The door opens into a wide cylindrical chamber. The floor slopes downward toward the centre like a shallow bowl. There, a circular railing rings a central pit, an ornate but rust-choked barrier bolted unevenly into the stone. Beneath it, a grated platform dips lower, barely concealing a drainage shaft that funnels into the levels below.

  The darkness yawns beneath the grate, swallowing stone and sound alike where water churns unseen, sloshing through hollow halls and broken corridors. What little light filters down reveals algae slicking the stone, clinging to half-drowned arches and sunken thresholds. The walls are slick with humidity, sweating. The heat comes from deeper — pungent with sulphur and rot.

  Above is little of note bar aged stone, the odd vent, and a rectangular window peppered with bullet holes overlooking the room — the first seal has broken beneath the weight of a projectile that long ago scorched the walls and high ceiling with soot. It’s aged, and yet they can still smell the smoke. The burn. From this height, the tips of shelves can be seen, bookcases scantily dressed alongside posters and papers stuck to the walls, and a dimly lit sconce glimmering faintly with flame.

  Hesitantly, the crew enter, and Roach fastens the door behind them. The singing grows fainter — just barely. Along the curved perimeter of the room, six heavy iron doors punctuate the wall, five of which are branded in smeared runic blood, gouged first with steel talons and then crudely painted over—again and again. It’s dry now. Old and caked on. Awaiting the next coat.

  The shipment itself is stacked by the leftmost door, heaped into piles — crates marked with the Swill brand burned deep into the wood. Their surfaces glisten with a viscous sheen; the blood toll for their theft, presumably.

  It’s right there. Everything that has been stolen is. All the precious loot, but nobody moves. The crates are quickly forgotten.

  For chained to the far side of the railing — half in shadow, half in steam — hang five beings. Small. Frail. Suspended like trapped birds awaiting the knife.

  Ricket gasps, tugging at Rivin’s sleeve, “Riv—”

  “I see them, Ricket.”

  They drift closer. A second stench growing overwhelming — antiseptic choked with something else. Minerals. Something sweet.

  Five children are strung up against the wall. He feels something tear inside him. Their ankles and wrists are bloody and flayed against rusted chains. Their heads hang low against their collarbones, scalps shaved clean in places and marred with peculiar cuts – each matching a door – chests rising and falling with rapid breath.

  Much of their bodies are wrapped in browning gauze, the sterile stench emitting powerfully from the wrappings. They’re completely clean. Skin pink and shiny in sections. Burned, or boiled, they do not know. The whites of their eyes are visible, but no pupils. No consciousness.

  Roach scuttles ahead with sure feet, an urgency in her steps that Rivin doesn’t recognise. Strangely enough, she does not go towards the hoisted children, instead nosing through canisters and crates, scowl deepening as she proceeds. She won't meet his eye, but surely she can feel his stare.

  He knew it. The brat had her own plan. What part do we play in this?

  Rivin spits a curse, swiftly moving after her as the others follow suit. His gut feels upended. Overturned. He tries to keep their last supper down.

  “Chip, Ket—get them down. Slink, help me find that fucking ledger. Roach—”She isn’t there. One door hangs open.

  The boy scoffs, gritting his teeth. He sets about searching the crates, aware of the fact that his talents don’t lie in lockpicking or rescue. He tries not to look, but he can smell the blood. The corrupted sterility. Something bitter sticking to the back of his throat.

  His hands tip over lids and pull open satchels. He sees gutted weapons and scrap metal, sometimes torn papers, but no ledger.

  “What’s your plan, Riv?” Slink asks over cases, his voice failing to hide the new concern lacing his words.

  “We get the ledger.”

  “What about the gear?”

  “You want that on your conscience?” Steel eyes glance up. “That’s a lot of tiny graves. Even for you.”

  Slink looks away. Lips pursed tight.

  From their side, Chip speaks up, voice string-thin. “Oh God… They're… They're all cut up.”

  “These locks are complicated, Riv.” Ricket adds. He’s shaking. Teeth chattering before he clenches them still.

  Rivin curses, “Fuck.” He’s going as quick as he can, but it’s so hard to think with the song droning in the darkness. The anxiety in his gut. The trench in his chest. Desperate, he looks up. “Roach! Help—”

  She’s still nowhere in sight. His plea dies on his tongue.

  Then, the sounds start—grinding metal, like misshapen cogs shifting into place. And the chanting. Unison now. A single song that vibrates bones in a language Rivin doesn't know but only feels. The heat begins to spike, and the vents overhead start spewing an acrid steam. Minerals again. Disinfectant. Strong.

