Twenty-Three
Ara
I am going to die.
The thought had been on the forefront of my mind ever since I had stepped inside this dingy-looking pub which was on the back of Roarfort. Past experiences should teach people something. Looks like I belong to the set of annoying individuals who cannot learn and will eventually, one day, die. A gruesome death, mind you.
Here I am, in a place I don’t to be in, with Ivy tangled in something I have no idea of but sends shivers down my spine. Nothing that evokes fear of that kind from her voice can be good.
This isn’t a place I’d ever have chosen. My leg won’t stop bouncing beneath the table, every nerve of mine is on edge, and Ivy—well, I don’t even know where she is.
She’s late, and I can feel every second ticking by as a reminder that we don’t belong here.
Someone who’s been kidnapped once doesn’t just stroll into seedy bars, waiting for friends who should know better. But here I am, waiting, listening to the chaos around me.
The floor here is sticky, covered in spilt drinks that nobody bothers to clean up, and the waitresses are harassed constantly, each one enduring slaps and jeers as they try to do their jobs. Even the young bartender is too young for this crowd. And no one here seems to care, not the heavily tattooed owner hunched over his phone or the patrons who leer openly at any woman nearby. One customer pulls a waitress onto his lap, and she barely flinches, grinding against him with a dead-eyed boredom that makes me sick.
It’s disgusting. This whole place reeks of sleaze and danger, and I feel about as out of place as a goldfish in a piranha tank. These men look as if they are one alcohol glass away from causing a murder ruckus.
I catch myself scanning the room for Ivy, nerves prickling as I wonder how she manages to walk into places like this, and why.
Just as the panic is about to skyrocket, she appears, stepping casually as if she frequents this place. Ivy’s disguised in baggy clothes, her hair hidden under a hood and cap. She barely resembles herself.
No one pays her any mind as she slides into the seat across from me, her smile casual but clearly forced. My relief at seeing her melts into frustration. And also suspicion.
She has changed her clothes from the morning. When?
More importantly, why?
“What’s going on?” I hiss, watching her.
She leans back, relaxed, a look that’s far too nonchalant for my liking.
“Something happened.”
Of course, it did. Why wouldn’t it?
I’m convinced that someone up there has something against me. I think they keep a bell on my behalf, which rings every time I take a breather which reminds them to send chaos my way.
"The next words out of your mouth better not include you being somewhere you’re not supposed to be." I try to be strict, but I sound pathetically scared.
“Like this place?” She teases, trying to divert.
I narrow my eyes at her.
“You have one minute to explain before I poke this fork in your hand.” I threaten.
That is a lie. I am not touching anything in this god-forsaken place. God knows what kind of germs this place plays a hospitable host to. It is a sheer miracle that I somehow managed to remain seated even after hours of nitpicking every gross detail of this place. In times like this, I was thankful to be carrying a sanitisation spray and a pack of tissues with me.
“Jeez.” Ivy rolls her eyes.
She seems relaxed, but her insistence to keep rubbing the side of her nose is her dead giveaway. She is nervous.
“Ivy,” I warn.
“Fine, fine” She raises her hands in surrender.
There’s a flicker of tension in her eyes. She leans in, her face shadowed by the hood.
“Illegal experimentation,” she whispers.
I was about to let out a loud gasp, but Ivy, anticipating my reaction, had already clamped her hand over my mouth.
“I’ve been working on this story—on these people,” she says quietly. “There’s a pharmaceutical company conducting untested human experiments. I finally found their site, and it’s bad. Ara, they’re shackling people to beds. I saw it myself, rows of them, people being tortured. It’s…” She trails off, her face ashen, as if speaking the words aloud makes them real.
I know that she has a blog where she anonymously writes articles and reports about crimes that other papers do not have the guts to write. But ever since she had started working for Mariam, the workload had become demanding and she did not have much time to write, let alone go out and scope out the stories.
I also know that she volunteers in multiple NGO’s, trying to help the people who need it. Trying to uncover the truths others are too afraid to. Ever since the warehouse incident, I thought she put a rest on it. I’ve thought wrong.
But what she revealed just now…I cannot wrap my head around it.
I blink, struggling to process the information. I know the world isn’t filled with unicorns and rainbows, I’m aware of the darkness lurking beneath the surface. But… has humanity truly stooped this low?
Ivy’s words echo in my mind, slow to fully register. Things like this don’t happen in real life, do they? This is the kind of horror reserved for movies or some twisted thriller novel. Right?
If I could, I’d scoff at my own naivety. I’ve witnessed things that go beyond anything shown in movies or written in books—horrors beyond comprehension. Yet, hearing her words now, trying to fathom that people like this exist, my mind comes up blank.
I knew Walius was a city filled with bigwigs who didn’t play by the rules, but I’m beginning to see it’s not just that. It’s a city crawling with monsters who lack any trace of humanity. The whole world is.
