Chapter 57 – The Drums of Bastille

  The "day" started like any other in Bastille II — with the illusion of morning. Buzzing lights. No sun. Just synthetic dawn over synthetic hell.

  Grim stood in the recreation field.

  A slab of concrete dressed up as open air. Cracked. Bloodstained. Surrounded by fences like teeth.

  His body ached.

  His mind floated, untethered from the pain threading his nerves.

  The prisoners loitered, feral and bored. Waiting for an excuse.

  Then—

  A murmur.

  Low. Rising.

  Grim's gaze twitched sideways.

  Guards whispering near the fence. Not cruelty this time. Not boredom.

  Excitement.

  He should’ve ignored it.

  Didn’t.

  Boots.

  Dozens.

  Then more.

  Soldiers flooded in like roaches — riot armor, helmets, rifles. Mechanical precision.

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  The air tightened. Prisoners froze. Eyes flicked. Fists loosened.

  Even the killers felt it. The shift.

  The guards formed a wall.

  Then — the gate opened.

  And he walked in.

  Grim's heart spasmed.

  The Head Jailer.

  Massive. Smiling that not-smile. Shoulders brushing the ceiling, dragging the weight of silence behind him like a corpse.

  The air bent around him.

  Grim staggered back.

  Memories slammed through him — pliers, blades, insects. Hours uncounted. Pain unending.

  His gut clenched.

  He dropped to his knees and vomited.

  The field went silent.

  The Warden stopped.

  His smile twitched. Rage pulsed beneath the skin.

  How dare a bug retch in his presence.

  He stepped forward.

  “Prisoners,” he said, arms spread like a sermon. “Congratulations. You’ve been chosen for Bastille II’s most sacred tradition.”

  The smile stretched.

  “We call it… the Party.”

  A guard cackled. Broken glass for a voice.

  “Three tasks,” the Warden continued. “First, third, fifth days.”

  He chuckled, mock-gentle. “Participation is... mandatory.”

  Ripples of unease. Even the monsters shifted.

  Grim wiped his mouth. Stood.

  Didn’t flinch.

  The Warden noticed.

  “The festivities will begin soon,” he said. “Prepare yourselves.”

  He turned.

  Didn’t get far.

  With a flick of his wrist, the guards fired into the ceiling — thunder splitting concrete.

  Grim flinched.

  Crack.

  A rifle butt smashed into his jaw. Bone screamed. Blood bloomed.

  Grim hit the ground.

  The Warden paused at the gate. Glanced back.

  “You heal fast, Prisoner 4441.”

  A pause.

  “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

  Then darkness.

  The soldiers scattered.

  The world pretended nothing happened.

  Grim stayed on his knees, blood dripping, ears ringing.

  They didn’t wait.

  Two guards dragged him.

  Through heat. Through hate.

  To the Warden’s chamber.

  No words.

  No ceremony.

  It began.

  Rust met skin. Metal met marrow. No finesse. No pattern.

  Not torture.

  Destruction.

  He didn’t scream. His body did.

  By the time they threw him back in Cell 17, he wasn’t walking.

  Just... dropped.

  Meat.

  Vision blurred. Hands twitched. And in the dark—

  Bastille II watched.

  It smiled.

  End of Chapter 57.