Damian's POV

"Appreciation is what I have learned far too late, and I regret it."

—Damian Stark

How long has it been since they took us—no, dragged us off our broken world? Since those monsters beat the shit out of us and threw our battered bodies into this airborne nightmare. I don't know anymore. Days blur into one another like blood in water. Time bends here. I sit on wet feathers—soaked through, slick, cold. We all do. Me, Frank, Paula, and the others.

Our prison is massive. A steel monstrosity, the size of two buses welded together by a sick god. Crude bars line the edges, wide enough for your limbs to dangle out, narrow enough to remind you you're nothing but meat inside a metal box. The feathers beneath us are white—some the size of cars—and sodden with rain, piss, maybe tears. I feel them rubbing against my thighs, slippery and foreign. I can't stretch my legs properly. There's no comfort here, just existence, hunger, and thirst.

They gave us nothing. They've told us to drink our own shit and piss. And we did. We hesitated at first, sure. But after the second day, even dignity cracks. By then, it was either die or comply. The first day… we still held on. Whispered our farewells to Earth like lovers betrayed.

I still remember the mountain—the dome—that was cracked and still is like an eggshell. That was the last thing I saw of home. Now, all I smell is waste, human rot as some of bitten their tongues up. Their cries were horrifying, silent, and oppressed by the lightning of storms.

The broad soldier Frank sits beside me. He is the man who once stood unflinching as an orc slammed him into the dirt. His head hangs now, solemn, almost asleep, but I know he's not. There's nothing left to dream about. He was a warrior, that man. A patriot. A self-proclaimed martyr for the greater good. And now? He stares into nothing. Only the abyss of a dark sea beneath a storm of wind and tsunamis, and I wonder: What good was it all for? What "greater" purpose justifies ending up here, caged, soaked, reeking, worthless?

I'm not like him, never was. I'm a coward. I ran. Hid. Avoided the fight. And yet here I am, beside him, punished just the same.

The wind screams through the bars, it howls against my ears, as if being the cries of those who have taken their lives only days ago. Water whips across my face like shards of glass under a pressure hose. It stings. It always does. Across from Frank—two people down—sits Paula. Blonde. Young. Her left arm ends in a stump, hastily wrapped. The cloth is filthy now, brown with old blood, and to be frank, I don't know how she's still alive.

We've been flying for days, maybe even more. Across oceans and storms, through clouds so black they bleed. The beast that carries us—the bird, too large to be real. Not for a second in these last days or weeks was it tired. And neither do the creatures that commandeer it.

The storm is a living thing. A roaring, unrelenting demon. Water slashes across our faces, but not from the tsunami below us, but the piss of God, if one even exists anymore. Lightning kisses the sky every few seconds. Thunder follows like a second heartbeat. It's not white, that lightning. It pulses gold. Shimmering. Alive. For a brief second, it paints everything in eerie contrast. The wet metal, the bodies huddled in pain, the feathers, and the fear.

My legs dangle outside the cage. The wind pulls at them like they're nothing more than forgotten laundry, but this isn't wind. This is a fucking hurricane, all possible natural catastrophes in one place. It's hell itself. I glance sideways—far right—where the monsters sit. There, just beyond them, I see it. A wall of water. No… a wave. But no wave is that high. Must be hundreds of meters tall. Another tsunami.

There's only one explanation for this kind of atmospheric insanity.

The moon.

It was too close yesterday, and even closer and bigger today. Closer than ever. A giant, veiled in gold, before the clouds swallowed it whole. And now we pay the price. The oceans rebel. The skies split open. Storm after storm. The second time since our imprisonment.

Everything's blue or black, or some mixture in between. Then comes the flash—and everything goes white again. Zigzagging lines of light shoot downward like divine bullets. Our cage has been hit multiple times by now, and we should be dead. Statistically, we're corpses. My legs press against the grid, soaked and trembling, and yet I'm not fried. I'm still breathing.

The bird's been struck, too. It just shrugs off the lightning like it's a summer breeze.

The monsters are under their own cage, but theirs is different—more open. Freer, and they have keys. They come and go as they please. We don't, we're left to rot.

Why? Why am I here? I hid from them, I was a coward, and cowards survive, don't they? We run. We blend. So why was I dragged into this?

Then—suddenly—I hear her.

"Brother, give me my phone!" It's nobody but my sister.

Her voice hits me like a brick. Real, unreal. Memory, hallucination—I can't tell anymore. I squint through the storm, eyes raw, searching the silhouettes. She floats there. She shouldn't, but she does. Clearer than the rest.

"Gimme a second," I mumble, voice raw. I lean back against someone else—don't know who—and see something on the ground; a shape, smooth, and shifting. I pick it up and hold it out through the bars.

Then the pain, and a voice snaps at me. "What the fuck are ya doing!"

Not a shout—just a rasp from a cracked mouth. Dry as dust and dying under the screams of the storm. I don't even turn, but a hand smacks the back of my skull. My teeth clamp down on my tongue, and iron fills my mouth.

I laugh.

A loud, cracked, broken laugh. Because I saw them.

