Prologue
A swaying light bulb intensified the pain he already knew all too well. Roger assumed he could handle the physical pain of torture, but quickly realized he could not. The chains on the wall drained him of his energy and the electricity was too much for him. Brown hair tangled and forehead glistening with sweat, the salt fell into his light green eyes, making him flinch.
The constant fog, rain, and overall gloomy atmosphere turned hope into nothingness, disappearing like desert rain in the afternoon. It engulfed everyone who walked—or was dragged—into the hellhole, screaming and clawing like wolves at their minds and hearts. The room he was in smelled like mildew and the paint was peeling off the cement walls. Flickering light bulbs, the sound of doors creaking and the light sounds of rats scampering into corners made him envy the rodents for getting to escape.
“What have they done to you?” asked Roger as he gave one last tug on the chains.
“I...I... It’s hard to explain,” replied a delicate, exhausted girl who pressed herself against the wall next to him. Sunset-red hair was in a tangled ponytail, with strands falling out. She couldn’t have been older than nine.
He tried not to stare at her arms, but could not look away. They were disfigured and that scared him more than the screams. Her pale, limp arms were twisted like rubber, making him understand fully what this place truly was capable of. He saw the malnourished girl yanked away by a bald guard. She looked no one in the eye. Shame seemed to dictate all her movements. For a brief moment, he saw that fragile expression. He understood the face of suffering, of being so hopelessly alone and scared that one couldn’t think of anything else.
“I am sorry,” he said, grinding his teeth together, waiting for another shock. None of this was his fault, but offering his apologies was all he could think to do.
“15798!” yelled one of the thousands of troops tasked with making sure no one left the Place. The girl retreated somewhere deep into her mind. The prisoners had become architects of their worlds, hidden deep within themselves, allowing them to escape the relentless beatings that had filled their lives.
“Stop!” Roger yelled as the girl was dragged out.
A young woman stood idly by, watching, waiting, claiming she was there to help. She had red lips like the blood that was often spilled on the floor that her heels now clanked against.
“Hello, Roger,” the red-lipped woman said as she smiled coldly.
“Rose... you have to stop this!” he whispered, gasping for air.
“I want peace, even if it is at the price of war—or your life,” the woman replied, “Roger Western, by order of the Corporation of Peaceful Help and Safe Earth Bureau, I order your death. Any last words?” She tilted her head so her sandy blonde hair fell to her shoulders.
Roger’s eyes widened. This woman he thought he could trust had turned out to be someone he should have never even given a sideways glance. He should have known better. “I am sorry... for everything I’ve done wrong...” he said, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Well, maybe history will paint you the martyr.” Without hesitation, she raised a pistol. Being used so often, it was coated in blood, having been used so much that no one bothered to clean it, fired multiple times, resulting in far too many deaths. After watching Roger’s last breath escape his lips, Rose told a very tall man named Gomez to dispose of the body and hunt down the rest of those rebels. She then kicked Roger’s lifeless body, as if to ensure he was dead, and strode off. The room filled with the stench of death, a smell no one could ignore, but had gotten used to over the years. Roger’s final words echoed in Rose’s ears:
“We will bring you bastards to your knees”