A sudden thought flashes through my mind—things like this are hidden for a reason. Secrets they’d kill to protect. They control when, if ever, the truth comes out. And anyone who knows too much is immediately at risk. My eyes widen as I see the same realisation and fear reflected in Ivy’s gaze.
There’s a hint of resignation on her face, and I’m not letting it linger. Gently, I pull her hand away from my mouth, breaking the silence between us when I see it on her face.
“There’s something else,” I say.
It’s clear in the way she’s fighting to hold herself together. For a brief moment, her tough-girl facade slips as she brings both of her trembling hands to rest on the table. Only then do I notice her death grip on her phone.
“I… I recorded it,” she whispers, her voice barely steady.
She unlocks her phone with a shaky finger, taps the screen, and lets the video start to play.
If I had the words to describe what I felt, I would use them. But as I watch the video on the screen, I’m left convinced that humanity is a lost concept in this world.
My stomach churns, a weight pressing down on my chest. The longer I stare, the more my mind rebels, trying to convince me this isn’t real—that no one could possibly be this cruel. But the images on the screen tell a different story.
I’ve seen experimentation—I’ve even conducted some myself—but nothing like this. None of the experiments I’ve been involved in required patients to be shackled to their beds. The worst consequences I encountered were acid reflux or something equally mild; they didn’t lead to death.
There’s a reason we have rules governing clinical trials. And there’s also a reason someone would rush the process, eliminating obstacles along the way. Results derived from human subjects yield direct data and can save a significant amount of money.
It’s easy to identify the mistakes made and adjust the formula and chemicals by observing the subjects’ reactions. They correct their errors at the expense of a life.
The thought makes me recoil, a shudder rippling through my body.
As Ivy described, the video reveals hundreds of gurneys lined up side by side on an industrial floor. Filmed from above, it shows a sunken platform where all the people are bound to their beds, surrounded by numerous scientists walking with pads in their hands. They move methodically, observing the subjects while one of them administers a disturbing concoction directly into their bodies.
My grip on Ivy’s hand tightens painfully as I watch several of the subjects jerk violently in their beds. They arch at unnatural angles, and I can't shake the feeling that some must have broken bones. My mind fills in the gaps—cracking vertebrae, splintering ribs—and I flinch. Their mouths open in silent screams— screams that would have been deafening if Ivy hadn't muted the video.
Yet, not a single lab-coated figure rushes to help them. None of them loosen the ropes binding their limbs, even as some thrash wildly, their bodies breaking under the strain.
A lump forms in my throat, thick and suffocating, but I force it down. Crying feels useless right now—powerless. There’s no way to undo what’s been done, and that thought alone makes my chest ache.
Tears stream down my cheeks as the camera pans and zooms in on a row of beds occupied by children. My heart clenches painfully, the sight tearing something loose inside me. It’s utterly heartbreaking to see those tiny bodies lying there, helpless and screaming in pain.
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head as though that will erase the images. “No, no, no…”
I can’t help but whimper when I watch three little ones cough up blood, thrashing around as their skin takes on a sickly blue hue. Their small bodies contort and seize in ways that shouldn’t be possible. It takes just a minute—a mere minute—to erase the futures of such young promise. A minute for them to lie still, lifeless.
My vision blurs. My chest heaves with shallow breaths, and I press my trembling hand to my mouth, struggling to hold back the bile that’s rising fast.
Without missing a beat, the lab-coated figures jot down notes on their pads and gesture to someone nearby. Guards in thick black uniforms emerge from the shadows, swiftly carrying the lifeless bodies out of the room. The gurneys are pushed toward another room labeled “Sterilisation.” Blood is wiped away as if nothing has happened, and no one so much as blinked.
My hands fall away from my mouth, shaking uncontrollably.
I turn toward Ivy, desperate to say something—anything—but words fail me. Her face is pale, her lips pressed into a hard line, her eyes filled with horror.
Bile rises in my throat when I spot a pregnant woman in the crowd.The video begins to shake violently, blurring the horrific scenes.
I realise it’s not the footage—it’s me. I’m trembling so hard I can’t keep still.
My breath comes in shallow bursts, each one catching painfully in my chest. I want to scream, to rage, to cry out that this is wrong, that someone has to stop this. But all I can manage is a strangled sob that tears its way from my throat.
I don’t realise how much I’m struggling until I blink rapidly, trying to banish the images of the various aged victims from my mind. It’s then that I notice Ivy’s hands are trembling as well. I attempt to cover her hands with mine, but my cowardly fingers shake even more than hers.
“What do we do?” I whisper, terrified.
I feel helpless, small. Ivy swallows hard, looking as haunted as I feel.
