The Maw, Day 1, 10 years before the battle of Beacon

….

It smelled like pain in here.

Reeked, more like. The smells of misery and decay practically drenched the air, hanging heavy off his shoulders. The walls, cold, metal and undecorated, echoed with cries and screams of men condemned. His bare feet tried to get a grip on the floor, coated with blood and piss as two guards in full armor dragged him by his bound, tattooed arms down the hall towards his living death sentence, one of them gripping his matted, red hair in a leather-gloved fist.

Roman Torchwick knew where he was; this place where men were sent to live while their hope was slowly crushed to death, buried deep beneath stone and ice in the northernmost reaches of Atlas' most remote island. It was a place he had only heard of in stories, in tales told by lieutenants to inspire loyalty through fear, and that did not exist on any map in all of Remnant.

The men of the Hong Zhao gang called it Di Yu, the name for Hell in some dead language from Mistral, but every thief, thug, and hired gun that was high enough up his or her respective ladder to know of it in Vale called it The Maw.

Fitting, he surmised.

But truthfully, he had no hatred for the guards, or even this place. They would be dead in time, and no one would miss them, but as he stared ahead through bloodshot, green eyes, fists clenched until the smallest drops of blood ran underneath his fingernails, only a single face filled his memory. The visage consumed his thoughts, haunted his dreams as he had been shipped halfway across remnant with a sack over his head and a gag between his teeth to rot in this pit as that fat, faunus fuck enjoyed early retirement off of the money that he, Roman Torchwick, had bled for.

The guards threw open a pair of thick steel doors, dragging Roman through them into a starkly lit, white room. The harsh lighting forced his eyes into a squint, blurring the men that stood before him.

"Bright enough in here?" he scoffed through chapped lips as his vision came into focus.

The guards stopped before two men. On the right was the taller of the pair, wearing a velvet suit and bowler hat atop his head, black with a crimson band. No hair protruded from underneath it, and eyebrows were nowhere to be found on his otherwise pale and hairless face. Slightly behind him lurked a smaller man wearing a leather apron and goggles, expression hidden behind a dirty surgical mask.

The guards dumped Roman onto the floor without ceremony and stepped back, allowing a few seconds for the first man to step forward. From his current position on the floor Roman could only see the cuffs of slacks stopping above expensive leather shoes tipped with silver armor, clean in sharp contrast to the filthy tile against his cheeks.

"Get up," the man said, calmly. Roman felt the barrel of a gun against his chin, and summoned the drive required to push himself with bound hands off the floor to his knees.

"I don't believe we've met," Roman extended his bound wrists, looking more like a man in church, "Roman Torchw…"

The sarcasm drained from his voice, the sight before him piercing him like a needle popping a balloon. The hairless man in the blood-colored suit stared down at him; the smug grin across his face made wholly unnecessary by the twinkle in his eyes and the white, modified combat cane that he leaned on with both hands, bending the dust-infused flexible alloy nigh imperceptibly.

"Give that back!"
As if the past 48 hours hadn't even occurred, Roman surged forward, lunging for Melodic Cudgel in the man's hands. He sidestepped, delivering a metal-tipped kick to the side of Roman's jaw, and that was barely registered before the butts of rifles pounded against his ribs immediately.

"Enough," the man announced after a few seconds, "Get him in the chair and go to work, he's not our only delivery."

Roman grit his teeth as the two guards that had beat him mercilessly seconds prior hauled him up by his arms and forced him into a metal chair stained with dried blood. He struggled but to avail, his strength was all but gone. Even the small amount of aura he had been taught to summon was so weak that it wouldn't even stop a fingernail at this point.

The man in the apron knelt by the chair as the guards held Roman's arms outstretched, opening a nondescript tool box filled with a tattooist's needle and ink, a sight Roman was very familiar with. He briefly combed the considerable amount of ink already sealed into the skin of his right arm, including artistic interpretations of a Nevermore on his forearm, it's bony, bloody beak on the back of his hand, and a King Taijitu that coiled around his bicep before slithering onto his chest, eventually locating a patch of unadorned skin he deemed satisfactory.

The man in the suit maneuvered in front of the scene, studying the masterwork cane in his hands as the vibrating needle bit into Roman's flesh. Truthfully the familiar pain was a welcome distraction from his throbbing ribs as he stared unblinkingly into the face of the man defiling both his skin and his most prized possession.

"They say foot soldiers of The Black Circle crime syndicate," the man spoke, "Tattoo themselves out of loyalty."

