The cell door slams open.
The sound rips me out of sleep.
I barely have time to register where I am before hands grab me—rough, unrelenting. I'm hauled to my feet, dragged out into the hallway.
"Wait—" My voice is hoarse. "Liesel—"
No one answers.
They don't slow.
---
The corridors blur past.
Gray walls. Cold air. The same endless, suffocating sameness.
I'm still half-asleep, my body heavy, my mind lagging as they drag me into another room.
Another chair.
More ropes.
Pulled tight.
---
By the time I fully wake, I'm already bound.
---
The door opens again.
Johann Schmidt steps inside.
His expression is calm. Empty. As if nothing in this room could possibly disturb him.
Behind him, something rattles.
A cage.
---
A man is wheeled in, locked inside it—barely able to move. Thick chains wrap around his wrists and ankles, pinning him in place. His head hangs low, breath shallow.
Schmidt gestures toward him.
"This one," he says, almost casually, "is like you."
He kicks the cage.
Hard.
The man jerks violently, flinching as if the blow struck his body instead of the bars.
"He possesses an…ability."
Schmidt reaches in, grabs the man by the shoulder, and jams a syringe into his flesh. The man groans weakly as dark blood fills the glass.
Before I can react, Schmidt turns to me.
He grabs my jaw—hard.
"Open."
I try to resist.
It doesn't matter.
He forces my mouth open and empties the syringe down my throat, clamping my jaw shut before I can spit it out.
"Swallow."
---
I do.
---
The hunger hits instantly.
Sharp. Violent.
It twists in my stomach, claws up my throat.
I swallow again without thinking, chasing the taste.
Then—
Pain.
---
It starts deep.
In my bones.
A burning, itching sensation that spreads outward, like something crawling beneath my skin. It intensifies rapidly—too fast to process, too strong to ignore.
I grit my teeth.
Try to hold it in.
A strangled sound escapes anyway.
---
Everything hurts.
---
(Johann Schmidt)
I observe him closely.
Every movement. Every reaction.
Wraith.
An appropriate name, I think.
He writhes in the chair, muscles locked, veins standing out beneath his skin. The reaction is immediate—far more intense than before.
Good.
That confirms it.
His body distinguishes between normal blood… and that of others like him.
Now we see what it does with it.
---
(Matthias)
The pain fades.
Slowly.
Leaving me hollow.
Heavy.
I slump forward in the chair, breathing hard, my body trembling from the aftermath.
Something feels different.
Wrong.
---
"Well," Schmidt says, stepping closer, "you're not dead."
Before I can react—
He punches me.
Hard.
My head snaps to the side. Blood fills my mouth where my teeth cut into my tongue.
He laughs.
A short, sharp sound.
"Good," he says. "That means something changed."
---
He turns back to the cage.
The man inside barely reacts as Schmidt pulls a knife from his coat.
"Let's confirm it."
---
The blade presses against the man's jaw.
Then cuts.
---
The scream is weak—but it's there.
Schmidt doesn't stop.
He digs his fingers into the fresh wound and pulls.
Flesh parts.
Blood pours.
Bone is exposed.
---
"Look," Schmidt says, grabbing my head and forcing my gaze forward. "Pay attention."
I don't want to.
I can't look away.
Through the blood and torn flesh, I see it—
The bone.
Dark.
Wrong.
"His jaw," Schmidt says. "What do you see?"
"…It's black," I manage.
"Correct."
He wipes the knife on my shirt, slow and deliberate.
"But what matters," he continues, "is what that implies."
---
He releases me and steps back.
"Are his bones merely discolored?" he muses. "Or have they become something else entirely?"
He waves a hand.
The cage is pulled away.
The man inside doesn't move.
---
Schmidt turns back to me.
"So," he says, tilting his head slightly, "what did you feel?"
I hesitate.
"I…" My throat tightens. "My bones. They burned. Itched."
His eyes light up slightly.
Interest.
---
He steps forward again.
Grabs my face.
Before I can react, the knife flashes.
---
Pain explodes across my jaw.
---
He cuts deep.
Too deep.
I feel my skin split, his fingers forcing the wound open, peeling it back.
I scream.
I can't stop it.
---
"Hold still," he murmurs.
Like this is nothing.
Like I am nothing.
---
Then—
He pauses.
---
A smile spreads across his face.
Slow. Satisfied.
"Well now," he says softly. "There it is."
---
He lets go.
I slump in the chair, gasping, blood running down my neck.
"It appears," he continues, almost pleased, "you've inherited his trait."
---
My stomach drops.
---
"Your bones," he says, "are black as well."
---
No.
No—
---
"We'll need to verify, of course."
---
Time stops meaning anything after that.
---
The knife returns.
Again.
And again.
---
Cuts along my arms.
My ribs.
My legs.
Each one opened.
Examined.
Prodded.
---
I lose track of how long it lasts.
Minutes.
Hours.
It doesn't matter.
---
By the time he finally steps back, I barely feel anything anymore.
Just distant pressure.
Numbness.
---
Schmidt cleans his blade carefully, almost methodically.
Then sets it aside.
"It would seem consistent," he says. "All observable bone structures have adapted."
He turns to the others in the room.
"Patch him up."
A pause.
"We cannot have him dying without my permission."
---
Hands grab me again.
Different this time.
Less rough.
But not gentle.
---
They stitch me.
Wrap me.
Close what they can.
---
Then drag me back.
---
The cell door opens.
Closes.
---
I don't see Liesel.
I don't say anything.
I don't think I can.
---
The moment they let go—
I collapse.
---
And everything goes dark.