The quill scratched against parchment.
Scratch. Scratch. Pause. Scratch.
The sound was rhythmic, almost meditative. A lullaby of bureaucracy that had been playing in the Kennels' administrative wing for as long as anyone could remember. The amber light from the alchemical lamps cast everything in a sickly gold, turning the rows of wooden desks into something that resembled a temple. A temple of suffering, where the priests wore leather vests and the prayers were written in red ink.
Handler Malik was halfway through his morning intake report. He dipped his quill into the brass inkwell—blood-tinted, because regular black faded too quickly in the sulfuric air—and continued his notation.
He paused. Re-read the number. Crossed it out.
Seven years on the run. That was a story. Stories sold. The clients in Undersprawl loved stories, the idea that they were breaking something that had survived. Premium pricing applied.
Malik set down the quill and reached for the next file. The stack beside him was eleven folders deep today. Eleven new acquisitions, processed, tagged, and ready for floor assignment. Not a record, but a solid haul.
The administrative wing smelled like bleach and copper. Always bleach. The cleaning crews scrubbed the floors every six hours, not for hygiene, but for presentation. The Kennel Master believed in professionalism. A slave operation that smelled like death was a slave operation that attracted unwanted attention from the Undersprawl inspectors.
'Presentation is profit,' the Master always said. 'Fear is free. Filth costs.'
Malik glanced at the board mounted on the far wall. A massive grid of names, numbers, and status codes. Each row represented a "floor", a specialized department within the Kennels' operation.
Malik didn't know what happened on Floor 5. Nobody did. That was General Price's domain.
As if summoned by the thought, the door opened.
No. Creaked.
The iron hinges groaned like a man being crushed. The sound made every quill in the room pause. Every head lifted. Every spine straightened.
Desmond Price, they called him "Dread", stepped through the doorway.
The floorboards groaned beneath his feet. Not metaphor. Not intimidation. Just physics. The man weighed ninety kilos baseline, and when he moved, the old wood remembered.
'Ninety kilos,' Malik calculated automatically. 'Baseline. He's not pressing.'
When Price pressed, the floor cracked.
The General was two meters of pure obsidian muscle, bald skull gleaming under the amber light like polished onyx. His leather vest was pristine: no blood, no dust, no evidence that he had ever touched the merchandise. His amber-gold eyes swept across the room with the casual assessment of a butcher counting carcasses.
Three vertical scars ran down his left cheek. Old wounds. From Earth, the rumors said. Back when he was still mortal. Back when pain could still teach him lessons.
His gold tooth caught the light when he spoke.
"Morning report."
Two words. Soft as velvet. Quiet as a coffin lid closing.
Handler Chen, who was in the same room as Malik, scrambled to his feet, clutching a leather folder. "General Price, sir. Eleven new acquisitions processed overnight. Eight assigned to Floor 2, two to Floor 4, and one..." he hesitated. "...pending classification."
Price didn't blink. "Pending."
It wasn't a question.
Chen swallowed. "Lot 7, sir. The Runner. She's... complicated."
Price extended one massive hand. The fingers were scarred across every knuckle, the skin calloused into something closer to armor than flesh. Chen placed the folder into his palm like a man offering tribute to a god.
The General opened it. Read.
Every quill stopped. Every eye fixed on the folder.
Malik watched Price's eyes move across the page. No expression. No reaction. Just the steady, methodical consumption of information. The man could have been reading a recipe.
High-Beauty. Seven-year gap. Flight risk. Self-mutilation protocols active. Estimated yield...
Price's lips twitched.
It was barely a movement. A micro-expression that lasted less than a heartbeat. But Malik caught it, and his stomach clenched.
Desmond Price hadn't smiled in three years. Not since the Incident on Floor 5. Not since the thing that nobody talked about.
"Interesting," Price said.
He closed the folder.
"Block C, yes?"
Chen nodded frantically. "Cell 14, sir. Standard holding. We were waiting for classification before—"
"I'll handle the classification personally." Price tucked the folder under his arm. His massive frame turned toward the door, and the floorboards screamed in relief as his weight shifted.
Then he paused.
"The Master's directive," he said, not looking back. "The accounts must be balanced by month's end. Ensure the harvest quotas are met. Any shortfall will be addressed."
It wasn't a threat. Threats implied uncertainty.
The General left.
Malik's quill moved again. The scratch sounded obscenely loud.
---
The walk to Block C took four minutes.
Price moved through the corridors of the Kennels with the unhurried pace of a man who owned everything he surveyed. The cells lined both sides—iron bars, stone floors, the same bleach-and-copper smell that permeated every inch of the operation.
The merchandise watched him pass.
Some flinched. Some pressed themselves against the far walls of their cages, trying to make their bodies smaller. Some, the broken ones, didn't react at all. They stared with the hollow eyes of livestock that had forgotten they were ever human.
Price ignored them. Inventory didn't require acknowledgment.
Cell 14 was at the end of the block. A standard unit. Two meters by two meters. No windows. No furniture except a drain in the corner.
The Handler on duty, a nervous woman named Vex, snapped to attention as he approached.
"General."
"Open it."
Vex fumbled with her keyring. Her hands were shaking. Everyone's hands shook around Price. It was the reputation, the stories of what happened when he pressed.
The lock clicked.
The door swung open.
Anna looked up from the corner.
She was curled in the fetal position, arms wrapped around her knees, naked and raw-skinned from the bleach wash. Her blonde hair, once her crowning glory, her ticket to two million followers, hung in wet, stringy clumps. Her mouth was a dark cave, toothless, tongueless, a wound that would never close.
Her eyes, though.
Her eyes were still alive.
They fixed on Price with calculating hatred. No surrender. No resignation. Just the feral will to survive that had kept her running for all those years.
Price studied her.
He didn't enter the cell. Not yet. He stood in the doorway, filling the frame, and let the silence stretch.
'High-Beauty. Flight risk. Self-mutilation protocols active.'
'Seven years.'
He had known runners before. Most of them broke within months. The smart ones accepted their fate. The stupid ones fought until the fighting was beaten out of them.
But seven years?
Seven years meant something else. Something that didn't break.
'Interesting,' he thought again.
Price stepped into the cell.
The floor groaned.
Anna didn't look away.
He didn't say a word.