The iron door groaned as it opened.
Light spilled into the narrow corridor, harsh and blinding after days of darkness. Tomora stepped forward slowly, each movement stiff, unsteady. His bare feet scraped against the cold stone floor. Bruises ringed his wrists like dark cuffs, the skin swollen and raw where chains had bitten deep. His shoulders sagged, ribs visible beneath his torn clothes. Hunger gnawed at him, hollow and sharp, but he kept walking.
The collar around his neck gave a faint crackle, reminding him it was still there. Always there.
At the end of the hallway, Tala waited.
She leaned against the wall, arms crossed, posture relaxed—too relaxed for someone standing before a broken thing. Her lips curled into a pleased smile as she took him in, eyes flicking over his injuries like items on a list.
"Well, well," she said lightly. "Look who survived."
Tomora didn't answer.
His gaze passed through her, unfocused, as if he were still half in the dark cell. His breathing was slow and shallow, chest barely rising. Tala pushed off the wall and began to circle him, boots clicking softly with each step.
"Five days," she continued, amused. "No food. No rest." She tilted her head, studying his face. "And you still look stubborn."
A laugh slipped from her throat—short, sharp, satisfied.
Tomora's fingers twitched.
It was small. Almost invisible. But the muscles in his hands tightened, nails digging into his palms. His shoulders tensed as if something inside him had shifted, restless.
Tala stopped in front of him and leaned close, her voice dropping, smooth and poisonous.
"You're still mine," she whispered. "Remember that."
She turned away.
For a heartbeat, everything went quiet.
Then Tomora lifted his head.
The air around him seemed to tremble, as if the hallway itself had inhaled. A faint hum filled the space, low and vibrating. His eyes flickered—and a sharp yellow spark flashed across his pupils, quick as lightning striking stone.
Beneath it, something darker stirred.
For the briefest moment, his left eye fractured with a shadowed hue, deep and wrong, like a crack opening into something endless.
Tala felt it before she saw it.
She paused mid-step, brows knitting as the hairs on her arms rose. The warmth in the hallway dipped, the light above flickering faintly. She turned back, confusion flashing across her face.
"What was that?" she demanded.
Tomora stood perfectly still.
The power surged again, pushing against his chest, clawing upward. His heart pounded, loud in his ears. The collar sparked, metal heating against his skin, fighting back. Pain flared—but underneath it, something else answered.
A memory.
Sunlight filtering through leaves. Soft laughter. Small hands brushing petals instead of chains.
Patricia.
Her smile bloomed in his mind, gentle and warm. Flowers swayed in a quiet breeze. Her voice—calm, patient—cut through the storm rising inside him.
The pressure eased.
The sparks faded, yellow retreating like lightning sinking back into cloud. The dark beneath it withdrew, coiling deep where no one could see. The hallway steadied. The hum vanished.
Tala scoffed, mistaking his stillness for fear.
She stepped forward and struck him.
The slap echoed, sharp and clean. Tomora's head snapped to the side, skin burning. He didn't fall. He didn't react. He simply stood there, jaw clenched, eyes lowered.
"Listen, slave!" Tala snapped. "Today you're working for me. And you'll do it without complaining."
She shoved a heavy bucket into his chest. Paint sloshed over the rim, splattering his hands and clothes. The sharp scent of it filled his nose.
"We're painting the house."
Tomora looked at the bucket.
White paint dripped slowly down the metal, pooling at his feet like spilled milk. His arms trembled—not from the weight alone, but from the effort of holding everything else back.
Inside him, something shifted again.
Not loud. Not explosive.
Quiet. Patient.
He lowered his head.
"…Yes," he said.
The word came out rough, scraped from a throat dry from days of silence. Tala smirked, satisfied, already turning away.
She didn't see his eyes.
Yellow sparks still danced faintly within them, flickering beneath the surface like distant lightning behind storm clouds. Unseen. Waiting.
Tomora followed her down the hallway, footsteps steady despite the pain. Each step left a faint trail of white on the stone floor. Each breath fed the storm coiling deeper in his chest.
He painted walls that day.
Stroke after stroke, slow and obedient. White covering white. Silence stretching long and heavy. His body moved on command—but his mind was elsewhere, watching, remembering, enduring.
The storm did not break.
It gathered.