Soren lay on his bed tired, staring at the ceiling of his prison cell.
It was a relief to final turn off Blackfield.
However...
The day had not ended the way he expected.
A Soul cha pilot was dead.
For all the hatred the prisoners spat at "whities," the entire prison had sunk into a heavy, suffocating silence.
The reason was because Soul chas were not just weapons but were monunts.
They were proof of the Empire’s absolute dominance over the other world.
The stars in the sky.
To see one fall, and fall so violently, shattered sothing deeper than pride—hope.
Even the worst criminals understood that.
The prison was quiet enough to hear breathing through the walls or a pin fall to the ground.
Basically, one could say that the mourning hung in the air like dust that refused to settle.
Soren rolled onto his side, his gaze drifting to the dagger beside him.
For a mont, the thought ca unbidden.
Should I just restart the day?
He could go back. Change things. Maybe even warn them.
No.
He shook his head, pushing the thought away.
Today was supposed to be the last loop.
And even if it wasn’t—who was he to play savior?
Soren had never thought of himself as a hero.
His dream was simple: to beco a Soul cha pilot. Saving strangers had never been part of it.
Selfish, maybe. But honest.
People who grew up the way he did didn’t throw flowers at the world and expect kindness in return.
It’s not as if it had even been kind to him.
Still... the weight in his chest refused to fade.
His fingers brushed the dagger’s edge.
To end the day, or let it end on its own.
The choice lingered.
Such a burden.
At such a ti, tallic clicks were heard as his cell door opened.
"Take him inside." Billy the guard ordered, and four guards, each holding Cynthia by her arms and legs, lifted her into the room.
They did not bother to drop her on her bed and just left her on the ground.
It seems even the guards don’t know she is a girl.
Soren thought to himself.
Once they dropped her in the room, Billy turned towards Soren.
He grunted, "Hmph... Another whitey bites it."
He turned and left with the order guards.
The doors closed.
Dinner was served in the rooms—sothing about the cafeteria still needing so working on after Cynthia’s rampage the last ti.
Once the guards were gone, Soren could not help but turn to the bread baker.
From the way her chest moved, she was still breathing.
But her body was a ss.
Cuts riddled her form. So were as deep as six inches.
Although no blood leaked from them—which was weird—they were still devastating wounds.
But that was not all. Her skin had burnt wounds from the acid spray from the antibodies.
Soren could see that the nurses helped Cynthia tie white bandages around her chest to cover her nakedness, but they left her wounds bare.
Soren sighed. "Such awful treatnt."
Considering that all the guards and dical staff were in chaos over the death of a Soul cha Pilot.
It was a miracle anyone even attended to a re prisoner.
Soren still rembered the things that happened today.
Cynthia had been so close to getting that crown jewel, but the antibodies were just too many.
Also, there was one.
That terrifying antibody that was protecting the Crown Jewel like it was its life purpose.
That had made things extrely difficult for her—coupled with the fact that the Whale was returning into the fracture, they had to go back.
Soren sighed again. He looked around. He did not have much in this place—none at all, but the sheets were at least always clean.
Using his dagger, he cut his bedsheet at the edge and then went to the bathroom.
Every prison room had one.
Beside the sink, shower, and toilet, there was also a bucket and a bowl.
He turned on the tap and fetched so warm water in the bowl.
He soaked the torn piece of cloth in it, and then he began to clean her wounds.
As he did, she groaned. "Soooreeennn..." she whispered hoarsely—obviously in pain.
"Bear with it... infection makes wounds turn very bad. In the morning, I’ll take you to the infirmary myself."
At least he believed that by the morning a lot of the ’low’ about a pilot’s death would have been lifted.
As he wiped her body, Soren could not help but ask.
"Cynthia," Soren began. "Can I ask you sothing?"
She nodded lightly.
"Why don’t you just make the cut for the ore stone and leave this place? Why do you stay?"
~Silence
And then a low whimper.
Her fists tightened.
Soren paused. It was not until he saw the little drops of water slide out the base of her helt that he confird his suspicions.
Is she... crying?
He panicked. "Wait, hold on... I’m sorry. I did not an to make you cry."
Soren was at a loss for what to do. He did not think the question would hurt her.
He really did not an to make her cry.
At such a ti, he could not help but think of what Machos would have done in such a situation.
He shook his head. His old man would have carried a wedge.
It was always his go-to for solving problems.
He sighed.
Thinking about Machos made him miss the old man.
And now, he was feeling hosick and had a crying girl by his side.
My life.
He lanted. However, he continued cleaning her body.
Soren did not talk again. He did not want to say the wrong thing.
While he did not think Cynthia was a bad person, he still clearly rembered her ripping out a man’s neck with her teeth.
Cynthia was big. Very big. It took ti to finish cleaning her body.
Unfortunately, Soren did not have the strength to lift her onto her bed.
Regardless, he had done his best.
He went back to his bed. He flipped through The Discipline of Sorrow.
A little light reading to end the day.
He did not notice shadows moving within the room.
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