Roman glanced at the progress on the newest, involuntary souvenir on his arm. So far, it was just a string of numbers: a zero, a six, and half of what looked like a two.

"However," he continued, "I don't think they've been very loyal to you, leaving you in my hands after you gave half your life to them. Tell me, Roman Torchwick, when did they gift you this cane? When you passed initiation? After you committed your first murder? Sold your first bag of unpurified Dust?"
"My first murder actually," Roman spat, "Funny, if I remember correctly, he was a lot like you: bald, and totally unaware of how much pain he was about to be in."

"That so?"
The man chuckled, the skin where his eyebrows should have been raised in amusement.

"Why so hostile? I wasn't even the one who stabbed you in the back. Now, your boss, Giovane, he's the one who sold you out; Gave me you, your weapon, and a briefcase full of pure, filtered Schnee Dust, all to play with."

Roman clenched his teeth as the needle traced across the ditch of his elbow. He wanted desperately to say something; something bitter, snarky, intelligent, but his tongue was dry, parched with the truth that the reason he was here, and not rolling in hundreds of thousands of lien bills, was because he had trusted that faunus slime.
Trust: that was a dirty word in Vale's underground, right up there with Police and Huntsman.

The man bent down to Roman's level.

"My name is Friedrick Russet," he said, "And yours…"

Russet brought the barrel of Melodic Cudgel to Roman's burning cheek, giving it two light taps.

"…Is zero-six, two-two, one-nine-eight-one.

The buzzing of the needle stopped as the apron-clad man put his tools back into the container, and Roman witnessed the numbers, shiny black etched into the swollen, red skin beneath the wing of his Nevermore.

"Welcome to The Maw, Zero."

The guards threw him through the door, slamming it closed against the bottom of his foot moments after he hit the floor.

"Fuck!" Roman hissed, but didn't even bother to grab his foot. This wasn't his first stint in prison; he knew he had to look as tough as possible to survive in here. The only clothing he had were the slacks he wore, and the Grimm tattoos were already just targets for whatever bloodthirsty Hong Zhao and White Fang that were imprisoned here to take aim at that identified him as Black Circle.

Ex-Black Circle dishonorably discharged, that was.

He stood, carefully, and took a look around the room described by the guards that had dragged him here as his "Home away from homes."

Well, there were some exposed, broken pipes in the corner of the cell about ten feet away, the only light came from a single vent in the ceiling, the only furniture was a single, filthy toilet and a few rough bedrolls scattered about the cold floor, and the stained metal walls certainly didn't compare to the Atlesian floral-print in his penthouse in Vale…. Which was probably being ransacked right about now.

You know what? To Hell with looking tough.

Roman threw his fist at the wall with a roar, and the metal dented under what little aura he had produced through sheer fury. That was his penthouse, his cane, and his Dust. That fucking faunus, Giovane, had given it all to him and then ripped it all away, and why? What had he done? He had been loyal to the Black Circle since he had been a fucking kid. The deal had been to split the Dust fifty-fifty, and the next thing he knew he was on a boat to hell.

The only other occupant of the room spared a glance his way, an ancient man, with a beard like sheep wool and leather skin.

"What are you looking at, grandpa? Huh?" Roman taunted, slamming the wall again with a loud, metallic bang, "You stay on your side, or I'll break your arthritic legs!"

The old man shrugged his bony shoulders, once, lightly, before looking away.

"That's what I thought," growled Roman. He stomped to the exposed pipes, on the old man's side of the cell, gripped, and tugged. There was a faint groan, but the rusted metal did not give.

"Oh, fantastic."
So, exhausted, sore, famished, and on the verge of either tears or a violent meltdown, Roman couldn't tell which, he gave up for now and slumped against his wall of the cell, dragging along a bedroll to sit on.

He had to get out. Not because this was one of the cruelest fates imaginable, not because, despite his criminal ties, he was ultimately undeserving of such a fate, but because Giovane Verde had to die.

He was a Walrus faunus, if that was even possible. Beady, black eyes complete with whiskers and tusks that protruded from sweaty, meaty jowls. At one time Roman had looked up to that face, the only man that had ever given him anything to call his own, even if it had been nothing but a scarf to wear around his arm that meant that the backpack he carried across Vale twice a day was full of narcotics, Dust, guns, or all three, because the cops never noticed kids. Not even Huntsmen noticed kids.

