The cell was a tomb of shadows and cold stone. Days bled into indistinguishable weeks, each one a monotonous echo of the last. I sat hunched in the corner, my fingers tracing the rough, uneven floor, my mind a relentless engine calculating every conceivable avenue of escape, every potential weakness in my prison.
Then, my fingers brushed against something unexpected. Beneath a loose brick in the wall, wrapped in a layer of dust-caked cloth, lay a dull, forgotten knife. The blade was pitifully useless in its current state, but in this suffocating void, time was the only currency I possessed.
My search continued until I found it – a stone, smooth and solid, fitting perfectly into the palm of my hand.
For weeks, I toiled in the oppressive silence.
Scrape. Sharpen. Scrape. Sharpen.
My fingers bled freely, the raw skin protesting against the rough stone. My body ached with the constant, hunched posture, every muscle screaming in rebellion.
But slowly, painstakingly, the dull metal began to gleam, a sliver of hope forged in pain and determination.
A test.
I pressed the nascent edge against a loose piece of wood I'd managed to pry from my cot. With a slow, deliberate motion, I sliced through the fibers.
Perfect.
Next, fire. An element of chaos in this sterile environment. Using a brittle twig and carefully arranged stones, coaxing the faintest spark into a fragile flame, I heated the crude blade, tempering the metal, strengthening my only ally.
A day passed, then another. Patience, a virtue I had long abandoned, became my constant companion.
Three months crawled by, each tick of the unseen clock a reminder of my captivity. But my focus never wavered.
Using the sharpened edge and sheer will, I began to saw at the steel bars, the grating sound a secret symphony of defiance in the dead of night.
Little by little, the metal groaned under the relentless assault.
Until finally – SNAP.
The bar gave way, falling silently to the stone floor.
I pushed the door open, the hinges protesting with a low groan.
Freedom.
Now, it was time for the debt to be paid in blood.
The guards, complacent in their perceived security, never stood a chance against the phantom that moved through their sterile halls. Silent and ruthless, I stalked them through the shadows.
One by one, they fell. A swift slice across the throat, a brutal crushing blow to the skull – their lives extinguished without a whisper.
By the time I reached the boss's assistants, the sterile white walls were painted crimson, and I was soaked in their lifeblood. Their screams, cut short and choked with terror, echoed in the empty corridors.
I made them pay for their complicity, for their role in my imprisonment, gouging out their eyes, letting them feel the exquisite agony of their final moments. Their bodies twitched and convulsed before finally falling still, their vacant stares fixed on nothing.
I wiped the blood from my face, the metallic tang a grim reminder of my purpose. I took a step forward—
BANG.
A gunshot ripped through the silence, the sudden impact sending a searing pain through my shoulder.
I staggered, gritting my teeth against the shock, but there was no time to succumb. More bullets rained down, tearing through the air around me.
I dashed down the hallway, weaving between the deadly projectiles, my breath ragged but steady. Room after room – empty. They had cleared the way for their leader.
Until one wasn't.
A shadow moved in the dimly lit space at the end of the corridor. The air crackled with a sudden tension.
My eyes locked with the figure.
No hesitation.
The figure lunged, faster than I anticipated, a blur of motion in the dim light.
Our bodies crashed through the large window, glass exploding outwards in a shower of razor-sharp fragments. The world spun violently.
I slammed into the hard concrete below, the impact sending a jolt of agony through my body, every nerve screaming in protest.
My opponent?
Landed with an unnerving grace, like a predator perfectly in control.
Slowly, I pushed myself up, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the cracked pavement.
The figure stepped forward, their form now illuminated by the flickering streetlights.
I gripped the makeshift blade in my hand, the cold metal a familiar comfort.
No words were exchanged. Only the unspoken promise of violence.
I struck first, aiming for the vulnerable curve of the throat.
The figure dodged with an almost supernatural ease, countering with a brutal, gut-wrenching punch that stole the air from my lungs.
I choked on the impact, my body recoiling. Before I could react, I was launched backward, slamming into a heavy metal cage, the bars rattling violently from the force of the impact.
My body screamed in protest, every muscle a symphony of pain. I barely managed to lift my head as the figure stepped fully into the light.
A cold, metallic mask obscured their features, reflecting the harsh glare of the streetlights. Armor, sleek and impenetrable, encased their body.
Then, a voice, cold and devoid of emotion, cut through the night.
"They call me....The Iron Maiden."
Silence hung heavy in the air.
Then—
I laughed.
A low chuckle at first, then louder, escalating into a raw, unhinged sound that echoed off the surrounding buildings.
"You son of a bitch," I rasped, my voice thick with blood and madness. "Do you think you of all people… could beat me?"
My voice dripped with a manic energy.
"Heh… Heheheheh… You sure are hilarious."
My fingers twitched, the hunger for vengeance a tangible thing. My body rose, fueled by a primal rage, like a demon possessed.
Eyes burning with a desperate, unholy light.
Ready to kill.
The Iron Maiden cracked their knuckles, the sound sharp and ominous in the stillness.
No words were needed. Only a grim understanding.
This wasn't just a fight.
This was war.