Ray Reen

He thought he could handle it. He thought all the training, the drills, the sleepless nights under a barrage of simulated threats would prepare him. That the relentless instructors barking orders and the punishing marches through snow and mud would carve steel into his bones. That the cold, calculated strategy briefings and harsh conditioning would make him unshakable.

But no. No training could have hardened him for this.

His body ached. Every inch of him felt like it had been wrung out and left in the sun to dry. He stirred on the cold, damp floor, a groan catching in his throat. His head pounded with a dull, persistent throb, like someone had wedged a heartbeat inside his skull. There was a sharp sting above his brow, he could feel dried blood crusted to the skin when he touched it.

His vision was a smear of gray and green at first. He blinked hard. The world swam back into focus, jagged and disorienting. Rough concrete walls, a rusted drain in the center of the floor, and a heavy steel door bolted shut. The air stank of mildew, piss, and rusted metal. The shadows clung to the corners like they were alive, heavy and suffocating.

This was not the cell he remembered. No, this one was different. Wider but dirtier. The wall behind him felt colder than the last and there was no bucket in the corner anymore. No faint drip from the ceiling to track time by. He’d been moved. Again. Why?

How long had he been here now? Five days? Six? A week? It was hard to tell, his internal clock was useless in this place. Time didn’t move here; it crawled, then jumped, then froze altogether. Every time he woke up it felt like a fresh wound. He didn’t know if it was morning or night. The light in the hallway stayed the same; buzzing, dim and eternal. There were no windows. No voices. Only screams sometimes, from somewhere beyond.

Then something shifted. He didn’t hear it so much as feel it—movement in the corner of the cell. A soft rustle, the brush of fabric against stone.

They’re here again. His mind snapped into survival mode like a reflex. Adrenaline flooded his veins, cutting through the fog.His body moved before his mind caught up.

He lunged, a snarl tearing from his throat as he closed the distance. He slammed the figure against the wall with a sickening thud, his hand clamping down hard around their throat. He pressed his weight forward, pinning them, ignoring the weak struggles beneath him. He had the upper hand now, and for once, that meant something. It meant survival. But then he noticed.. Not one of them. Not the sneering, uniformed bastards who laughed when they kicked his ribs in. Not the interrogator with dead eyes and a notebook that always stayed dry no matter how much blood was in the room.

Not the face, it was unfamiliar, half-obscured by shadows and tangled hairbut the clothes. Torn fatigues. Not the enemy’s black uniform. These were standard issue. His kind. And the wounds; bloody knuckles, a split lip, a dark bruise blooming down one side of their jaw. Too ragged to be one of them. Too filthy. Too worn down. And the way they didn’t fight back. No anger. No retaliation. Just panic. Confusion.

Not an enemy. Another captive

His grip loosened instantly. “Shit.” He staggered back, his breath coming hard and fast. “I’m so sorry—I thought you were one of them.”