Eventually that scarf had become food; food became a place to stay. A place to stay had become his own ink, and his own ink had become his very own fancy cane and the training he needed to break every bone in a man's body with nothing but said cane and his bare fists.

And now he had nothing. His father had not been a good man, but he was right about one thing: You could never, ever trust a faunus.

Roman stared disdainfully at the number, still fresh, on his right arm beneath the Nevermore's wing; one day, he would look back on it and remember only the sound of Giovane's tortured screams when he climbed out of this festering wound on the face of Remnant and gave that fat faunus exactly what he deserved.

But he was weak at the moment and, perhaps most importantly, he was not yet familiar with the layout of The Maw; the hood over his head until he had already been dragged inside hadn't allowed for the best view. So he would bide his time; he would rest, recover, then observe, plan, and escape, and in so doing, become the only man to ever escape The Maw with his life.

He closed his eyes, attempting to rest while he could, but before long the door swung open and someone was tossed inside the cell, interrupting Roman's thoughts. He clenched his teeth: another cellmate? Were they all just crammed together like livestock in here? He opened his eyes, ready to stare down and intimidate his newly discovered cellmate, but the sight that greeted his weary eyes was not anything akin to what he expected.

A young girl, not any older than ten, scurried frantically along the floor, pale limbs spider-like as they protruded from a rag that had been a dress she had long since outgrown. Her long, filthy hair, a dark shade of brown, obscured her face as she huddled in the farthest corner of the cell, where she sat, unmoving.

The old man paid her no mind, but Roman could not look away.

The Maw was a place for criminals, people who needed to disappear, not small children! Why was she here? Was she tossed in here for the sick amusement of the prisoners? Because, if she was what Russet thought would satisfy Roman's baser needs, he was insulted.

What could she have she possibly done to anyone? Though her face was obscured, the number on her frail arm was long since healed; she had been in here for a long time. As he stared, wondering, the girl shifted, and as the hair fell from her face two eyes stared back, the left chocolate brown, the other a pale white.

Roman didn't break eye contact, not because he was particularly worried about looking tough in front of a child, but because he hadn't figured out what to feel; those eyes were unlike anything he had ever seen: like precious jewels in a bucket of trash. The girl blinked, once, and then both eyes were a shade of pink as they met his from across the dimly lit cell. Roman jolted, but quickly recovered.

"What are you staring at kid?" he muttered defensively.

The girl recoiled, as if struck, and her eyes blanked white before she retreated back behind her hair, pulling her scraped legs even closer to her body.

And there she stayed.

The Maw, Day 5

Two meals a day, morning and night, and that was using meal loosely. Roman scowled visibly at the discolored sludge deposited on his tray as he trudged through the cafeteria; the din of various howls and banter around him echoing off of the featureless walls. The room was large enough to seat several hundred prisoners, with rows of long tables on either side of the room. Along the periphery, masked guards watched from the shadows, most of them armed with stun batons and some with submachine guns.

Roman wondered how much the men behind those masks got paid to live on a remote, frigid island with not one bar or strip club for miles, guarding hundreds of men with violent pasts and nothing to lose.

The motley assortment of prisoners seated in the cafeteria was diverse, but most fell into a few basic categories; as Roman trudged aimlessly forward, looking for an unoccupied table seemingly in vain, he was surrounded by mostly skeletal, broken shells of men, their postures hunched and condensed and their eyes murky like windows unwashed.

Occasionally he would spot a Black Circle syndicate member, covered in Grimm tattoos like his, but in The Maw that allegiance had no meaning; most kept close to the shadows, avoiding eye contact with anyone, even himself. The men of the Hong Zhao gang however, inked from the shoulders down with a full-body tattoo unique to each man, were never alone, always walking or eating in groups of three or four. Lastly there were the Faunus, who stuck together in packs taking up entire tables. Most were White Fang, but there was a clear difference between the older ones who had once been peaceful protesters and the younger ones, covered in claw mark tattoos and usually either taunting any humans that got within earshot, or starting fights.

And then there was her: the girl. Most of the time back in the cell she barely moved, but Roman would see her in the cafeteria picking at the scraps of food that fell to the floor. Far to his left, now as he walked, he saw her underneath a table full of Hong Zhao. She darted and weaved between their feet, scraping the floor and bringing whatever she found to her mouth behind her tangled tresses. Since last night, Roman had begun to think that he was already broken, and that the mysterious child was just a hallucination caused by his shattered mind; not one other prisoner seemed to notice her or pay her any attention, not even the silent old man that also resided in his cell.

