As Shiv slipped into unconsciousness, a vision unfolded—whether a dream or the remnants of Han's indomitable will, he could not tell. What he saw were the seven harrowing days of suffering that Han had endured, etched deep into the walls of memory.
I—no, Han—was cast into a cell so dark it seemed to devour all light. There was no sound. No warmth. Only the chill of damp stone and a silence so dense it crushed the breath from my lungs. The air tasted old and lifeless, as though sealed in a tomb long forgotten by time. There were no windows, no cracks—nothing to let in even the faintest glow of hope. This was not just darkness; it was a living thing, wrapping itself around the body and soul alike, smothering both thought and spirit.
The cell was a coffin, and han was buried alive.
He was kept there for exactly two days. He knew this as he counted every second, every heartbeat, every breath he could still manage to take. Nothing else changed. There was no day or night. Just an endless loop of silent waiting and a growing dread that stretched out like an abyss.
During that time, food was delivered five times a day. Each meal was small—barely enough to be called a portion. Some stale bread, a few spoonfuls of watery broth, and once, a single piece of fruit that had already started to rot. The meals arrived in the same way: a metallic clunk, a sliding noise, and then the tray would appear through a small, rectangular shutter at the base of a thick iron door. It was the only part of the cell that moved. The only sign that something—or someone—existed beyond these walls.
With every meal came the same question:
"WILL YOU OBEY?"
The words echoed in the darkness, each time from a different voice. It came five times a day, never repeated by the same person.
The first voice was crude and gruff—an old man, sharp and heavy at the same time. On that first delivery, when the old man asked, Han screamed and pleaded for help. His voice, desperate and raw, bounced off the walls, swallowed by the thick, suffocating silence.
No one replied. Just the echo of his own voice, and the cold clink of metal as the shutter slammed shut. His cries became a ghost in that silence.
And then, the next meal came.
The second voice was stern, deliberate—a middle-aged man who sounded like he had delivered this line a hundred times before. By then, Han's voice had already lost its strength from the earlier screaming. His throat burned with dryness, his lips cracked.
"Please! Open the door! Let me out! I beg you!" he whispered, voice cracking. The man gave no response. Only the same calm, detached question:
"Will you obey?"
"Obey what?!" Han snapped, frustration mingling with terror. "I don't even know what you want from me!"
But there was only silence in reply. Then footsteps—steady and unhurried—fading into the distance.
Han stood frozen, waiting. Hoping. Dreading. But just in a few seconds, the emptiness returned, swallowing even his breath.
"No!" he screamed again, voice hoarse. "Please! Please!! Don't leave!! I said don't leave me!!! Please!!!"
He hurled himself at the door with wild desperation, fists slamming into iron until his knuckles split. He clawed at the metal until his fingernails cracked and peeled back, leaving smears of blood where his hands had been.
His breath came in sobs. The pain didn't matter anymore. There was only fear. And the dark. And the question.
Will you obey?
The third meal came, and with it, a woman's voice. Cold. Detached. Almost mechanical. As if she were reciting words that meant nothing to her.
"WILL YOU OBEY?"
Han didn't answer this time. He sat slumped in the corner, shaking. His bloodied hands cradled his head. Tears streamed down his cheeks, though he didn't remember crying.
He didn't scream. He didn't plead. He just sat there in the darkness, counting the seconds.
One... Two... Three...
Each second stretched into eternity. His mind drifted, teetering between wakefulness and hallucination, between memory and madness. The walls seemed to breathe. The shadows whispered. Yet still, that voice—mechanical and cruel—lingered in his ears.
Will you obey?
5,395... 5,396... 5,397... 5,398... 5,399... 5,400.
Between every second, he felt eternity pass. "It's been 1 hour. If the pattern stays, they might come in 1.5 hours," Han whispered to himself like he was speaking to an invisible companion. His voice trembled, low and cracked. His thoughts tangled like wires, looping and looping.
"One and a half hours left..." he muttered again, biting into his bleeding thumb, desperate to stay anchored in reality. "Yeah... I can get out... i-if I just..."
Ahhhhh!!
Han screamed as insects began crawling out of the tip of his thumb. Tiny black creatures with glistening carapaces and twitching antennae burst from beneath his nail. They spilled onto his palm, down his wrist.
"AGHHHHHH! WHAT IS THIS?? GET IT OUT!!!!!! GET IT OUT!!!!!! HELP!!!!!!!"
A sudden bump swelled on his left arm, just behind the palm. It grew rapidly. Horrified, he watched it expand, pulsing, writhing beneath his skin like something alive trying to escape.
"AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!" he cried out in excruciating pain as the bump started to move—up his arm, across his bicep, toward his shoulder. It felt like fire crawling under his flesh.
He swung his arm frantically, slamming it into the walls, the floor, anything. Desperation took over, his body reacting faster than his mind.
"AHHHHHH!!!! HELP!!!! AGHUAAAAAAAAA!!!!"
Han collapsed, convulsing in agony as the lump slid toward his neck. Veins popped, bulging as if they might explode. His screams turned hollow, his voice broken and nearly gone. Only guttural groans remained.
And then... it reached his mouth.
Something clenched around his throat, and before he could react, a black, snake-like worm began forcing its way out between his lips. It had the mouth of a leech, wide and circular, with rows of needle-like teeth. It had no eyes, no ears. Just thick, black, slimy skin, as wide as a clenched fist.
Han writhed on the floor, lying on his back, trying to scream,
"MHHHHMMMMMMM!!!! MHHHHHHHH!!!!"
But even that was no longer possible. His eyes bulged. His body shook. Every nerve fired in pure, white-hot agony.
He braced himself. With what little strength remained, he grabbed the slick, pulsing creature and pulled. Inch by inch, groaning, gagging, screaming inside his skull. His muscles trembled. His skin tore.
Finally, with a wet, snapping sound, the thing came free, and he flung it away with all his might.
That thing started breaking into pieces and then almost melting. It disintegrated into black sludge that hissed and bubbled. "What is going on?" Han wondered, confused and frightened. His mind reeled, unable to grasp what was real anymore.
Then the thing's remains started to move toward Han with such speed he couldn't react. It started crawling up his leg, impossibly fast. Han swung his leg to get them off but couldn't. They stuck to him like glue.
He ran to the door and started banging on it, screaming, "Open the door!!! HELP!!! LET ME OUT!!!" His voice was broken, shattering against the unyielding iron.
As thousands of insects began crawling up and devouring him, chewing through his skin, he fell to his knees, clawing at his own body, crying out in pure, unfiltered terror.
"NO ONE WILL HELP ME!"