The dungeon or jail was a lifeless, haunting space.
Cold air seeped out of moss-covered pipes, and the flickering fluorescent lights, caged in rust, cast an eerie pale glow.
Tap-Tap-Tap!
And somewhere in the darkness, water dripped steadily, echoing off the damp walls.
THUD!
A body slumped against the far wall—unconscious, A shallow rise and fall of the chest proved that.
Kismet crouched beside him, shaking blood off his gloves.
"Still alive," he muttered.
His voice wasn't loud, but it had weight—low, sharp.
"We handled the southern guards," one whispered. A girl—barely eighteen, sharp cheekbones, burn scars coiled down her left arm. "Didn't kill. Just... broke their heads a little."
Kismet raised an eyebrow. "So... they might die?"
"No," she said flatly.
He smirked. "Fine. That works."
They weren't friends. Just the kind of people fate scrapes together at the bottom of the barrel.