So lost in thought he was that suddenly he collided with someone walking in the opposite direction, the contents of his tray spilling all over his exposed torso.

"Dammit!" Roman stumbled backward, snarling at the sight of his nightly meal running down the Beowulf skull design on his chest, "Are you blind, punk!? Watch where y…"

The sight of the massive faunus before him derailed that train of thought; seven feet tall, at least, with White Fang lieutenant tattoos and yellow eyes barely constraining visible contempt. A pair of dog ears sprouted from a mop of greasy brown hair, and the words TOP DOG were spelled out across the corded muscles of his exposed chest in healed, knotted scars.

Well, this wasn't good.

"So," Roman began, taking a step back as the faunus continued to glower at him, "Just going out on a limb here, but your name wouldn't happen to be Top Dog, would it?"

The cafeteria, or at least the tables that had witnessed the collision, had seemingly fallen silent, quietly observing as the faunus' thin lips curled into a snarling grin. His tray, which he had been holding onto this whole time, was suddenly slammed against the nearest table occupied by a pack of White Fang, snapping the flimsy metal in two and eliciting a chorus of shouts and hollers from the table's occupants.

"I am Top Dog!" growled the colossal faunus, beating his chest as his cohorts cheered, pounding their fists on their table and jeering incoherently at Roman.

A few prisoners rose from their tables and began to surround the two, cutting off all escape. Roman glanced around, boxed in by a crowd of mostly Hong Zhao, expressionless as they prepared to judge both combatants. Through the faces surrounding him he could see the guards in the corners of the cafeteria, watching the proceedings but appearing in no hurry to leave their posts.

A flash caught his eye; it lasted no longer than a blink, but his eyes were quickly drawn to the unnamed girl, crouched between the feet of a taller White Fang, staring at Roman with eyes brown and pink.

How did she get there? She had been halfway across the cafeteria just seconds ago-

"Human!" Roman's attention was returned to the very intimidating dog faunus in front of him, "Black Circle filth! I'll skin you screaming and wear your tattoos like a coat!"

The White Fang in the crowd roared.

"Top Dog! Top Dog!" they chanted.

Roman rolled his eyes, making sure his opponent saw the gesture.

"Alright," he laughed, hoping some pre-fight banter would give him time to prepare himself for what was to come, "You gonna bark all day, little doggy? Or are you gonna bite?"

The howl that split Top Dog's lips was enough to make even the most experienced Huntsman quake, ripping through the entire cafeteria and echoing off the walls, and as he surged forward Roman knew that he would have to think on his feet.

He dodged out of the way, adrenaline pumping, delivering two well-practiced kicks to his opponents' shin and kneecap while the crowd cheered and hollered.

Only, his opponent was not the one hurt.

Roman recoiled, grasping his bare foot as his bone reverberated after bouncing off Top Dog's armor-like muscles. He barely had time to roll out of the way as Top Dog threw a fist directly into the floor he had occupied a moment ago, throwing pieces of shattered concrete in all directions.

"Shit!" Roman swore as one such piece sliced through his aura and into his bicep as it arced through the air; the standard Black Circle combat training, which relied on countering an opponent using a cane or umbrella handle, was useless here; not only was he unarmed, but he wouldn't last long enough to wear down an opponent like this through counters and defensive moves.

With a grunt, Top Dog swung his bloodied fist at Roman's face, and this time he didn't have time to dodge. The blow connected with his chin, sending him stumbling back into the White Fang members in the crowd; his aura took the blow, but that didn't mean the force throwing his neck back hadn't burned like fire. Two White Fang caught him by the arms, spinning him around roughly. One, a fox faunus missing half his teeth grinned wickedly, rabbit punching Roman's still dazed skull once before shoving him back into the fight, cackling.

Top Dog caught him as he tried to regain his balance, head ringing. With little effort, Top Dog hoisted Roman into the air by his hair and his wounded bicep, the agony forcing a cry from his lips. Somewhere, through the haze of pain, he realized he had to end this quickly; he was not dying here, after only five days in this pit at the ends of the world, at the hands of some mutt.

No, he would survive.

He opened his eyes, face to face with a wildly grinning Top Dog as he was being lifted higher into the air, and jabbed his thumb straight into one of the yellow eyes that, until that moment, believed themselves the victor; the survivor.