  “What the fuck is that?” Slink gasps.

  There are so many things he could be asking about.

  “No time. Find us a second exit. I’ll keep looking.”

  “Where's Roach?”

  “Never mind her!”

  There's no time for argument or opinion. Only action. Only Rivin is sifting urgently through the crates as Slink sets about checking the room.

  Finally, a leather-bound journal wrapped in black cloth. The eldest fingers through it, spots rows and rows of Swill jargon, clientele listings and details — this is it. He sighs his relief and stuffs it into his pack.

  “Riv, we're going to need to carry these kids. They’re out of it.” Chip is snapping his fingers in front of one of their faces. The child doesn’t so much as twitch, and while one hand is free, it hangs limply by her side.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Slink reappears, breathless and flushed in the face. “One leads up; that bug girl is causing a stink up there. Get her in line, will you? The other doors are bolted; we’re gonna have to go the same way we came in.”

  “Why are they singing?” Chip has one hand over his ear, the other fiddling uselessly where chain meets flesh. “Fuck, I can’t concentrate with them singing!”

  “Where is Roach?!”

  “Slink, help them with the chains. I’ll get her.” Rivin can hear his heartbeat in his temples. With the book pocketed, he launches towards the only door she could have taken — as Slink said, it leads upwards through a flight of stairs. He races up them, leading to a warden's chamber, the window overlooking the room below. The heat is almost unbearable now.

  Inside, Roach is frantic. Filing cabinets lie upended, drawers pulled completely free. A desk too is overturned, scattering papers and letters across the tiled floor. A caged bird had already been freed but hasn’t left its roost—it’s missing most of its feathers, and its beady eyes are glazed over and white. When he enters, it flinches away, ducking beneath one fleshy wing; on the back of its neck is a symbol—branded in with hot iron. An eye.

  The girl herself is busy shedding a bookshelf of its books, tossing them with increasing frustration behind her.

  Rivin calls to her. “Roach—”

  “Good! You’re here. “Help me with this, would you?”

  “With wh—? There isn’t time. We need you.” He’s still holding the door open, brows crested at the centre.

  “Then buy me time.” She’s peeking behind the shelf now—her eyes seem to brighten. “Help me move this.”

  “They've got kids chained up.”

  She doesn’t look at him when she speaks. “You’ve got your ledger; now let me get mine, okay? No fuss. They weren’t a part of this.”

  It’s like she’s telling him the weather — if that mattered down here. Something sinks in his gut. Rivin bites back the bile rising hot in his throat to say:

  “What even is it?”

  “Don’t worry about it’ just help me!”

  He does, stepping in to pull aside the large wooden frame. To his surprise, a shape begins to reveal itself against the wall — thick steel, far newer and cleaner than the rest of the temple. A Safe. Roach badly bites back a squeal of excitement when suddenly:

  “They're coming!” Chip cries from the tunnels.

  She doesn't flinch; in fact, she’s already on her knees, her fingers steady and wicked as they assess a powerful lock. Rivin turns to look through the window. Below, two of the children have been freed.

  “Roach, we need to go!” He reaches towards her, fingers brushing her shoulder, shocked when the small girl snaps sharp eyes towards him—hot with a veiled frustration that’s almost scalding.

  “You don't understand—” she starts.

  “I understand ‘we need to get the fuck out’ well enough!” He interrupts, voice rising. “The deal was we get the ledger.” He watches then as her face changes, the glimmer in her eyes fading away to something flat and distasteful.

  When she answers, she lowers her voice, like she’s speaking to a child, something she must detain or pacify. “This is important.”

  Rivin doesn’t bite. The music is building. The churn is blurring out everything else. Sweat beads down his brow. “More important than them?”

  Someone calls from below, “Rivin, you’re cutting it close!” He doesn’t look away, only raises a brow, and matches her blank stare until they’re simply two reflections of snide nonchalance.

  He tilts his head. “Roach?” and gestures down the staircase, where he can hear the echoes of their companions and the deep thud of something cracking against steel. There isn’t much time left, yet Roach hesitates — he’s frightened that she might just nod.

  Might say: yes, it is more important.

  “WE NEED HELP DOWN HERE!”

  “Roach!” Stormy grey eyes regard the crouched girl, fingers clenched tight into fists.

  “Riv, I… You don’t get it. These designs… it could fix what I… what he… it-it doesn’t matter… Look, this is important! Really important.” She looks small, but he can see the decision reach a verdict in her eyes, in the way she begins to turn her body away from him again.

