Damon

The stench of sweat and desperation permeated the stagnant air of the kennels. The summer in Tharet was relentless, but inside The Cage, the heat became a living beast, devouring any hint of comfort. Damon, lying on the concrete floor of his cell, felt sweat trickle down his skin, rivulets of sweat running down the threadbare fabric of his T-shirt. The metal bars that separated the prisoners, rather than dividing the space, seemed to concentrate the misery. Dozens of bodies, squeezed into cages designed for animals, not people, exhaled a thick, stale air. The constant buzzing of flies mingled with occasional moans and the clanking of chains, creating a grotesque symphony. He shifted restlessly, his back protesting against the hardness of the floor. His eyes, one clear and the other clouded by the scar across him, opened lazily. Sleep, his only escape from this hellish reality, had been interrupted the night before by a dull thud from the next cell. Turning his head, he peered through the bars at the motionless figure lying there. ‘New meat.’ The newcomer hadn't moved since being thrown in there, his chest rising and falling in a slow, almost imperceptible rhythm. Damon wondered, not for the first time, what imaginary crimes or bad luck had brought this poor devil to The Cage. ‘Hey, look, the fresh meat's waking up!’. Emil's booming voice, a beta with far too much enthusiasm for the place he was in, echoed down the corridor of cells. Damon closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. That kind of positivity was sometimes as enviable as it was despicable. With a grunt, he sat up, leaning his back against the damp wall of his cell. ‘Welcome to the club, rookie!’ exclaimed Emil, addressing the newcomer. ‘It's not the Ritz, but hey, at least the company is interesting.’ ‘Don't mind the welcoming committee,’ Damon muttered, loud enough for the newcomer to hear. ‘Emil thinks he can sugarcoat shit, but it's still shit.’ Emil laughed, a sound that seemed out of place in the surrounding misery.