For just a second, I saw my father in the back, watching his fishing videos like always. My mother is knitting soft socks. My sister, pouting, arms crossed, and waiting for her phone to be given back to her. And just like that—gone.

One tear slips from my dry eye. Just one. It slides down my cheek, then gets caught by the storm, torn from me. Carried into the ocean below, into the jaws of those greedy, churning waves.

Why even take that from me?

My body is tight. Cramped and tensed. I push my thumbs into the wet feathers below me, pressing, needing something to feel. Something to prove I'm still real. Still here. The pain sharpens, and the taste is more blood. My tongue's bleeding now, and the hallucination fades.

I see the brownish-mustard color. The filth, our food. Not only did I mistake it for my sister's phone, no, but I also stole someone else's meal—Feces of our asses. My stomach twists, but I don't cry, not anymore. The tears don't come, even if I still sob inside.

Fists land, again and again, but I don't scream. I cry every day, but not from pain. I break under the weight of memory, of my family. Knowing I will never see them again.

I am dragged into their territory now, into the land of these monsters—whatever they are. Fantasy creatures, zombies, and demons out of some fever dream. I don't care. I am going to die here, and I'll never again see the faces I love, their smiles. My heart hurts more than the bruises, more than the hunger clawing at my gut or the exhaustion hollowing out my skull.

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The only reason the punches stop is because of Frank. He's the only one I trust here. He's kind, a good man. I'm not. I'm not worth saving. Not worth seeing my family again. Not worth the life I still desperately want.

But God, I want it.

To lie in a warm bed, cared for by my mother's soup when I was sick, to sit at the kitchen table with my sister, eating plain food, drinking supplements we always whined about. Those boring, everyday things I never learned to appreciate. Now I do. But it's too late.

"DIAGO! SETTLE THE BIRD TO SAIL!"

The shout cuts through the storm like a blade, a massive orange creature—twice, no, three times my current crumbled size—roars the command, his voice echoing into the roaring wind. I can't see much, just the glow of Frank's arm in the dark; however, a heartbeat later, a flash of lightning cracks the sky.

Then the faceless one punches the wing of the bird—the great winged beast we're being carried on—as if it were his own beast to command. Its voice below, full of riot and rage. "You heard our lord!"

The name Diago sticks in my mind like a splinter. Behind him, another creature of its kind watches me with a grin. I recognize that one, it's the one who found me when I hid like a coward in the shadows, the one who dragged me out.

I want to curse him. I want to scream, but I do nothing. I keep quiet, like their obedient little pet. I hate myself for this. Hate how I've folded, how I endure.

My nails scratch against the cage's floor—the long feathers, dry from wind, wet from storm. The filth clings to me, and above me, the old man watches with disgust, his scowl burying itself deep into my thoughts.

But then—suddenly—I'm above him, above everyone. Floating.

And so they are only seconds behind.

Everyone in this cage. We all float like lost objects in space; the old man's glare vanishes as two others slam into him midair. His long nose cracks, his loose skin folds unnaturally, and the scream is drowned in the chaos.

Lightning pulses again, while thunder howls. The entire world is a riot of motion and sound.

People cling to the giant feathers around us. They grab tight, gripping like they can hold themselves to reality, one misstep and you're slammed into someone else, or worse, against the bars.

I hear gasps, cries, curses—bones snap, voices break. I try to breathe, but can't.

Only then do I realize: the bird, the massive beast we ride, is falling. It dives like a predator, like a hawk chasing prey, and for us, it's not a hunt, it's an execution.

The air thickens, presses into my lungs like concrete. Someone near me ages before my eyes—gray floods his hair, wrinkles claim his skin.

I feel it too.

The stretch of skin, the ache in my bones. My back pulls tight, my limbs drag behind me, like time is warping us. The stink of human fear, sweat, and sickness fills the air—burning itself into my throat.

I catch a glimpse of Frank, trying to shield his face from the pressure, even as he floats helplessly beside me. Paula, her one arm locked around a feather, holds on for dear life, and another body slams into me, knocking the breath out of my chest.

Then—darkness.

…

A voice breaks through. "Oh, good girl!"

It's faint but growing louder, along with it, a headache pounds its way to the front of my skull. At first, there's nothing—just pure blackness, but then, redness overcomes me. Deep blood red, and a second later, it turns scarlet. My eyelids twitch open and close as colors shift, finally turning into a piercing orange.

I snap awake.

Sweat drips down my neck, while I try to move, but I can't. My arms are tied behind my back, and panic floods in.

My eyes flicker. I crawl to the side. The motion exposes my ribs, my back. I feel dirt between my teeth, and taste the ground, solid and cold. Again, I try to stand up, but with no success. "Fnk?" I whisper.

No answer.

I bite into something hard, and my teeth start to rattle. My skull pulses in pain, and I can't scream, can't even form real words. "Fnk," I try again. It's useless.

Screams echo around me. They are distant at first, but eventually grow louder. Overwhelming. I squint through the light that blinds me, my eyes burning. I try to turn away—but it's too much.

Then, pain shoots through my scalp again.

Someone grabs my hair from behind, yanking me backward, and my stomach scrapes against the grave, tearing my skin into tiny cuts. I try to resist—but then I'm airborne again. Lifted.

