32. Marcus
Marcus
Location: Underground Detention Site — Eastern Wing
Time: Unknown
They took my name first.
That’s how this started.
Not the chains. Not the beatings.
The name.
“You don’t need it anymore,” the guard told me calmly as he cuffed my wrists to the wall. “No one is coming.”
They were wrong.
But I didn’t know that then.
I’ve been in this cell long enough to memorize every crack in the concrete. Long enough to know which guards shift change by the rhythm of their steps. Long enough to stop screaming because no one answers.
I was part of Ronan Pierce’s command.
That fact alone bought me a special kind of hell.
They keep me isolated—no voices, no echoes, no proof that anyone else is alive. The silence is deliberate. It presses in on you until your own thoughts start to sound like enemies.
They told me Ronan was dead during the second week.
Showed me footage.
Told me Lena died with him.
I didn’t believe them.
Not at first.
But time does terrible things to certainty.
The pain comes randomly here. Not scheduled. Not predictable. That way you never brace for it.
I’m kneeling when I hear it.
A sound that doesn’t belong.
Not a guard.
Not machinery.
A thud.
Then another.
Muffled. Distant.
Movement in the walls.
I freeze.
The sound comes again—metal shifting somewhere far away, followed by a sharp voice barking orders in Russian.
My pulse spikes.
Something’s wrong.
The Warden doesn’t like disorder.
I strain against the cuffs, leaning closer to the bars even though I know it won’t help.
Then—
A whisper.
So faint I almost miss it.
“…Pierce…”
My breath catches violently.
No.
That’s not possible.
I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing myself not to fall into hope like a trap.
Then it comes again.
“…Ghostline…”
My heart slams so hard it hurts.
That callsign wasn’t legend.
It was command.
It was Ronan standing in the dark, calm as death, telling us exactly how we were getting out alive.
My mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
Tears sting my eyes—unwanted, unstoppable.
I press my forehead to the bars, shaking.
“If you’re real…” I whisper. “If this isn’t my mind finally breaking…”
I swallow hard.
“Then don’t stop.”
Footsteps thunder suddenly.
Guards rush past my cell, weapons raised, radios crackling with urgency.
One of them shouts, “Signal leak confirmed! Eastern wing—lock it down!”
The door slams.
Darkness drops.
Total.
I stand there in the pitch black, breath shaking, chains rattling softly as my hands clench.
They’re afraid.
That’s new.
And fear doesn’t show up unless something dangerous is coming.
I straighten as much as the chains allow.
Ronan Pierce might think we believe he’s dead.
But if that voice was real—
If he’s hunting—
Then this place is already lost.
They just don’t know it yet.