“I have no fucking clue. We can’t go to the police. We don’t know who works for whom.” She sounds desperate, her words barely a breath. “Maybe I could post it online? Expose them?”
But even as she says it, I’m already shaking my head. “They’ll trace it, Ivy. They’ll know it was you.”
Using Div won’t be useful either. The other parties are capable of hiring an IT guy too.
We know the truth. People this powerful would shut us down with ease, whether online or in real life. They’re ruthless enough to carry out these horrors without blinking—so what would they do to us?
Silence stretches between us, heavy and suffocating. My mind spins through the possibilities, each more hopeless than the last. The people behind this are untouchable. Any attempt to expose them would be suicidal.
“We have to do something,” Ivy whispers. Her voice is trembling, her usual bravado gone. “We can’t just… let this go.”
I rub a hand over my face, the pressure behind my eyes building with every passing second. I know she’s right. But we’re trapped between two terrible choices—stay silent and live with the guilt, or speak out and risk becoming the next bodies wheeled into that sterilisation room.
Then a name surfaces in my mind.
One I’ve been avoiding for weeks.
One I wish I could forget.
I freeze, my heart skipping a beat as an image of him flickers to life in my mind. His dark, piercing gaze. The way he carries himself, like the world bends to his will. The way he always seems to be watching me, even when I don’t want him to.
Zagan Devlin.
No. Absolutely not.
I push the thought away, shaking my head. He’s not an option. He can’t be.
But the idea clings to me, stubborn and persistent. Because deep down, I know the truth: if anyone could help us, it would be him.
I don’t trust him—not in the slightest. And I hate that my mind keeps circling back to him, drawn by some invisible thread I don’t understand.
But this isn’t about me. This isn’t about the way my pulse quickens when I see him, or the way his gaze lingers just a little too long. This is about survival. And he’s the only one ruthless enough to stand a chance against people like this.
“We could…” My voice falters, and I bite my lip, hesitant to say it out loud. Once I do, there’s no taking it back.
Ivy’s gaze sharpens, her brows knitting together. “What?”
I take a shaky breath. “We could go to… Mr. Devlin.”
The name feels heavy on my tongue. Ivy’s reaction is immediate—and exactly what I expected. Her eyes widen in disbelief, and she lets out a harsh laugh.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I don’t say anything.
“You’re serious?” she asks, her voice rising. “You want to run to him?”
I flinch at her tone, but I keep my expression neutral. “He might be our only option.”
Ivy scoffs, crossing her arms. “And you think he’s going to help us out of the goodness of his heart?”
I don’t blame her for being sceptical. I’m not exactly brimming with confidence myself.
“No,” I admit quietly. “But he’s… dangerous.”
Ivy shakes her head in frustration. “Exactly! He’s a criminal, Ara. A mafia boss. You really want to get mixed up with someone like that?”
I swallow hard, my stomach twisting at the thought. “I don’t want to. But we’re out of options.”
I doubt Eero or Nico can help us with something like this without permission from their boss.
There’s a beat of silence before Ivy mutters, “I can’t believe you’re even considering this.”
Neither can I. This isn’t about me. It’s not about him.
It’s about doing whatever it takes to survive. Because if someone knows that we have this video, there is no escaping what they would do to bury their ugly secrets. They wouldn’t care if we promised that we wouldn’t talk, they would make sure to tie up their loose ends.
I understand her fear. I’m terrified myself, but I don’t see another choice.
“We can delete it and forget it exists altogether if no one saw you,”
I catch a look flickering across her features—one I recognise from time to time when I come off as an insensitive bitch, solely focused on survival. It’s a look of utter disbelief, as if she can’t comprehend how I can be so detached in the face of such horror.
“What the fuck? Since when are you so selfish who doesn’t give a shit about-“
“Ivy, if there’s some magical solution that lets us give these people justice while keeping us safe—and doesn’t involve the criminals we know—please, I’m all ears.”
I keep my voice steady, aware of the inner turmoil brewing within her. I don’t want to add to her struggle with my own brashness.
I take her hand, squeezing hard, trying to convey the strength I don’t feel. “If I thought for a second that we could handle this alone, I’d do it, Ives. But you and I both know the kind of monsters we’re dealing with.”
My voice is steady, but my pulse is racing. The door swings open, and a group of men stride in, too well-dressed and too dangerous-looking to belong here. The bar’s usual noise, the hum of voices and scraping chairs, has grown quiet. My senses go on high alert. I recognise one of them immediately—a man with a skull tattoo, one of the overseers from the video.
Ivy’s face goes pale as she looks over her shoulder, meeting his eyes as he spots us. His gaze narrows, a predator’s gleam lighting up his expression.
“Ara?” Ivy’s voice is barely a whisper.
“Yes?” I don’t dare move my eyes from the men.
She doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t need to.
“Run,” she whispers before all hell breaks loose.