The alarm's shriek still hung in the air, sharp and piercing like a banshee's wail, when another noise began to rise beneath it, a harsh, grating clash of metal striking metal. It was sudden, violent, and utterly unmistakable. Not the clang of a bell or the crack of thunder, but something heavier, iron grinding against iron, like the very bones of the prison shifting in protest.
Subject 24238 stilled, breath caught somewhere in his throat. His heartbeat, already wild, now thundered in his ears like war drums. He pressed himself deeper into the cold stone corner of his cell, the chill biting through the thin fabric of his uniform and into his spine, but he scarcely noticed. All his attention was trained on the sounds blooming in the darkness beyond the bars.
Boots. Heavy boots, striking the stone floor with a force that shook the air. Not one pair, but many. Dozens, no, more. A whole army of footsteps, uneven in rhythm but relentless in their approach. The air seemed to thicken with every step, the corridor outside swelling with an ominous energy, as if the prison itself had begun to awaken.
For a few panicked seconds, he couldn't make sense of it. His thoughts were a clutter of dread and disbelief. Was it an invasion? An earthquake? Had something gone wrong with the prison's foundation? But then, like a curtain parting, the realization came, sharp and cold.
Cell doors. They were opening. One by one.
He could hear the rusted hinges groaning, the low, metallic grind of bars being slid aside. Somewhere down the corridor, someone screamed, not in pain, but in fury. A cry of madness. Others shouted too, some laughing, others howling with a kind of giddy despair.
The prisoners were being released.
His pulse spiked so fast it made him dizzy. Released to what? And why?
He didn't have long to think.
A shadow shifted just beyond the bars of his own cell, and a moment later, a man stepped into view. A guard, though "man" barely seemed the right word. He was built like a mountain, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, with a bald head that gleamed under the dim overhead light and a face carved in anger. His uniform hung on him like armour, stained and weathered, the fabric stretched taut over muscle and malice alike. His eyes were like stones, cold, expressionless, and faintly cruel.
He said nothing at first. Just looked at Subject 24238 like one might inspect a rat in a trap. Then, without warning, he stepped forward and rammed a key into the lock.
The door screeched open.
"Out," he barked, voice thick with loathing. "Move it, filth."
Subject 24238 didn't move.
Not because he wanted to disobey, but because his legs simply wouldn't cooperate.
They felt like water, weak and trembling, still aching from the pain that had haunted him since waking. He tried to stand, swayed, nearly fell, and the guard took a menacing step forward, his hand drifting toward the baton at his side.
That got him moving.
He staggered out of the cell, breath ragged, vision swimming. The corridor beyond was narrow and dark, the stone walls damp with condensation. A sickly yellow light flickered above them, casting the prisoners, so many of them, into a half-lit purgatory. Some shuffled with heads bowed, others kept glancing around with twitchy eyes and clenched fists.
The air was thick with the stench of sweat and something else, something sour and metallic, like old blood and iron. The very air seemed to vibrate with unease. The guards lined the walls in grim silence, their eyes scanning the line of prisoners like wolves herding cattle.
No one spoke.
Subject 24238 fell into step, his feet moving as if they belonged to someone else. He tried to look around, tried to understand where they were being led, but every face he saw was as hollow and frightened as his own. Their eyes told him everything he needed to know: this was no release. It was a summons. And whatever waited behind the looming iron door ahead, it was no salvation.
The door loomed at the end of the corridor like a gateway to the unknown. It was massive, dented, and streaked with old rust, its surface scarred from years of use. It looked like it had been forced open more than once, by hands desperate to escape or enter, it was impossible to say.
With each shuffling step, the door grew closer. The corridor seemed to narrow, pressing them in on either side, as if the very walls wanted to keep them from going any further.
A few paces ahead, one prisoner hesitated.
He stopped at the threshold, staring up at the door as if he expected it to devour him whole.
A guard behind him snarled and gave him a shove, sending him stumbling through the opening. There was no time to protest. No room for refusal.
The line moved again.
Subject 24238 felt a cold sweat break out along his back. His eyes flitted from one guard to another, searching for mercy, or even a hint of understanding, but found only indifference.
Then, his turn came.
He stood before the door, its iron surface towering above him like a sentinel. A strange hum seemed to rise from behind it, something low and constant, like machinery, or breathing.
He didn't want to go through. Every instinct in him screamed to turn and run, to hurl himself back into his cell, to beg and plead and cling to the shadows.
But there was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Only forward.
He reached out with a trembling hand and touched the door.
It was ice cold.
The metal didn't budge at first. He pushed again, harder this time, his body aching with the effort. Finally, it shifted with a groan of strained hinges, the door inching open just wide enough to pass through.