Escape from the Hunters

The air in the barracks was thick with the stench of stale sweat and desperation. It was a smell I was rapidly becoming accustomed to. My new home, if you could call it that, was a cavernous, dimly lit space carved from the very rock we were meant to protect. Rows of crude bunks lined the walls, each occupied by a figure lost in the uneasy slumber of the perpetually vigilant. I lay on my back, the rough wool blanket scratching at my skin, the phantom weight of the gloves heavy on my hands. Fashionable choices, I’d called them. A lie that felt thinner than the parchment of an old map.

The Commander’s words, delivered with the chilling precision of a surgeon’s scalpel, still echoed in my mind. "You have potential, boy. We see it. You'll be useful. Whether you like it or not." He hadn’t bothered with pleasantries, just the cold, hard truth of their recruitment. They didn't ask; they took. And I, with my strange, powerful gloves and my even stranger ability to survive, was too valuable to let slip through their grimy fingers.

Beside me, Niku shifted, a low rumble escaping his chest. Even in sleep, he was a mountain of a man, his massive frame a stark contrast to the gaunt, weary faces that populated this place. He was here because of me, or rather, because of my predicament. When the Commander’s goons had dragged me away, Niku, bless his loyal, meat-headed heart, had followed. He’d seen the fear in my eyes, the forced compliance. He hadn’t understood, not really, but he’d trusted me. And that trust had landed him in the same gilded cage.