Roses In The Dungeon

The remnants of World War III lingered like scars on the earth’s surface. Skyscrapers stood as skeletal ruins, highways crumbled into chaotic tangles of rusted vehicles, and the air hung heavy with a smog that no wind could carry away. Cities that once gleamed with the promise of progress were now dominated by the flickering neon glow of corporate logos—blinding symbols of power in a world without direction. Democracy had become a faint memory, its champions replaced by faceless entities whose names were whispered with a mix of awe and dread: Bloud and Faust.

The corporation had risen like a messiah in the ashes, its promises of salvation wrapped in the cold efficiency of science. Crime wasn’t just an outbreak—it was the plague. Starving children picked through garbage heaps, while the elite sipped their imported wines behind electrified walls. When the prisons swelled beyond capacity and the streets threatened to collapse into anarchy, BloudBorne Rehabilitation Centers appeared as a supposed beacon of hope.

It was never hope. BloudBorne wasn’t a facility of reform; it was a machine of power. Its walls were unbreakable, its rules absolute. Zero escapes, they said. A hundred percent success rate, they boasted. But to the unfortunate souls who entered its gates, it was a death sentence in everything but name.

Over time, society was reshaped. By 2050, humanity found itself starting to get back on its feet, though it was a shadow of its former self. In 2020, the world had stood at the peak of technological advancement, interconnected through high-speed internet and global infrastructure. But those days had vanished in the chaos of World War III, leaving only fragments of memory for the elders who once thrived in that golden age. Now, life was simpler—and harsher.

This fragile resurgence was attributed largely to Bloud and Faust, the pharmaceutical titan that had become more than just a corporation. Their emblem was stamped on medical supplies, broadcast networks, and even the rations distributed to impoverished districts. Every advertisement, every public announcement, drilled the same narrative into the collective psyche: “A better world, thanks to Bloud and Faust.” Propaganda flooded the streets, urging citizens to report any criminal activity for the sake of societal peace.

And in some places, it worked. Crime rates plummeted in certain cities, some claiming reductions as low as six percent—an unthinkable improvement from the dark years when crime had surged by as much as 89 to 100 percent. There were cities where one in three people would fall victim to criminal assault, where even the police feared to tread. Yet now, whispers spread of neighborhoods with no crime at all, where citizens lived in an almost unnatural calm.

But peace built on control and surveillance is never as stable as it seems. Beneath the surface of this apparent harmony, resentment brewed like a storm. And in 2052, that storm would break.

It was called the Night of Blood. Those who survived—and there was only one—remembered it as a night when Moonlight, the small town perched on the edge of nowhere, screamed itself raw. The silence afterward was heavier than the blood soaking the wooden floors of the Veynar home.

Kael Veynar, just eightteen at the time, had woken to find himself drenched in blood. It wasn’t his own. His mother’s screams still echoed in his ears, cutting off into a silence more deafening than the sound itself. His father’s body lay lifeless on the floor, torn apart. His friends, the ones who had come to celebrate his sister’s thirteenth birthday, were scattered like broken toys, their eyes wide with horror. His sister—she was gone. The last thing Kael remembered was the shadow-like creature, its red eyes glinting in the moonlight, drinking his blood like it was savoring the taste, and then taking her. The sound of its wings—beating, powerful, otherworldly—was the last thing he heard before everything went black.

The nightmare wasn’t just a memory. It became his life.

Kael pleaded his innocence to anyone who would listen. He told them of the creature, of its unnatural speed, its bloodlust, its fixation on his sister. But no one believed him. The evidence was stacked against him, and the town, reeling from the deaths of ten children and his family, needed a villain. The media christened him the “Tsukiakari Butcher,” the butcher of Moonlight.

The trial was a spectacle. Grieving parents demanded the death penalty, their cries echoing in the courtroom. Kael could only sit, numb and empty, as they called him a monster, a devil worshiper, a murderer. He begged the judge to believe him, screamed that he was innocent. But the verdict was already decided.

Life in prison. That was the initial sentence. But Kael’s public defender, a weary man who seemed to want the case over as much as the town wanted Kael gone, struck a deal with the judge. Instead of execution or a life sentence, Kael would serve ten years at BloudBorne Rehabilitation Center. The center’s reputation for zero escapes and total “reformation” was enough to sway the court.

