They finally arrived at the slave camp.
The smell hit first.
Waste. Decay. Something older underneath it all.
The cavern walls were riddled with holes and termite marks, the wood soft and rotting in places. It wasn't a living area. It was a holding pen dressed up as one.
A guard barked at them to form a line.
At the far end, another stood waiting, holding a box filled with collars.
The prisoners hesitated.
After what the commander had said, none of them were eager to find out what those collars could do. But then again — disobedience had its own consequences. So reluctantly, they formed the line.
One by one, the collars were fitted around their necks.
Then the chains came off.
A guard stepped forward.
"By four tomorrow morning, everyone's up," he said flatly. "Late risers get a shock they won't forget."
Another guard added, almost cheerfully, "We'll explain how the collars work during drills. So you don't accidentally kill yourselves."
Laughter broke out among them.
"They're slaves," one muttered between chuckles. "Does it even matter?"
Then they left.
The prisoners stood in the quiet that followed, rubbing their wrists where the chains had been. Some chose rooms without a word. Others simply dropped where they stood.
It wasn't until the silence settled completely that they heard it.
A low, distant clank.
Metal on metal.
Someone looked up.
A fence surrounded the entire camp — tall, heavy, and real.
They'd been too exhausted to notice it before.
Now they couldn't unsee it.
Terren passed Kloric's weight to the brown-haired boy and moved ahead to find them a spot.
Each cabin had four beds. That was something, at least. But most of what he found were getting worse the further he went — dark corners, damp floors, walls that looked like they'd given up. Several were already filling with other prisoners who'd had the same idea.
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Then he stepped into one near the end.
The battle-hardened man was already inside, sitting alone in the quiet.
Three slots remaining.
Good enough.
Terren didn't waste time. He turned and headed back, and together the three of them moved into the cabin.
They got Kloric to the bed.
The moment his body made contact with it, he was gone — dropped into sleep like something had cut the string holding him upright.
The other three moved quietly around him.
Someone had found cleaning materials near the entrance and they got to work without being asked — wiping surfaces, clearing the worst of the grime from the floor.
The battle-hardened man watched for a moment, then spoke.
"Stop."
They looked at him.
"Save the energy," he said simply. "If we don't rest now, tomorrow's drill will finish what today started."
No one argued.
One by one, they set down what they were holding and moved to their beds.
The cabin went quiet.
The bed was damp.
Some foul residue soaked into the thin mattress, reacting against the skin and leaving an itching burn wherever it touched.
Sleep came only after long, miserable minutes of shifting and struggling.
Eventually, exhaustion won.
None of them noticed when they finally drifted off.
Kloric jolted awake.
His chest heaved as he sucked in air.
Something felt wrong.
The cabin was silent.
Too silent.
He sat up slowly and looked around.
The other beds were empty.
Terren was gone.
The brown-haired boy was gone.
Even the battle-hardened man had vanished.
A cold feeling crept up Kloric’s spine.
“Terren?” he called softly.
No answer.
He stood, the wooden floor creaking beneath his weight.
The entire cabin felt… wrong. Hollow. Like a place abandoned long ago.
Then he felt it.
The unmistakable pressure of something watching him.
Kloric stepped forward carefully.
His foot struck something on the ground.
He crouched and picked it up.
A small flashlight. He flicked it on.
The beam sputtered weakly, flickering as if the battery was nearly dead.
Still, it worked.
Kloric tightened his grip on it.
“I need to find them,” he muttered.
He pushed open the cabin door.
The yard was empty.
No guards. No prisoners.
Only silence.
The fence loomed in the pale morning light as dawn crept over the horizon.
Kloric moved through the camp slowly, checking the cabins one by one.
Empty.
Every single one.
His breathing quickened.
Then he saw it.
A figure standing at the far end of the camp, facing the rising sun.
“Hey!” Kloric called. No response. He walked closer.
The closer he got, the more wrong the figure looked.
Then he saw the hole.
A clean hole through the back of the man's head.
Kloric froze.
The body didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
Dead.
He stepped back instinctively.
Then he turned—and saw another body.
This one had a hole in his head. And another in his stomach.
Kloric’s stomach twisted.
That’s when the realization struck him.
Those wounds.
They were familiar. Too familiar.
His first death. The second loop. The same bullet wounds.
Kloric stared in horror.
“…Is that… me?”
Before he could process the thought—
Something grabbed his foot.
Kloric looked down.
A hand.
It burst from the dirt, fingers digging into his ankle.
Then another hand clawed its way out of the ground.
And another.
And another.
Hands erupted from the earth all around him.
Cold fingers grasped his legs.
His clothes.
His arms.
Voices rose from the soil.
Whispers.
Angry.
Desperate.
“Join us…”
“Why do you live…?”
“Why do we die…?”
“You're wrong…”
“You’re an anomaly…”
Kloric struggled violently.
“No! Let go!”
The hands pulled harder, dragging him toward the ground.
“You survive…”
“Why do you survive?”
“Why us?”
Panic exploded inside him.
“NO!”
Kloric shot upright with a gasp.
His lungs burned as he dragged in air.
The cabin was dark.
Terren was asleep in the next bed.
The others were still there.
No corpses.
No hands.
Kloric pressed a trembling hand against his face.
“…Just a dream.”
He swallowed hard.
“No…”
His voice came out as a whisper.
“A nightmare.”