Just for a moment, then—slam.

I crash against a wall without a second to breathe. Something cracks inside me, and I scream, but my voice is lost in the ocean of others.

Blinking to my left, there is a woman, stripped, shivering, eyes vacant. I turn right—a man, bound and trembling; his eyes meet mine, and I feel sick.

I choke on the air. Hyperventilating. My head jerks from side to side, and my neck snaps painfully, a shock running down my spine.

Then I see him, a face I'll never forget.

A smile twisted by something wrong; green gums, a green tongue, and behind him, more of them. More of those—Creatures. Watching. Waiting.

I want to look away, but I can't.

Women. Men. All of them huddled like sheep, corralled into a corner. There are some blue-blooded, a few greens, and one orange, if I'm not mistaken, but the rest like me, red inside their flesh, and all of us are in agony.

Then I see it—the tool—a slicer, long, curved, and shining in the firelight. I don't want to know what it's for, but I scream again. I twist, kick, and my voice cracks.

I stare into the sockets of the faceless monster before me—into the abyss where eyes should be. And it stares back.

I fight against it, uselessly. My limbs ache, my feet thrash like I'm on death's doorstep, and maybe I am.

Slash!

Screams—others and mine.

Drowned at first—lost beneath the flood of screams, the unrelenting chaos. But then it rises—My scream, alone, cutting through the void. Maybe no one hears it but me. Perhaps only I can hear it, perhaps this hell belongs to me alone.

I look down, see it, face it, and I keep screaming.

I don't move my legs anymore; I don't dare to. My mouth hangs open—gasping, trembling—my vision drowning in a cascade of tears. Everything blurs. Shapes, color, pain, horror. All smeared together.

The ground below me is no longer dry dust but soaked with my tears. A flood born of grief, agony, and unbearable clarity.

I try to clutch my own hands, to pull myself together, but I fail miserably. My limbs shake like leaves under a storm, the storm of screams and of agony. I only stare—helpless—at my naked self. At my mutilated flesh.

My testicles.

Blood-soaked. Red.

They're not mine anymore. They lie in the hands of the Faceless.

I face him. My scream fades into something weaker, raspier—a shivering sound pushed from broken lungs. I press against the wound with shaking hands, instinct driving what sanity cannot. My fingers smear into warmth—my own warmth—the first I've felt in days.

My vision floods, and I can barely see, but I know what's happening.

The creature before me lifts the shredded remains of what made me a man—presses them with gnarled fingers—and drinks.

As if it were sacred.

As if it were the last drop of some divine nectar.

I curse and scream again. I sob, not like a man, but like a child lost in a burning world. In agony. In pain. In terror.

And then, as my voice cracks, others rise. Screams everywhere. I turn my head. Left. Right.

Woman. Raped.

Man. Castrated.

I...

Like all of them. The same. No different. No escape.

I don't stand, I can't. I crouch, twisted over myself, still holding, still trying to keep my life from spilling out. With every heartbeat, more of me escapes—running down my thighs, pooling beneath me.

"W–wha—" I try to speak, teeth clattering together like broken porcelain. "Whaaat...?"

The Faceless stares at me, mocking me with his playful voice, while drinking the blood of my testicles. His head is tilted. No eyes, yet somehow... seeing me, grinning wider than before. Curious, amused, pleased.

My eyes flicker, my hands slip. The strength fades, and blood leaks like a quiet river, warm and steady, over pale skin. I feel it. I feel everything.

I'm getting cold. My breaths grow shorter. My eyelids too heavy to lift.

"For wh–what...?" I try again. What have we done to deserve this?

But I can't get the words out. My lips tremble too much. My tongue is useless. Just meat in a broken machine of skin.

I look away—into the distance, toward the one man I thought unshakable. The brave soldier, the one with the voice, the pride, the iron in his spine.

Frank.

He sits like me. Naked. Broken. Eyes wide but empty.

Once a man who would've died for his homeland, but now... he stares into nothingness. Hollow, like I do.

The blade has taken what is dearest to us, it carved out more than flesh, it hollowed our souls.

He cries. And I cry with him. But even in this shared sorrow, we are alone.

I raise my trembling hand, inching toward him. I don't know if he sees me, or sees through me. He might already be gone.

Above him, another Faceless—this one in a black suit—stands like a priest over a corpse. It lifts a hand, and from its wrist, thick green blood pours.

It bleeds over Frank's wound.

The eye contact between us shatters, and I'm turned—roughly—by the same monster who drank from my child-producer.

His grin returns, and then his blood pours over me.

Green.

It seeps into my torn flesh, into the red mess of what's left. I feel it, that foreign heat—an unnatural pulse racing through my nerves. My heart jolts, my spine arches.

A rush, a shock. Adrenaline explodes through me, and for a moment, the pain vanishes. But only to return, worse.

I scream again, this time louder, as loud as the others. A chorus of tortured men echo through the chamber, all facing the same end.

Our manhood, our dignity—gone. The heat rises and falls, then crashes.

My scream dies, and with it, the strength to keep my eyes open.

The world slips away, the color fades, and the noise disappears.

Only utter darkness remains.

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