Total.
I stand there in the pitch black, breath shaking, chains rattling softly as my hands clench.
They’re afraid.
That’s new.
And fear doesn’t show up unless something dangerous is coming.
I straighten as much as the chains allow.
Ronan Pierce might think we believe he’s dead.
But if that voice was real—
If he’s hunting—
Then this place is already lost.
They just don’t know it yet.
33
Viktor Malenkov
Location: Underground Detention Site — Central Control
Time: Unknown
Fear is most effective when it is organized.
That is the mistake amateurs make—they believe pain alone is enough. It isn’t. Pain without structure breeds resistance.
Pain with purpose breeds obedience.
I stand at the central control console, hands resting lightly on the steel rail as feeds from every wing of the facility flicker across the screens. Rows of cells. Motionless figures. Shackled silhouettes.
Men who once mattered.
“Begin Phase Three,” I say calmly.
The technician hesitates.
I do not look at him.
“Now.”
The hesitation disappears.
Lights across the facility cut out in staggered intervals—not all at once. That would be merciful. Instead, darkness rolls through the dungeon in waves, disorienting,unpredictable.
In some cells, the lights stay on.
In others, they never come back.
Temperature controls shift next.
Cold floods the lower tiers—sharp, invasive, seeping into bone. The upper levels heat rapidly, air thickening until breath becomes labored.