The parents were enraged. They shouted their disapproval as the judge’s gavel slammed. One father leapt the barricade, his face twisted with grief and rage, screaming at Kael, “She was only eleven! You monster!” Before Kael could react, the man’s fists found his face, and the courtroom descended into chaos.

Kael didn’t fight back. He didn’t scream anymore. He just sat there, hollow, as the officers dragged the man away and the court moved on.

He was innocent. He knew it. But that didn’t matter. The world had already decided who Kael Veynar was: the boy who butchered his family and ten others in a single night.

BloudBorne awaited him—a place with walls thicker than the lies that had sealed his fate. Kael didn’t know if he would survive ten years there, but as he sat shackled in the transport van, dread seeped into his bones like the cold metal of his cuffs. The ride was endless, spanning four grueling days.

The van stopped every ten hours, pulling into desolate rest stops where the drivers switched shifts. At each stop, the passengers were given their rations—a bag containing two six-ounce bottles of water, two sandwiches, and two bags of chips. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep them alive for the duration of the trip. The guards fed them through a small square hatch in the cage that separated the aisle from the passengers. Each person was chained to their seat, the restraints cutting into wrists and ankles, ensuring no one so much as shifted too much.

The journey started with three passengers. By the end of the first day, there were five. By the fourth day, the bus carried ten. Each new addition brought a heavier silence, except for the occasional groans or soft mutterings that the guards immediately silenced with the crack of batons. Two men learned that the hard way when they dared to exchange words. The guards dragged them into the aisle, their bodies limp and bloody by the time they were tossed back into their seats. Their untouched bags of food were thrown to the remaining prisoners, but there was a catch: only the one who could make the guards laugh loudest got to keep it.

Kael didn’t play their game. He kept his head down, focusing on the cracked vinyl floor beneath his feet, counting the hours until the nightmare would evolve into something worse.

When the van finally slowed and the scenery outside morphed into a sprawling complex of cold, gray walls, Kael’s stomach twisted. The facility loomed like a monolith of despair, its high, electrified fences stretching endlessly in either direction. Guard towers dotted the perimeter, their spotlights sweeping the barren grounds like watchful eyes. Razor wire glinted menacingly under a sky that seemed perpetually clouded, as if the sun refused to shine on this place.

BloudBorne Rehabilitation Center.

The name was stenciled in black letters on the reinforced gates, understated and clinical, as though the building wasn’t a prison but a place where people went to get better. The reality couldn’t be further from the truth.

Guards stood in rows outside, their black uniforms stark against the gray walls. Their batons hung at their sides, but Kael knew they wouldn’t hesitate to use them. Their expressions were cold, indifferent, as though the prisoners were no more human than the bus itself.

The co-ed aspect of the prison was clear, but the groups were kept meticulously apart, the lines of separation enforced by fences and watchful eyes. Even now, the groups watched each other as much as they watched the bus. It wasn’t just survival of the fittest here—it was survival of the smartest. Alliances and enemies were made with a glance, and Kael felt the weight of those unspoken judgments pressing down on him as the doors to the van creaked open.

The guard nearest to the entrance barked orders, his voice sharp enough to make Kael flinch. “Off your ass and On your feet! Move, now!”

Kael’s legs felt like lead as he shuffled forward, his chains rattling with every step. He didn’t dare look at the others, not in the van and certainly not outside. The last thing he wanted was to make a connection. In this place, connections could get you killed.

The air was thick with dread, the kind that settled deep into the lungs and stayed there, choking out any hope of escape. BloudBorne Rehabilitation Center wasn’t just a prison. It was a graveyard for the living, a place where time didn’t pass—it stood still, trapping its victims in an endless loop of fear and despair.

Kael had thought he’d known what hopelessness felt like. He was wrong.

Kael didn’t have time to linger on his surroundings before they were brought to a halt. A door ahead of them hissed open, and the temperature seemed to drop several degrees. The woman who stepped through the doorway moved with an air of control so absolute it felt like the ground beneath her had bent to her will.

She was tall—unfairly so, her presence amplified by sharp heels that clicked against the floor like the ticking of a clock. Her body was a masterpiece of precision, lean but strong, as if every muscle had been sculpted with purpose. She wore a fitted black uniform that hugged her frame in a way that demanded attention, its sleek fabric catching the cold fluorescent light and reflecting it in muted waves.