It was like pressing a cherry against a cutting board; there was a wet pop followed by an ear-piercing shriek. With his free hand, the hand the wasn't currently thumb-deep in the skull of a freakishly enormous White Fang lieutenant, Roman pried his hair loose from Top Dog's grip. Before he fell to the floor, he planted his foot on his opponent's chest, gripped the back of his head, and using every muscle in his starved, beaten body, swung his other leg into a sweeping high kick, right into Top Dog's corded neck.

The violence drew forth a new round of roars from the crowd, Roman landing and wiping blood from his mouth as Top Dog met the floor face-first, covering his bleeding eye socket and coughing as he attempted to scream through his pulverized throat.

It was time to finish this.

The White Fang in the crowd booed and attempted to distract Roman, but they dared not interfere with a one-on-one prison fight; even in The Maw honor was something that, apparently, was taken to the grave. Roman stalked towards his opponent as Top Dog struggled to his knees; he deserved credit for trying, but this was a real fight, in the real world, and trying just wasn't going to save him.

He threw a punch but Roman grabbed it at an angle, twisting the limb and hammering the palm of his hand against the back of the elbow and cracking the bone with a grisly snap.

He maneuvered himself behind his tortured victim, and though it was perhaps slightly narcissistic, allowed himself a few seconds to listen to the strained half-breaths and choked screams of the defeated foe that had nearly killed him.

"Good show, Top Dog," Roman sighed, wishing he had a cigar to calm his adrenaline. He supposed killing would have to do in the moment.

"But," he said, grabbing one of his opponent's canine ears, "I guess you're all out of tricks, huh boy?"

The crowd fell silent as Roman whipped Top Dog's head against the edge of the nearest table, once, twice, three times in rapid succession. The fourth time dented the table; the fifth splattered hot blood all over the trays of three Hong Zhao, and the sixth time? The Black Circle called it sending a message.

The crowd was silent as a tomb as Roman backed away, standing over his fallen foe, cracked skull jammed into the metal of the table as blood ran from the now-uncovered eye socket, pooling on the floor, drop by drop.

"Nothing like some good old-fashioned ultra-violence," Roman muttered through ragged breaths. His heart thudded in his chest, pulsing along with the ringing in his skull and the burning along his scalp where his hair had been grabbed. He almost raised a hand to his bleeding bicep, but instead minded the crowd.

He had won; and if he was to have any hope of escape from The Maw, he had to capitalize on it. The silence around him spoke more than words ever could about the respect that fear commanded in his present situation. He whirled, staring directly at the White Fang gathered at the edge of the crowd; the fox faunus who had punched him before now gazed seemingly through Top Dog's bleeding corpse, eyes hazy and unfocused while his hand rested on his opposite arm.

"You!" Roman jabbed a finger at the faunus, and suddenly hazy eyes became focused and alert.

"Yeah! You, rodent!" Roman spat, "You wanna step up? Didn't you join the White Fang to kill big, bad humans and avenge your comrades?"

The faunus shook his head subtly.

"No!?" Roman taunted, "Then say it! Say you don't want to fight me, rat! And then maybe I won't rip out what teeth you have left!"

The faunus mumbled, eyes wandering to the floor once more.

"Don't be shy now, foxy, speak up," Roman mocked, slowly raising a hand to his ear taking a step towards the cowering faunus.

"I… I c-can't…"

He started to confess, he really did, but the crowd was disrupted; the rows of prisoners behind him branching off as something pushed through their midst. At this, the fox faunus quickly retreated out of the way with his brethren, revealing around four or five guards in full riot gear, carrying gunblades and one a minigun complete with pounds of ammo strapped across his armored torso.

Roman glanced to the edges of the cafeteria, and saw the usual guards resume their normal patrol routes, seemingly not paying the commotion any mind.

The crowd has almost completely dispersed, leaving Roman alone as the guards approached, himself clearly their intended goal.

"Hey now," Roman began, "The mutt started it."

The humor was lost. Two helmeted guards grabbed both his arms and threw him into the nearest table, impacting his stomach as he cursed from the pain.

Before Roman could muster any meaningful protests a familiar suit, the color of blood, strode into view, followed by two guards aiming their gunblades at any surrounding prisoners. The other two held him down by the arms, and again he winced as a leather glove gripped his fresh wound. At this, Friedrick Russet chuckled lightly, Melodic Cudgel resting on one shoulder in plain view.

"Sorry we started without you," Roman spat, one cheek pressed against the table beneath him, "You missed a real… bash."

Russet raised his bare brows.

"It's quite alright, Zero," he said, "I watched the whole tussle from the safety of my office; some of the best bloodletting I've seen hit The Maw in years, on that I congratulate you."

