Roenan opened his eyes and saw only pitch blackness, as he expected to. He had no sense of time—just as he hadn’t at the hospital. The difference was the hospital had too much light, regular meals, and Saive and Drakke. He never thought he’d miss it. He would’ve traded everything to be back there, under the rhythm of that strange routine, if it meant escaping this hell-hole of a place.

Roenan guessed he’d been trapped in the cave-like basement for six weeks—maybe more. It was hard to tell anymore. With no light, and no clock, he measured time by memory.

He clung to routine where there was none, replaying past events in his mind like rituals. Drakke’s three-hour hospital shifts became his anchor—he’d cycle through memories of their study sessions, reciting their conversations word for word, clinging to them to survive the silence. It was the only way he knew to keep himself from losing his senses.

About every two days—if his idea of time was reliable—the hatch above would creak open, and they’d drag him out.

"Where the fuck is he?!" one of the Jaedan men had shouted at him just the day before.

"I already told you... I don’t know where he went after the maze." Roenan snapped, his voice hoarse with defiance.

Without warning, the man slammed his hand against the back of Roenan's neck and forced his head into a trough of water. They held him down until his lungs burned, and only yanked him back when his fists started flailing, desperate to breathe.

He gasped raggedly as they hauled his head back by his tangled hair, water streaming down his face and shoulders.

"Who are you working for?" the soldier snarled inches from his face.

Roenan glared up at him, eyes burning with hatred, lips trembling from cold and fury. The man dunked him again.

The interrogations blurred together. But the waterboarding wasn’t the worst. They had deprived him of sleep—blaring noise through a grated vent for days. Sometimes metal clanging, other times a looped recording of people sobbing, or indistinct screaming. Once, for what felt like a week, they played nothing but the sound of a ticking clock—over and over—until Roenan thought he’d lose his mind.

He was still damp, lying on his back in the muddy darkness, twisting a curl of hair near his temple. His sweat-matted curls were filled with grit. It was hot and humid. The muddy ground and damp clothes made him feel like he was slowly rotting.

He thought of another time, when they retaliated after discovering he’d been exercising—trying to stay sane, trying to stay ready. They dumped a bucket of live rats into his cell. It was apparent that some were starving.

He lay still for hours, teeth clenched, praying none would bite. But the constant squeaks, the scurry of claws brushing his sides or scrambling over his legs, made him want to leap out of his skin.

There was nothing he could do. He just lay there—rigid, trembling, on edge—waiting for it to end.

On top of the mental games, they barely fed him. If they gave him fruit, he ate the peels. Once, they gave him raw rice and no water. He gnawed at it until his mouth ran dry.

At the moment, Roenan could only think of Saive. Where was he? Had he made it out? Why were they still so fixated on finding him? They had kept asking Roenan the same questions, over and over, as if he was hiding something. But he had told them everything—back when he still believed they might listen, back when he still had hope they could save them both. 

They hadn’t. 

And now, he couldn’t possibly know where Saive was or what had happened to him. There was nothing left to give. All he could do was hope Saive had gotten away.

Roenan rolled onto his stomach and pressed his cheek into the cold mud. His left arm throbbed faintly from the dog bite—now a mostly healed wound. The infection had turned his skin hot and red, and the soldiers used it against him, striking the spot during interrogations. But once the fever set in and he started to grow sick, they began treating the wound. Roenan was self-aware enough to realize they weren’t doing it out of kindness—but because they’d been ordered to.

Miraculously, the infection passed. His body was healing, but slowly.

He wore the same shredded sweats and a filthy white t-shirt underneath. They gave him nothing to sleep on, and had to use a pit toilet in the far corner. His muscles ached from the cold and the confinement. His ears rang from the constant low-frequency hum they pumped into the room at times—meant to keep him on edge and unable to rest.

In a moment of desperation, he’d tried giving false answers about Saive. But every time they followed up, they saw through the lies. It only made the sessions worse.

What puzzled him most was how these men were operating so freely inside Vernajjian territory. Maybe they were trained infiltrators—special forces of some sort. But their gray eyes, clipped accents, and relentless pursuit of Saive marked them as Jaedan. Or, they at least had been... at one time.

Roenan reached under his shirt and touch the scars on his abdomen. On his third day, they had removed his shirt and tied him to a steel frame that forced him to stand. They had clearly been informed of what had happened to him back in Jaeda - constantly remarking on his mother's attempt to kill him, getting into his head about it. Making him feel betrayed and unloved. Roenan outwardly suffered emotionally at first, but learned to push the pain inwardly and numb it as time went on. It hurt and affected him deeply

They’d also done things that made no sense. They shoved dirty rags into his mouth to keep him silent during interrogations—punishing him when he couldn’t answer. Other times, they forced him to watch videos filled with disjointed images that made no sense, but those fragments crept into his nightmares. Sometimes, within the pitch-black darkness, he’d see those flickering shapes at the edges of his vision.

The hatch suddenly clattered from above.

