After spending a month in the juvenile prison, Draven's world had crumbled into something far worse than hell. His psyche, once fragile but intact, was now scarred beyond recognition. The facility was a dystopian horror chamber masked under the term "rehabilitation center." There was no light, no air vents, no sanitation. The prisoners—mostly children—were starved to the brink of death. Food was rationed just enough to keep them alive, and even that came once a day. Human waste wasn't cleaned for days, left to rot and fester, baking into the walls.
Draven had lost all sense of time. Every day blurred into the next in an unending nightmare. Some prisoners went mad, others simply became numb. The screams, moans, and retching sounds became a background score to his thoughts. The stench was a monster of its own, consuming minds before bodies followed. And yet, through the filth and suffering, one thought remained his anchor—Lucen. That traitorous brother. That walking deception. Draven clung to his hatred like a lifeline, the last shard of identity left to him.
Six months in, the door to his cramped, blackened cell creaked open. Draven didn't even flinch. The sudden light pierced his dilated pupils like a spear. A guard—face blank, electric prod in hand—struck him across the ribs.
"Move. You're being transferred."
Draven staggered forward, blinking in confusion. He couldn't remember how to walk properly. His limbs trembled like those of a newborn. As he was escorted through dark hallways, he noticed others being herded too—prisoners of all ages. A van awaited them outside, reinforced with dark steel and humming with power. It was the size of a military bus, caged from the inside.
He was shoved inside. The van reeked of blood and antiseptic. Across the dim interior, he saw gaunt faces—some old, some just children like him. Everyone wore the same vacant expression.
Draven collapsed on a metal seat. An old man beside him leaned in and whispered hoarsely.
"Where do you think they're taking us?"
Draven's lips, chapped and bleeding, moved slowly. "Another prison… probably."
The old man gave a soft, bitter laugh. "No, boy. They're taking us to a hospital."
Draven frowned. "A hospital?"
The man's eyes were dead yet knowing. "To harvest our organs. We're no longer prisoners. We're products."
Draven's blood froze. "No… Even if I'm Level 0, the World Government can't allow that. It's a crime."
The old man shook his head. "The world's too crowded. Deaths go unrecorded. Level 0s don't count. We're shadows. Nobody cares if we vanish. The jails and hospitals have made a pact. You disappear, and they mark you down as a casualty from malnutrition or disease."
Draven's vision spun. The van rocked slightly. His breath became ragged.
The van slowed. Its doors opened to a massive, sterile building with no signs—just guards and drones.
They were herded out like livestock.
Inside, fluorescent lights buzzed above gurneys, metallic trays, and surgical machinery. The air smelled of bleach and iron. Draven was shackled to a wall along with the others. They were lined up like specimens.
One by one, prisoners were taken. Screams echoed through the hallway. Screams that didn't end quickly.
Draven watched a teenager cry for his mother before being wheeled into a room. Moments later, a wet gurgle. Then silence.
He wanted to scream. To run. But his body didn't obey.
Then the old man beside him was taken. As he was dragged away, he looked back at Draven with calm resignation.
"Live, boy," he whispered. "If even a spark remains, climb out of this pit."
Draven's turn came.
His heartbeat exploded in his ears. His vision tunneled. They strapped him to a metal table, and a man in a white coat leaned over him.
The surgeon's face was wrong. Too still. Too delighted. Like he took joy in the suffering before him.
The room was unbearably cold, and yet sweat clung to Draven's skin. Metal restraints dug into his wrists and ankles, and he could feel the sticky dampness of old blood crusted beneath him. The air reeked—an overwhelming stench of rust, rot, and death. Dried blood painted the floor and spattered the walls. There were no drains. No pretense of hygiene. Just butchery. Gurneys with limp bodies lined the corners, organs piled in sterile trays like meat at a slaughterhouse. Flies buzzed in lazy arcs despite the buzzing fluorescent lights.
The walls bore crude etchings, scratch marks made by those before him—names, prayers, curses. Some were written in blood.
"Ah, another Level 0," the doctor said, his smile stretching unnaturally. "Let's begin without sedatives. Protocol, you know."
Draven's eyes darted around. In the corner, a tray of instruments glistened—scalpels, bone saws, syringes filled with clear and cloudy liquids. A mask hung loosely from a hook, unused.
He tried to scream, but a gag was forced into his mouth. He struggled as cold metal pressed to his side. Pain exploded through his abdomen. The scalpel carved into his flesh with mechanical precision, but all Draven could feel was searing heat and suffocating terror. His body convulsed involuntarily.
He thrashed, but the restraints held. His vision flickered. The agony didn't relent—it expanded, crawled into his limbs, his spine, his skull. His blood spilled freely, mixing with the old filth beneath him.
He could see the doctor's expression—delighted, euphoric. The man whispered to himself, like a composer hearing his masterpiece. "Such resilience... exquisite."
A single tear rolled down Draven's cheek as his thoughts drowned in agony. The operating lights above him blurred, becoming halos.
"You'll all pay," he mouthed in silence—Lucen, Lisa, John, the world.
Just before the darkness consumed him, he heard the surgeon's voice again.
"Don't die too fast now. I like to savor the work."
The last thing Draven saw was the old man's corpse being dumped like trash beside the next gurney.
And then—nothing.