  He panics, spurred by the violent swell in his chest. “What if you'd left me?”

  He doesn't know why he expects it to matter.

  But it must, for she freezes, hands hovering above the lock. She doesn’t look at him. She doesn’t breathe. For a beat he thinks she’s already chosen. The lock. The loot. Not him.

  “I heard you talking to Ricket.” He’s gritting his teeth. Forcing the words out. “We’re the future, right?”

  He doesn’t believe a word he’s saying. A word she said. But he’d listened, and he’d held it, and here it was now. Wielded. Once more a weapon in faith.

  Time lingers, as though frozen to allow them this painful second to hold, before an explosion lights up the room and Rivin gasps, turns to face it, and flexes his hands to shield his eyes. He's already moving towards the doorway again, but he spares the girl one last glance.

  Roach curses, eyes simmering with hot regret. “You play dirty, Ghost.”

  He feels himself relax — his heart uncoiling as his shoulders sag with relief. Together, they bolt into the darkness. “I want that open, ya hear?” she snaps as they round the corner.

  “You'll get your fucking loot, brat.”

  They enter into chaos—Slink has collapsed the exit but is struggling mightily against one of the bolted doors—scarred hands with sharp fingernails reach through the space before he clicks it closed over knuckles, eliciting a high-pitched scream before the fingers dart out of sight. “Took you long enough!” Slink scowls, swiftly hooking a bar into the door to keep it closed — yet it bends with each lurching push behind it. “Got spotted. We need another exit.”

  Rivin curses, trying to remember the map and its many rooms. “Guys! We need you!” Ricket calls, shaking shackles for emphasis. Roach glances towards the window — the office, the safe. Rivin watches her. She huffs when she darts towards the others, her shoulders squared. He follows quickly after.

  “Slink—find us another way out; forget being quiet.”

  “Roger.”

  The room is now boiling.

  Roach scrambles up a crate nearest the wall to reach the highest shackles. She's still got her pick in her hand, and she works it quickly into the chain lock. Chip supports the children as they lower them down. Ricket is trying to coax them up, but three sets of eyes all roll backwards. “We'll have to carry them.”

  “What about the weapons?”

  Rivin glances at the abandoned gear, the crates filled with their haul and then back to the small children. “We can't do both. Get them out of here.”

  “Riv, my safe—”

  “Roach…” he warns.

  She stands up suddenly, stiff with rage. The children are freed, and yet she stands over them, fists clenched by her side. “You said—”

  “We can only take what we can carry.” He’s already lifting one of them into his arms. The child flinches at his touch — not away — but reflexively towards, like a dying plant turning towards light. She’s damp with sweat and yet cold to the touch.

  Roach guffaws, furious. Shaking her head in disbelief. “I'm not leaving without it, Rivin.” He doesn't expect the darkness in her voice, the electric anger in her eyes — something else is there too. Urgency? Fear? He doesn't know her well enough to say with certainty.

  Chip is already scooping up two unconscious bodies within his arms, hauling them out of the stinking heat. An explosion shakes the walls, but Roach is still glaring at him, unflinching.

  “Roach, we need your help,” Ricket tries gently, softly touching her hand.

  She snatches it away. “You're either going to buy me the time to crack it or carry it.” Her tone is lethal. Low. Rivin recoils, shocked, features twisting with a sudden burst of defiant anger.

  “It’s huge! There’s no way we’re moving it.”

  “You'd really just leave them to die…?” Ricket sounds small — he's looking at her like he doesn't recognise her.

  Her head snaps towards him. Her face was hot with conflict. Copper eyes glance at the whimpering and remaining few children at their feet, chests barely rising with each slow, weak breath. “This one’s a goner,” she says, cold.

  “You don't know that.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “So that’s it then?” Rivin’s heart hurts. His knuckles are bone white.

  “You choose the loot?” The anger bubbles up and into each syllable, but he sounds curt. Cold. She glances away, flexing her hands. “What's so important—?”

  Another explosion sends them all reeling for support. Slink laughs maniacally in the distance, but debris and dust begin to plume into the air, with cracks forming beneath their feet.

  “Time’s up.” Slink shouts from one of the blown-open doors — his handiwork judging by the splash of neon pink. The bolt is busted, and he quickly pulls the door open. “That’s my last one! Get a move on!”

  Roach is already darting back up the stairs — Rivin hates her in that moment. Hates that she chose wrong. Hates that she didn't choose them. Him.

  He narrows his eyes. “You’re on your own, Queen of Rot.”

  The girl almost pauses, almost hesitates, but in the end, she doesn’t stop.