Roenan pushed weakly to his knees, bracing himself for another round. They’d yank him by the arms, drag him out, and toss him into the room above—ready to unveil the next creative form of torment.

But this time, he could only stare upward, stunned and uncomprehending.

A Vernajjian soldier was crouched at the hatch, urgently beckoning him.

Roenan’s heart pounded wildly as he scrambled up the steps. He could hardly make sense of what was happening.

The soldier spoke urgently in rapid Vernajjian, tugging him toward a door at the far end of the room. Roenan whimpered, pleading for help—his voice so faint it barely reached his own ears.

Just as they reached the door, another on the opposite side burst open. Jaedan soldiers flooded the room, weapons raised, moving with deadly precision.

Time seemed to freeze—Roenan’s breath caught in his throat, every muscle coiled, ready to run or fight. The harsh clang of boots echoed off the walls, closing in fast.

The Vernajjian flung the door wide and shoved him forward. “Run!” he barked in Jaedan, his accent thick. The sound of gunfire erupted behind them as the man fell back into the chaos.

Roenan bolted through the door, racing toward a nearby treeline. All around him, others in ragged clothing poured out of nearby buildings, sprinting in every direction.

Confusion reigned.

He didn’t stop to question it—he just ran.

Weaving through the dense forest, he caught movement all around him. Terrified faces of other runners glanced back at him, while the sight of a Jaedan uniform made him drop low into the brush crouching. At one such moment, to his left, he caught a flash—a Jaedan soldier raising his weapon, aiming right at him.

Roenan sprang up, twisting sharply to dodge away, and pushed himself harder. The ground blurred beneath his feet as he ran at full speed—until a sudden impact slammed into him from the side.

He met the mossy ground with a grunt as a body pinned him down. He frantically pushed and pulled at the person above him but slowed when he sensed no resistance. His heartbeat thundered in his ears as his eyes shot upward.

“It is you…” the person panted.

“Drakke?” Roenan wheezed, stunned. But something was off. Drakke’s pupils darkened, his eyes flickering with a strange, almost unreadable intensity.

He let out a long sigh. “You don’t look as bad as I thought you would.”

Roenan’s gaze dropped down the length of him, disbelief flickering. Drakke wore a Jaedan uniform. Slowly, Roenan ran his eyes back up to meet Drakke’s.

“A hallucination?” he whispered.

Drakke stared down at him, eyes vivid and unreadable. His gaze drifted to the torn fabric near Roenan’s shoulder, and slowly, gently, he ran his fingers along the ragged edge.

Gunfire cracked nearby and Roenan flinched. Someone shouted Drakke’s name.

Without a word or another glance, Drakke pushed off and slipped away into the trees.

Roenan forced himself up, dazed—but didn’t waste a second before moving again.

Eventually, Roenan burst out at the edge of a clearing. A wall stood there—one he recognized from the very start of his time in Vernajja, similar to the one surrounding the university. Military trucks were lined up, and Vernajjian soldiers gestured the escapees toward them. But strangely, there was no urgency.

Roenan even caught sight of a Jaedan-uniformed man laughing with a Vernajjian officer.

He felt a sick wave of uncertainty crash over him. Slowly, he began backing into the trees, retreating step by cautious step—until he froze. A solid body pressed up against his back.

A hand slid over his shoulder, curling lightly along his collarbone. The touch, this time, felt familiar.

“You can relax now. It was all part of the process,” Drakke said quietly. “You survived the psychological camp.”

Roenan took a long, shaky breath and unconsciously leaned back into him. His head was spinning, his mind barely keeping up.

“I know it’s hard to comprehend,” Drakke said gently. “But this was the end. You’re safe.”

“How long was I gone?”

“Two months,” Drakke replied, his fingers softly trailed back along Roenan’s collar, before sliding away.

“Those soldiers… they weren’t Jaedan, were they?”

A long pause. “They were once. But they’re sworn here now. The rest running around out here—those are from the Vernajjian military. It’s all part of the simulation. We play roles. It's our job. That’s why I’m wearing this.”

Drakke stepped back. Roenan turned, his gaze falling once more to the uniform—this time, begining to understand.

“This is… so fucked up,” he muttered.

Drakke gave a humorless smile, his expression dimming. “The next phase is physical and linguistic training. It gets easier from here. You promised six months, remember? Four more to go. Don’t forget it.”

Roenan stared at him, words caught somewhere in his throat. He didn’t know what he wanted to say—didn’t even know what he felt. His eyes drifted up, over Drakke's shoulder toward the building he’d just escaped.

Everything felt wrong. But Drakke felt real. And that grounded him.

He took a shaky breath, met Drakke’s eyes once more, and gave a barely perceptible nod. Without a word, he turned toward the tented trucks.

His legs moved before his mind did. The crunch of leaves beneath his boots sounded distant in his haze.

Behind him, Drakke’s voice rose: “I'll see you in four.”

Roenan pressed forward and didn't look back.