Ravian's eyes fluttered open, his body rigid and cold against the hard ground. His skin stuck to the floor, the filth of sweat and grime forming a thin layer over him like a second skin. His breaths were shallow, every inhale scraping his throat, burning from the dryness that had settled deep in his chest. He blinked, trying to force his vision to focus, but everything around him was blurry, lost in the dim light of the room.
His muscles ached, not with the sharp, immediate pain of wounds, but with a deep, gnawing exhaustion that made every movement feel like a monumental task. He lay there, unmoving, his mind dulled by the never-ending cycle of sleep and waking, of pain and silence.
The silence. It was always there, thick and oppressive, like a blanket that smothered every thought, every hope. And yet, even in that silence, there was no peace. It was the kind of quiet that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, the kind that made you feel like something was watching, waiting.
Ravian's fingers twitched, curling slightly into the dirt, the sensation barely registering. Around him, the other children were still—some unconscious, others too weak to move. The room was a graveyard of bodies, a collection of souls hanging on by the thinnest of threads.
He tried to swallow, but his throat was so dry it felt like sandpaper, each movement sending a sharp sting through his body. How long had it been since they'd had water? Since they'd had food? Days had blurred together, time slipping away in a haze of fatigue and torment.
Every so often, the overseers would force food and water into their bodies, just enough to keep them alive, but not enough to quell the gnawing hunger or the relentless thirst. Ravian could still taste the bitterness of the gruel they'd fed him last, the way it had clung to his throat, thick and sickly.
But even that wasn't the worst of it.
No, the worst part was the waiting.
The quiet stretched on for what felt like hours. Ravian lay there, his body motionless, his mind too tired to form thoughts beyond the most basic instinct to survive. And yet, even in that deadened state, there was a part of him that remained alert, always waiting for the next sound, the next test.
It came, as it always did, without warning.
A sharp click echoed through the room, loud in the oppressive silence. It wasn't much—just a small, metallic sound, like a stone dropping onto metal—but it was enough. Ravian's eyes shot open fully, his body jerking involuntarily. Around him, the other children stirred too, their bodies reacting to the sound with the same reflexive terror. The silence that followed was suffocating, every heartbeat magnified in the stillness.
Another click. Then another.
The tension in the room rose like a swelling wave, crashing down on them all. Ravian could feel it—the way the air seemed to tighten around him, pressing down on his chest. He waited, his breath shallow, the muscles in his legs tensing even though he knew he didn't have the strength to run.
Then, nothing.
The silence returned, and with it came the awful realization that there would be no rest, no escape. The sound was just another test, another reminder that they were never safe, never allowed to relax, even for a moment.
Ravian let out a slow breath, his body sinking back into the dirt. But he didn't sleep. None of them did. The fear was too great. They couldn't afford to let their guard down, not even when exhaustion weighed on them like a lead blanket. Sleep was an enemy, a trap. If you let yourself fall too deeply into it, you might not wake up.
More children had died since the last time he had stirred. Ravian hadn't seen it happen—hadn't heard their final breaths—but he knew. The room felt lighter, emptier. The strange energy that filled the air had grown stronger, thicker, as more of the children failed to survive. It seeped into the room like a poisonous fog, clinging to the walls, wrapping around the survivors like a cruel embrace.
The energy was always there, humming faintly in the background, but now it felt…different. Darker. More oppressive. It wasn't a reward for survival, not in any sense that felt meaningful. It was a reminder—a subtle, twisted encouragement that the longer you lasted, the more the room demanded from you.
Ravian could feel it in his bones, in the way his muscles tightened even when he was still. Every day, every hour, it grew stronger. As more children fell, it pressed harder against those who remained, a constant, unyielding force that pushed them to the edge of their limits.
There was no comfort in it. No relief. It didn't make survival easier. If anything, it made it worse.
The air felt thicker now, harder to breathe. Ravian's lungs burned with each shallow inhale, his chest rising and falling in uneven gasps. He could hear the faint cries of the other children—whimpers of pain, soft, broken sobs. No one spoke. No one dared.
The moments of quiet stretched on again, but now they felt even more dangerous, as if the silence itself was a trap. Ravian could feel his heart pounding in his chest, each beat a reminder that he was still alive, still clinging to whatever thread of survival he had left.
And then, just when the quiet seemed like it would swallow them whole, another sound broke the stillness.
This time, it was a sharp, metallic clang, louder than before. The children jerked awake, their eyes wide, their bodies trembling with fear. Ravian felt his own body tense, his muscles locking up as he waited for the next wave of torment.
But it didn't come.
The sound faded, and the silence returned, but this time it felt different—heavier, more oppressive. It hung in the air like a noose, tightening around them all. Ravian's hands twitched, his fingers curling into fists as he tried to push the fear away, but it clung to him like a second skin.
He wasn't sure how much longer he could last.
Days passed like this—moments of brutal quiet, shattered by sudden, jarring sounds. They never knew when the next noise would come, when the next test would begin. It was a constant, unrelenting torment, designed to keep them on edge, to break them.
And yet, even as more children fell, Ravian remained.
He could feel his body changing, growing stronger in ways he didn't fully understand. His senses were sharper now—he could hear every breath, every shift of movement in the room. The energy that filled the air pressed against him, testing him, but he didn't falter.
Not yet.
But there was no relief in this strength. No triumph. It was a hollow, empty thing, a cruel gift that did nothing but prolong the suffering.
Ravian's mind wandered, drifting through the fog of exhaustion and pain. He didn't think of the old days anymore. He didn't dream of the sunlight or the flowers. Those memories were gone, buried deep beneath the layers of dirt and blood that covered him.
All that mattered now was surviving.
The room was suffocatingly quiet again, the tension building with every second. Ravian's eyes flickered shut, just for a moment, just long enough for the exhaustion to catch up with him.
And then—
BANG.
The noise was deafening, shattering the silence like a hammer to glass. Ravian's eyes snapped open, his body jerking violently, his heart pounding in his chest. Around him, the other children screamed, their voices raw and desperate, but Ravian didn't scream. He couldn't.
All he could do was endure.