Roman shrugged, at least as much as he could in the guards' unyielding grip.

"He started it, I just-"

"Killed him, yes," Russet finished, "And, that's why I came out here with your fancy cane, to tell you that, though I enjoyed your duel thoroughly from a spectator's perspective, Vytal Festival-worthy as it was, I didn't much care for the ending."

"Too bloody for you?" Roman guessed, trying with all the patience he had to sound like he gave a shit.

Russet didn't respond immediately, seeming unfazed by Roman's sarcasm. He calmly strode to Top Dog's body, poking the mutilated skull with the tip of Melodic Cudgel.

"Top Dog here," he started, "Was delivered to me by your loyal friends in The Black Circle. They dumped him on my doorstep with a few other faunus that I don't remember the names of, and then he was my responsibility; it took seven men to hold him down while he was tagged."

Roman swiveled his head around, looking any sign of aggression in any of the surrounding prisoners' faces. A new crowd had gathered, but they stayed back, none of them particularly focused on the proceedings, opting to steal glances to satisfy their morbid curiosity. Russet was slowly prodding Top Dog's head free of the table, and two of his four guards were holding Roman down with only a single hand each on their weapons. There was one guard with the minigun, but if every prisoner in the cafeteria were to join forces they would have a chance at freedom.

Unfortunately it looked as if none of them were willing to take that bet.

"In a week's time," Russet continued, "The leader of the White Fang was going to pay me a healthy sum of lien to get his top Captain's son…"

As he walked back towards Roman he swung Melodic Cudgel in a sweeping gesture over Top Dog's body.

"…Returned, safely and alive, and in doing so deliver me a few Hong Zhao officers, whom I was planning to sell back to their families, or The Black Circle, whoever offers more. Are you getting what I'm trying to say, Zero? Is it all sinking in?"

Roman fixed Russet's eyes with the most hateful glare he could.

"You sell people…" Roman said, "I never did like slave traders."

"That doesn't mean much coming from a murderer, a thief, and a traitor, does it?" Russet wagged a manicured finger inches from Roman's face, "I'm no slave trader, I'm just… a businessman, selling product to whoever will pay."

"I might be a murderer," Roman spat, "But at least I don't run a human farm."

For a brief moment, both men's eyes met in a silent duel; a crossing of swords in the space of a few seconds, fought in silence with rapiers of glass.

Russet sighed as he left Roman's field of view, throwing Melodic Cudgel back over his shoulder as he sauntered around to his feet.

"You should consider yourself lucky, Zero," he concluded, "There's always a chance that one of the however-many-people you screwed over will buy you out of here for some payback."

Roman felt the cuffs of his slacks being rolled up to his knees, and a chill crept up his spine as a few possible scenarios manifested in his imagination; none of them had happy endings.

"But I wouldn't count on it," Russet continued from behind him, "You'll die forgotten and alone in here, I'll make sure of it."

It was indescribable; he could have said it felt like daggers, or a hot iron, or his father's belt, and none would have been accurate as Melodic Cudgel was brought to bear on the backs of his exposed calves with a meaty, wet thwack.

Roman bit back his scream of agony, clenching his teeth even as a growl escaped his lips. The pain started above his Achilles tendons, burning up through his legs and feet like liquid fire. For a moment he felt the alloy of his own weapon rest against the tender bruises before striking again.

Thwack.

Escape was impossible, and all he could do was clench his still-sore jaw to keep from screaming. He tried to stare straight ahead into the crowd, but he couldn't focus on anything through the pain; all he saw were hunched shoulders and downcast faces as he felt his wounds open.

The wind whistled, and Roman braced for the blow, but only when no pain arrived did he realize it was a feint, only to be followed by a real swing, opening the wounds further upon which he felt the first trickles of hot blood down his ankles.

Far ahead, through the sea of legs, he saw the mysterious girl; her eyes, pink and white, shined like beacons through his rapidly blurring vision, torches lighting the way through the fog that threatened to consume him.

Thwack.

So it was all he could do: He clung to them, the eyes, the only things in this filth that shined, the only torches in the shadows. They shifted colors as she blinked, watching him as he watched her, and as he was tortured, finally screaming out in anguish, she watched him still.

And as the inescapable pain became a rhythm, Roman's head began to pound, and his fingertips went numb from the loss of blood, something changed in those eyes. Not the colors, but the shades, of pink, brown, white, and gray, went alight; like candlelight after years in the dark.