped before him-a vast, black maw rimmed with a sickly, pulsating red light. The yellow glow from above was gone now, leaving only that angry crimson that seemed to breathe with the planet's own heartbeat.
His radio crackled again, but this time the voice was distant, warped, as if calling from another world. He didn't answer. He barely heard it.
Something was wrong. The silence deepened-thick, tangible, pressing down on him.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, a shadow moved-too fast, too fluid to be anything human.
His instincts screamed. He pivoted, rifle raised, and fired at the shadow-the shining bullets illuminating the hideous form as it charged toward him with unimaginable speed.
It moved on all fours, running as much as leaping, its elongated arms thrusting it forward while its small, twisted legs balanced the massive frame. The bullets tore through the air, each flash revealing more of its grotesque anatomy-ashen skin stretched tight over bone, claws like shards of glass.
One round struck home. The creature stumbled, collapsing into a burst of dust, and for a fleeting heartbeat Escar thought he had slain it. Ash rose from where it fell, swirling in the dim red light like smoke from a dying fire. But then it stirred. Its right hand clawed into the ground, dragging its ruined body upright.
Escar fired again. Click. Nothing. The chamber was empty.
Panic gripped him. He dropped the rifle and reached for his sidearm, but his muscles felt soft, powerless-as if the air itself had turned against him. The thing lunged. Its claws raked across his lower jaw, shearing it clean from bone and teeth alike. Escar collapsed, choking on his own blood as his jaw hit the stone with a wet thud.
I must flee... The thought barely formed before the strength left his legs.
It was already too late.
From the blackness, the creature came again-a blur of shadow and sinew, claws slicing through the air like living blades. He tried to scream, but the mines swallowed the sound whole. The monster struck, its teeth sinking deep into his throat, tearing through flesh with savage precision. His rifle clattered uselessly to the ground as he thrashed, but the thing's grip was merciless.
Flesh ripped from bone with sickening ease. Blood splattered the cold stone. Escar's vision blurred; darkness crept in from the edges, wrapping the world in silence.
In the last flicker of his fading sight, he saw them-faint red lights pulsing in the darkness like the watchful eyes of a god.