Hell did not begin with screams.

  It began with routine.

  Samye and Aren were separated the morning after their arrival—not violently, not dramatically, but with the same cold efficiency used on everyone else. Names were not spoken. Numbers were called.

  Samye was assigned to the weapons manufacturing unit.

  Aren was sent to the fields.

  Different jobs.

  Different suffering.

  Their dormitories, however, were close enough that they could still see each other—sometimes through narrow gaps between shifts, sometimes from a distance when guards weren’t watching too closely.

  That alone kept them standing.

  Every morning, the gates opened.

  Chains rattled. Boots struck concrete. Orders were shouted—not loudly, just firmly enough to remind everyone who owned their bodies.

  Samye was marched into the factory.

  Inside, machines roared endlessly. Metal screamed against metal. The air was thick with oil and smoke. Rows of prisoners assembled weapons with mechanical precision—hands moving without thought, eyes locked downward.

  There was no talking.

  Mistakes were punished immediately.

  A misaligned part earned a blow.

  A dropped component earned starvation.

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  A delayed movement earned worse.

  Samye assembled guns until his fingers bled, until the weight of metal felt lighter than his own arms. He learned to work through pain because pain slowed him down—and slowing down meant punishment.

  He had never imagined a place like this could exist.

  Yet here it was.

  Real.

  Functioning.

  Profitable.

  Aren’s days were spent under the open sky.

  The fields stretched wide, but freedom did not exist there. Guards watched constantly, walking among the prisoners with weapons ready, eyes sharp for any sign of hesitation.

  The work was brutal.

  Dig. Plant. Harvest. Repeat.

  Anyone who slowed was beaten. Anyone who spoke was humiliated. Anyone who collapsed was dragged away.

  At first, Aren flinched at every strike.

  Then he noticed something worse.

  No one screamed anymore.

  The prisoners endured beatings in silence. Their faces didn’t change. Their bodies reacted, but their voices didn’t follow.

  Pain had become ordinary.

  Aren learned quickly.

  If he resisted, guards noticed.

  If guards noticed, Samye might suffer too.

  So Aren stayed quiet.

  He worked like everyone else.

  Like an animal trained to obey.

  Sometimes, when shifts ended, Samye and Aren caught glimpses of each other.

  A shared look.

  A nod.

  Nothing more.

  They didn’t always speak.

  They didn’t need to.

  Just seeing the other still standing—still breathing—was enough to calm the storm inside them.

  It reminded them they were not alone.

  Night was worse.

  When the dormitory lights dimmed, the screaming began.

  Not from their room.

  From behind the walls.

  The torture chambers were close—deliberately so. Every cry carried clearly, sharp enough to cut through exhaustion.

  Samye lay awake, staring at the ceiling, sweat cold against his skin.

  He heard names being called.

  He heard begging.

  He heard voices break.

  Sometimes he could hear exactly what they were saying.

  “Please…”

  “I’ll work harder…”

  “I didn’t do anything…”

  The screams lasted minutes.

  Sometimes hours.

  Then silence.

  Aren shifted restlessly beside him, gripping the thin blanket like it could protect him. Samye wanted to speak—to promise something, anything—but words felt useless here.

  So he stayed awake.

  Listening.

  Counting.

  Learning how long a human voice could last before breaking.

  Days blurred together.

  Work. Hunger. Silence. Screams.

  This place didn’t crush hope all at once.

  It wore it down slowly.

  Methodically.

  Until survival itself felt like rebellion.

  And in this hell—where even pain had become routine—

  Samye and Aren endured.

  Not because they believed they would escape.

  But because as long as they could still see each other—

  They hadn’t been erased yet.