Her face was a study in contrasts, her features sharp but undeniably feminine. High cheekbones framed a pair of piercing gray eyes that seemed to cut through each prisoner in turn, stripping them bare with a glance. Her lips, painted a shade too dark to be called red, curled into a smile that was equal parts seduction and menace. She didn’t just look at people; she consumed them, as if weighing their worth against the vast ledger of her own ambitions.

Her hair was an anomaly, a cascade of dark waves that spilled over her shoulders, polished and gleaming like silk. It softened her edges just enough to be disarming, a calculated weapon in her arsenal. But it was the way she carried herself that truly dominated the room. She moved like a predator—deliberate, unhurried, every step a declaration of her authority. The air seemed to shift around her, thickening with the weight of her presence.

When she spoke, her voice was smooth and low, like honey laced with venom. “Welcome to BloudBorne Rehabilitation Center,” she said, her tone making it clear that welcome was the last thing they’d find here. “I am Warden Alyss Drayven. You may address me as Warden Drayven—or not at all. In this facility, there are no second chances. Step out of line, and you will be corrected. Disobey, and you will regret it.”

She paused, her eyes scanning the line of prisoners with clinical detachment. “You are not here to be punished. You are here to be reborn. Bloud and Faust have generously given you the opportunity to become something better. But know this,” she leaned forward slightly, her gaze narrowing, “failure here is not an option. And for those who test me...well, let’s just say you won’t be missed.”

Behind her, the guards shifted, their smirks suggesting they knew exactly what failure meant in this place. The prisoners remained silent, the weight of her words sinking in like stones. Kael kept his head down, but he could feel her gaze linger on him for a fraction of a second longer than the others. It wasn’t curiosity or pity. It was calculation, the cold, mechanical assessment of someone measuring his potential as either an asset—or a liability.

She finally came to a stop and turned on her heel, clasping her hands behind her back. The silence stretched, her presence demanding attention without words. Then, with a faint smirk, she asked, “Any questions?”

The line of prisoners remained deathly still. Most avoided her gaze entirely, staring at the ground as if willing themselves to disappear. Kael risked a glance, curiosity sparking beneath his dread, but quickly lowered his eyes when her sharp gaze swept in his direction.

Then, from the middle of the line, a gruff voice broke the silence. “Yeah, I got two.”

The words hung in the air like a slap, the audacity of them drawing startled looks from the others. The man who had spoken was in his late fifties, balding, with stained teeth and the sagging, bloated face of a lifelong drunk. He grinned, revealing gaps in his uneven smile, and continued, “Do the carpet match the drapes, and how big are your tits?”

The air seemed to freeze. Several prisoners gasped audibly, their heads snapping toward him in disbelief. Even Kael couldn’t help but glance up, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. The guards exchanged looks, their expressions ranging from amused to predatory. A faint, sadistic smile played across the warden’s lips as she turned to face the man.

She tilted her head, her voice as smooth as silk. “No, it’s scorched earth. And a thirty-eight double D.”

The man’s grin faltered, his expression shifting to one of confusion. He hadn’t expected her to answer. Around them, the guards chuckled darkly, their amusement laced with malice. Before the man could form a response, Drayven’s smile widened, and her tone sharpened like the edge of a blade. “Now, here’s my question for you. Hearing or speech?”

The man blinked, his drunken bravado melting into bewilderment. “What?” he stammered.

Drayven’s eyes gleamed coldly as two guards stepped forward, circling the man like wolves around wounded prey. “I gave you what you asked for,” she said, her voice calm, almost conversational. “Now you’ll give me what I ask. I want your hearing or your tongue. My question is which you’re willing to lose.”

The man’s mouth opened and closed as if searching for words, but no sound came. One of the guards, a young woman with a cruel smile, leaned in and added mockingly, “Be nice. At least she’s not going to glue it shut.”

The drunkard’s fear turned to anger. He spat, “Screw you!”

Drayven didn’t flinch. She simply snapped her fingers. “Tongue it is.”

The guards descended on the man without hesitation. His protests turned into screams as they dragged him away, his cries echoing through the facility until they abruptly stopped. The warden didn’t spare him a second glance. She turned back to the line, her smile returning as though nothing had happened.

“Now,” she said, her voice light, almost cheerful, “if there are no more questions, once again, welcome to BloudBorne. Let’s get your physicals done.”

The line moved forward, but Kael hesitated for a fraction of a second, his gaze lingering on her. She caught his look and held it for just a moment too long, her smile never wavering. Kael quickly looked away, his stomach knotting as he shuffled forward with the others.