It all began in darkness and silence. Then, the sounds of drums. The slow, consistent rhythm—appropriate to signal the start of a procession… or even an execution.
Next, the sounds of chanting. The voices were guttural and inhuman, echoing through the chamber. They mixed with another noise—people crying in cages. They banged on the bars, pleading for freedom, only to be met with beatings and shouted threats from their captors.
Then came the sound of my breathing. Though, it was more like hyperventilating. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest like a war drum. I tried to tug the shackles on the stone wall behind me, but to no avail. The cold chains bound my wrists and ankles tightly, rusted steel scraping my skin. At this point, I was used to the sting. I couldn't even fathom escape.
I cried for help.
"Help! Help me please! I want to go home!"
I stood up and stumbled. The bruises I'd endured on my arms and legs during my days as a captive made movement difficult. The heavy weight of the chains only added to my struggle. Trying to fight back had always been futile. It didn't stop them from dragging me away. It didn't help me escape.
I wanted to peek out from the cell to see what was happening, only for the door to swing open. Masked men stormed in, surrounding me. They spoke in my native Chinese.
"Take the girl from this room. She is next."
I whimpered and tried to run, but the chains tripped me and I collapsed. They grabbed me tight, removing the shackles only to begin beating me again—clubs and bats striking my ribs and back, knocking the wind out of me.
"Don't harm her," one of the men growled. "Keep her unspoiled for the offering. This may be the breakthrough we are looking for."
They dragged me through a corridor of despair. Emaciated faces were staring from behind bars—some already half-dead. Some moaned, some cried, others were silent, their hope long extinguished. I saw rooms filled with horrors. Mindless undead stood in formation, blank-eyed and motionless. Other rooms were simply filled with corpses—bodies bloated and rotting. The stench was unbearable. Flies buzzed everywhere.
The ritual room was blindingly bright. Monitors and screens lined the walls, flickering with disturbing images—violence, systemic abuse. My eyes caught scenes of mutilation, of cruelty I never imagined. My stomach twisted in nausea.
Half the floor was a pool of stagnant water, littered with corpses. Above it loomed a mechanical frame outfitted with straps. They pulled it toward an altar covered in wires and bone.
The lead cultist wore a blackened mask shaped like a demonic lion's head. His robe was adorned with bones and circuitry. He pressed buttons on a nearby console while another cultist etched angular symbols into the altar surface.
They tore off my already shredded shirt, then painted black symbols across my arms, legs, and back—coating even my open wounds. I hissed from the sting.
Then they strapped me to the frame. Wrists, ankles, arms, legs, waist—and finally my neck. The neck strap was suffocating. I coughed, gasping for air, as they hoisted me up.
One more cultist remained. He drew a final mark next to my left eye. He gazed at me for a moment. He muttered something unintelligible before vanishing.
They raised me above the water, my body spread in a cruciform shape. I struggled to breathe, disoriented and weak.
I saw the symbol again—upside-down triangles stacked into an eye-like shape. It glowed above the door. Oppressive. Condemning. I understood then—I was already marked as one of the damned.
The cultists chanted louder. The screens turned to static. Two metallic rods protruded from the altar, crackling with electricity.
This was the end.
I closed my eyes. Help was never going to come.
All I could think about was the person I cared for most. How I failed him. How I wouldn't be there anymore. How alone he'd be. The guilt crushed me more than the chains.
The frame dropped.
Ice-cold water consumed me. I held my breath, refusing to surrender. But it was too much. My lungs burned. My body screamed.
Then the electricity hit. A blinding jolt. I thrashed involuntarily. Water surged into my lungs.
And then—darkness.
But not for long.
Visions. Flashes. Screams. Gunfire. Static. A hunger that pierced my soul.
I was hungry. So hungry. But not for food.
I took them. All of them. Their qi fed me. I dragged them into the abyss.
"She's dragging them into the Static! She's everywhere!"
Barriers. Doors. Flesh. None of it mattered. I passed through it all. Their bullets and their blades phased through my body, but I could reach them. They couldn't fight back as each prey withered from my touch.
I didn't see captors or victims anymore. Only life—and the hunger for it.
I was faster. Stronger. And I was without mercy.
When I awoke, the lair was empty.
I had consumed them all.
And I felt… good. No, euphoric.
But the hunger never went away. I imagined the faces of those who hurt me—drawn not by revenge, but instinct.
Then I snapped back. Nighttime. A different place. A different life.
Guilt and shame. That's what I feel when I remember.
Could I have prevented it all—what happened to me years ago?
It doesn't matter.
A new life. A new me. That's my reality.
The hunger for qi has dulled. But another hunger remains: freedom.
I just hope these missions bring me closer to that.
Anyway, I have a job to do.