Chapter 3: Life of a Slave
Pain.
That was the first rule of this place.
Not sudden.
Not sharp.
Endless.
Kai woke up before dawn.
Not because he wanted to—
but because a bucket of cold water was poured over him.
"Get up."
A boot slammed into his side.
He rolled across the filthy floor, coughing. The chains around his ankles rattled loudly as he tried to rise.
Too slow.
The blow came again.
A man entered the room.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Dressed in a black suit.
A pistol hung carelessly at his waist.
His gaze was empty.
Not cruel.
Not angry.
Just bored.
"Well, well," the man said. "You're awake."
He stepped closer and roughly grabbed Kai by the chin, forcing his face up.
Kai looked into his eyes.
And said nothing.
The man frowned.
"Tch. A mute too?"
He smirked and let go.
"Doesn't matter. You'll learn soon enough."
Turning toward the exit, he added over his shoulder:
"Rest up. You start working tomorrow."
The door closed.
The lock clicked.
Silence returned.
Kai stared at the ceiling.
Work.
In this place, that word carried a special meaning.
He already knew what it meant.
Kai closed his eyes.
And began to think.
I'm weak.
I'm a child.
I'm in chains.
Brute force wouldn't get him out.
Running blindly would mean broken legs.
Or worse.
No.
What he needed was patience.
Information.
And timing.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Kai smiled.
Faintly.
Barely noticeable.
I've already survived hell.
I'll survive this place too.
There was no morning here.
No breakfast.
Only work.
The children were lined up in the courtyard.
Thin bodies wrapped in rags.
Some younger than him.
Some older.
No one spoke.
They had already learned the lesson.
Words attract attention.
Attention brings pain.
A crate was shoved into Kai's hands.
Heavy.
Splintered wood digging into his palms.
Soaked in something dark.
Blood.
"Carry it."
He did.
His arms burned.
His legs trembled.
When he stumbled, the crate fell.
The sound was loud.
Too loud.
Punishment came immediately.
The baton struck his back.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Kai clenched his teeth.
No scream.
No tears.
Pain is information, he told himself.
And information can be used.
Days blurred into one.
Scrubbing floors stained red.
Carrying weapons.
Disposing of bodies at night.
Yes.
Bodies.
The mafia didn't hide what it was.
They needed fear.
They needed submission.
And they got both.
At night, Kai lay on the cold stone floor, staring at the ceiling.
He listened.
Footsteps.
Voices.
The rhythm of this place.
Guard rotations—every six hours.
The eastern corridor was less protected.
Kitchen waste was dumped near the cliffs.
Information.
Piece by piece.
His body was weak.
Too weak.
But his mind was clear.
Clearer than it had ever been.
I won't die here, Kai thought.
Not this time. And it wasn't hope.
It was a promise.