Part I – Waking Up
Titus slowly regains consciousness. At first he can’t remember where he is. The last thing he remembers is the impact of the rifle stock — a flash of white, then nothing.
His head throbs in time with his pulse, a dull hammering behind his left eye. His ears ring with a thin, constant whine, like a note that won’t resolve. His vision swims in and out of focus, the room arriving in blurred pieces before it holds still. He tries to move and realizes his wrists are restrained behind the chair, the plastic ties biting into his skin every time he flexes against them. He forces himself to breathe — slow, through the nose, the way his father used to tell him when the world got too loud.
As his vision clears, he begins taking in the room piece by piece. Concrete walls, damp in the corners where the ventilation hasn’t reached in years. Portable floodlights on tripods, throwing everything into a flat, shadowless white. Folding tables covered with maps, corners weighted down with spent shell casings instead of paperweights. Radio equipment constantly crackling, low and staticky, like insects in tall grass. Several laptops displaying facility layouts, blue light reflecting off tired faces. Medical supplies stacked neatly in labeled crates. Ammunition cases. Spare rifles leaning in a row against the wall like something at a hardware store.
The room looks less like a prison and more like a temporary military command center established inside Black Sun. It smells like gun oil and cold concrete and, faintly, of the ozone tang that lingers after gunfire.
Nobody pays him any attention. The soldiers continue working — some study maps, tracing routes with a gloved finger; some quietly exchange reports over radios in clipped, economical sentences; one is replacing magazines and checking equipment with the bored efficiency of someone who’s done it a thousand times. The professionalism itself is unsettling. Nobody’s angry. Nobody’s afraid. It’s just work.
Eventually Titus notices Viola. She’s tied to another chair several metres away, her hair fallen loose across her face, a thin line of dried blood at her temple. Their eyes meet. She’s relieved he’s awake — he can see it in the way her shoulders drop half an inch.
The first thing Titus asks is:
“Where’s Carlos?”
Viola quietly answers. “I don’t know.” Her voice is hoarse, like she hasn’t used it in a while.
Neither of them has seen him since the junction — or so Titus gathers, piecing it together from the little Viola can tell him in a whisper, the two of them talking sideways out of the corners of their mouths so it doesn’t look like talking at all.
They spend several minutes trading fragments, trying to work out where they are. Everything they can hear suggests they’re still somewhere inside Black Sun. Occasionally distant gunfire echoes through the structure, muffled by concrete and distance, followed by a beat of radio silence and then chatter picking back up like nothing happened. Small snippets tell the reader the operation is much larger than this room.
“Team Four has reached the maintenance spine.”
“Lower Junction secured.”
“Negative. Still no visual on Alpha.”
“Continue toward Objective Two.”
The objective names don’t mean anything yet. But they make the operation feel enormous — a machine running somewhere out of sight, and this room just one small gear in it.
Part II – Questions
Eventually the commander walks over. His boots are quiet on the concrete, deliberate, unhurried. He doesn’t introduce himself. He simply places a chair opposite Titus and sits down, close enough that Titus can smell the faint char of cordite still clinging to his jacket. For a moment he just watches — the same slow, cataloguing look he gives everything in the room, like a man checking inventory.
His first questions are basic: name, occupation, department, how long he’s worked here, who authorized his movement into the lower sectors. Titus answers honestly, his voice unsteady at first, then steadying as the questions stay easy. The commander writes nothing down. He just listens, turning a pen over in his fingers without ever using it — the only tell that he’s thinking at all.
Then the questions sharpen.
“What is GUARD Core?”
“I don’t know.”
“What projects are conducted below Level Three?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you met the Warden?”
“Only during facility briefings.”
“What is your security clearance?”
When Titus answers, several soldiers exchange brief glances — quick, professional, gone as fast as they appeared. His clearance is much lower than they expected.
The commander changes strategy. Instead of asking about secrets, he asks about routines — daily operations, shift changes, which departments access certain elevators, who transports supplies, which sectors receive unusual deliveries. These are questions Titus can actually answer, and something in him almost relaxes at finally having something to say. Without realizing it, he’s giving them logistical information. The commander thanks him after each answer, never sarcastically, never warmly — just the same flat professionalism, and the pen still turning.
Then his attention shifts to Viola.
“How long have you known her?”
“A few years.”
“Relationship?”
“Friends.”
“Does she know anything different from you?”
“No.”
“Would she say the same?”
“Yes.”
The commander studies Titus for several moments, long enough that the silence starts to feel like its own kind of question. The pen stops turning. Then he quietly nods to one of his soldiers.
Part III – The Test
The room falls silent — even the radios seem to quiet, though Titus later isn’t sure if that actually happened or if it’s just how he remembers it. One soldier walks behind Viola and raises his rifle.
Titus immediately begins struggling. “What are you doing?”
The commander never raises his voice. “If you’re lying—”
He lets the sentence hang.
Titus’s breathing quickens. “I’m not.”
The commander begins counting.
Five.
Titus pulls against the restraints, plastic cutting deeper into raw skin.
Four.
“I’m telling the truth!”
Three.
Viola squeezes her eyes shut but says nothing.
Two.
Titus shouts at them to stop, voice cracking on the last word.
One.
The rifle fires.
The shot echoes through the room, sharp and enormous in the enclosed concrete space. Titus cries out. For a second he can’t process anything — just the ringing, and the smell of gunpowder, and a white nothing where a thought should be.
Then — Viola is still breathing. She slowly opens her eyes. The bullet struck the concrete wall behind her. Dust drifts through the air, caught gold in the floodlights.
The commander watches Titus carefully. “You believed she was going to die.”
Titus can barely speak. His whole body is shaking, adrenaline with nowhere to go.
The commander gives a small nod. “Good.” He stands, pen finally disappearing into his pocket. “You’ve told us the truth.”
As he walks away, another soldier approaches Titus. Unlike the others, his movements are hesitant, almost apologetic. He kneels beside the chair.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
Titus stares at him. The soldier reaches up and removes his balaclava.
Frederick.
Titus freezes. “…Frederick?”
Frederick gives a tired smile — the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah.”
“What… what are you doing with them?”
Frederick begins cutting the restraints around Titus’s wrists, movements careful despite the shaking in his own hands. “It’s a long story.”
“No,” Titus snaps. “Start talking.”
Frederick glances toward the commander, checking he isn’t overheard, then leans in close enough that only Titus can hear him.
“I made a call a long time ago, Titus. I’m still paying for it.” He hesitates, like he wants to say more and stops himself. “Just — trust that I’m trying to get you out the other side of this.”
At that moment, a radio crackles nearby. “Command, this is Team Three. Objective One is secure. Minimal resistance. Proceeding to the Core route.”
The room immediately becomes busy again. Frederick stands. His expression changes completely — the friendly face disappears, the professional soldier returns, shoulders squaring like a door closing. He looks back at Titus one last time.
“I promise I’ll explain.”
“…just not yet.”