Chapter 54 – Bastille II

  The van rumbled to a halt.

  Outside, the world was quiet — not peaceful. The kind of quiet that follows something important dying.

  Grim sat cuffed, unmoving, head bowed.

  Across from him, Mika Trenval scratched the back of his neck. Awkward. Useless.

  Neither spoke.

  The doors hissed open, spilling harsh, sterile light into the van.

  Two men in matte-black uniforms yanked Grim out by the arms.

  His boots hit gravel.

  His shoulders burned.

  Still, he said nothing.

  Ahead stood an iron gate the size of a city wall.

  Bastille II carved into it — jagged, rusting, like the teeth of something ancient and angry.

  Beyond it:

  Gunmetal towers blurred into the sky.

  Electric fences hummed like wasps.

  Walls upon walls — not to keep prisoners in, but to keep hope out.

  The guards didn’t slow. They dragged him forward.

  The first gate slammed shut behind them — tomb-sealed.

  Another opened. A freight elevator, stinking of oil, rust, and cold.

  Blindfolded, Grim was shoved in.

  The platform rattled beneath his boots.

  Each clunk as it descended counted like sins.

  One floor.

  Two.

  Three.

  Down, deeper, always deeper.

  The elevator wheezed to a stop.

  They shoved him forward again.

  Cold air licked his skin. Not refreshing. Not biting.

  Just dead.

  The blindfold came off.

  Grim blinked under the ugly fluorescent light.

  The world came into focus:

  A vast underground chamber.

  Concrete walls dripping with condensation.

  Steel catwalks like spiderwebs above.

  The smell of blood baked into the floor.

  Security check.

  No words.

  One guard grabbed his jaw, pried his mouth open.

  Another, grinning and gloved, shoved fingers in — yanked his mouth sideways like inspecting cattle.

  Grim gagged. Didn’t resist.

  A knee drove into the back of his leg. He fell.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “Bend over.”

  Flat. Empty.

  Grim obeyed.

  A rod — metallic, faintly buzzing — rammed into him without warning.

  Pain shot up his spine.

  White-hot.

  He didn’t grunt.

  Didn’t curse.

  Didn’t blink.

  When it was over, they dropped him on the freezing concrete like trash.

  Still breathing.

  Still silent.

  Still broken.

  They left.

  —

  Another guard appeared.

  Younger. Clipboard in hand. Less rot behind the eyes.

  He barely looked at Grim.

  “Welcome to Bastille II,” he muttered.

  “Cellblock Z. Cell 17.”

  He unlocked Grim’s cuffs and waved him forward.

  Grim stumbled, every nerve on fire.

  They walked.

  Corridors reeking of sweat and rot.

  Cells filled with monsters — murderers, butchers, nightmares with faces.

  Some barked.

  Some laughed.

  Most watched. Hungry.

  Cell 17.

  The door screeched open.

  Inside—

  Three men.

  One in the corner, arms folded, scars like vines around his throat.

  Another on a bunk, twitchy, darting eyes.

  And in the center:

  A titan.

  Muscled. Towering. Tattoos crawling up his throat like something alive.

  His grin wasn’t humor.

  It was a threat.

  Grim was shoved in.

  The door slammed shut behind him — like a guillotine.

  The big one approached.

  No words. No warning.

  A fist slammed into Grim’s ribs.

  Another into his temple.

  He staggered.

  Another.

  And another.

  Then the floor caught him.

  The others laughed.

  Grim didn’t move.

  Didn’t fight back.

  He deserved worse.

  He believed that.

  —

  Later.

  The prison lights flickered. Sickly. Tired.

  Grim lay on the lowest bunk — not claimed, just left alone.

  Stared up at a cracked, leaking ceiling.

  Outside, the world screamed.

  Fights. Violence.

  Despair on loop.

  He closed his eyes.

  Not to sleep.

  Just to escape.

  Then — noise.

  A scuffle. Nearby.

  The big one again — beating another.

  Thin. Fragile.

  Blood pooling.

  Grim’s body tensed.

  Old instinct.

  His foot shifted.

  But he stopped.

  He deserved worse.

  Then—

  Another stepped in.

  A boy.

  Young. Red hair.

  Golden smile.

  He talked the bully down.

  Helped the bleeding man.

  Laughter. Cheers.

  Adoration.

  The boy — a hero.

  Grim, still on his back, just watched.

  Eyes dead.

  Maybe… not everyone’s evil after all.

  Maybe.

  —

  Later still.

  The night guard made his rounds.

  Cellblock Z.

  Not a monster in uniform.

  Not a sadist with a badge.

  Just a man with a job.

  When he reached Cell 17—

  He paused.

  Grim’s eyes — hollow.

  The guard’s — tired.

  No words.

  But something passed between them.

  Brief.

  Recognition. Maybe.

  Almost human.

  And in Grim’s shattered chest—

  Something like hope stirred.

  And just as quickly—

  Died.

  End of Chapter.