To the end

03

Shackles of the Past

The dim light of the basement flickered weakly, casting long, eerie shadows across the cold stone walls. The stench of mildew and blood filled the air, a sickening reminder of the horrors that had taken place within these confines. In the far corner of the room, a figure sat slumped against the wall, shackled by heavy chains that clung to his wrists. His skin was pale and gaunt, bruised and scarred from years of torture. His body had once been strong, full of life and defiance, but now it was a fragile shell of what it used to be.

Vegas.

The sound of dripping water echoed through the room, but it was drowned out by the heavy, labored breathing of the man in chains. His clothes, tattered and stained with blood, hung loosely off his skeletal frame. His hair, once sleek and styled, was matted and filthy. His lips were cracked, and his hollow eyes stared blankly at the floor. It had been so long since he had seen the light of day that he had lost track of time. Days blended into nights, nights into weeks, and weeks into agonizing months.

He had tried to escape once—just once—but the price of that defiance had been steep. His family had been placed under the watchful eyes of assassins, and their lives hung by a thread because of his actions. Every time he had tried to resist, to fight back, he had been reminded of the blood that would be spilled if he dared to break the rules again.

A deep voice echoed in his mind, one he had grown to despise: *"You tried to escape once, and you saw what happened. Your family is at my mercy. You are at my mercy. And if you ever try again, their deaths will be by your hands."*

The thought of it was unbearable. Vegas had always been strong, always ready to fight for his freedom and his family, but here, in the depths of this prison, he was powerless. And the weight of that helplessness had consumed him, breaking his spirit bit by bit.

The chains on his wrists clinked softly as he shifted slightly, his body aching with every movement. His ribs jutted out sharply, and his skin was stretched tight over his bones. Torture had not only taken a physical toll but had also drained him of hope. The wounds on his body, both new and old, were reminders of every time he had defied them, of every time he had dared to hope for a way out.

Footsteps echoed down the stone stairs, and Vegas’s eyes flickered to the door, though his body remained limp. The figure who entered was one of his captors, a man who had overseen his torment for what felt like an eternity. The man stood over him, his face twisted in a sneer.

"Still alive, huh?" the captor taunted, nudging Vegas with his boot. "You’re a stubborn one, I’ll give you that. But look at you now—skinny, broken, pathetic. You thought you could escape, didn’t you? Thought you could outrun us. But look where that got you."

Vegas didn’t respond. He didn’t have the energy to. His mind was foggy from days of hunger and pain, his vision blurred. But deep inside, buried beneath the layers of suffering, the old Vegas was still there, burning with a desire for revenge. He would endure this, survive this, if only to one day turn the tables on his captors. But that day felt so far away, like a dream that slipped further from his grasp every time he reached for it.

The man crouched down, gripping Vegas’s chin roughly, forcing him to look up. "You still think he’s coming for you, don’t you?" The man laughed cruelly. "After all these years, you still think someone is out there, looking for you. But no one’s coming. No one even knows you’re here."

Vegas’s chest heaved with shallow breaths, but his eyes remained defiant.

The man grinned. "You really think he’s going to find you? It’s been years. He has no idea where you are. Love made you weak, and now look at you. A broken man, clinging to hope that doesn’t exist."

The captor’s words cut deeper than any blade. Vegas’s heart clenched painfully in his chest, but he refused to let the man see the effect it had on him. The man stood up, dusting off his hands as though touching Vegas had dirtied him.

"He’s lost in our game, you know," the man continued. "He’s not the same person anymore. Your precious Kim? He’s suffering from a mental health disorder now, thanks to you. The madness of love destroyed him, just like it’s destroying you."

Vegas’s eyes flickered with pain, but he clenched his fists, the chains rattling softly.

The captor smirked. "He’s in a psychological ward now, broken, lost in his own mind. And you’re here, rotting in this basement. What a tragic love story."

.Vegas sat silently, his breath shallow, the cold of the basement seeping into his bones. The man watching him leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips.

“You’re still with us, Vegas," the man taunted. "Eight years of jail and two years of being with us. Yet you still have that fire in your eyes, thinking you can escape this hell.”

Vegas glared up at him, his voice hoarse from months of silence. “I’ve survived worse.”

The man laughed, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. “You think you’ve survived? Look at yourself. Chained, broken, barely holding on. And for what? Your family doesn’t even know you exist anymore. The world has moved on without you.”

“I don’t care about your world,” Vegas spat, his voice trembling with anger. “As long as I breathe, there’s still a chance.”

The man took a step closer,his smile turning sinister. “There’s no chance for you, Vegas. Not after what you’ve done. You refused to play the game, and now you suffer the consequences. You’ve lost everything.”

Vegas clenched his fists, feeling the metal dig into his skin. “I haven’t lost him,” he growled, the image of Kim flashing in his mind.

“Kim?” the man sneered. “You think he’s waiting for you? He’s been destroyed by your absence. He’s not coming for you.”

The words hit hard, but Vegas forced himself not to falter. “He’s stronger than you think. You don’t know him like I do.”

The man stood up, shaking his head as he chuckled darkly. “You’re delusional, Vegas. You’ve been here with us for two years, and before that, you rotted away in a cell. You’ve lost a decade of your life. Do you really think anyone is waiting for you? He’s long gone.”

Vegas’s heart ached, but he kept his head high. “I’ll be with him,” he whispered. “No matter what it takes.”

The man shrugged, walking toward the door. “Believe what you want. It doesn’t change the fact that you’re still here. And you’re not leaving.” He paused before stepping out, turning slightly. “But, hey, keep dreaming. It’s the only thing you’ve got left.”

As the door slammed shut, Vegas's chest tightened. His mind swirled with the captor's words, each one cutting deeper than the last. His breathing was ragged, but he forced himself to lift his head, trembling with a mix of desperation and resolve.

Through cracked lips, he muttered, his voice hoarse and barely audible, "He’s not gone… he can’t be…"

He pulled at the chains weakly, pain shooting up his arms. His body had long since been pushed to its limits, but his heart, his mind—they refused to give in.

"I’ll come to you, Kim," Vegas whispered, voice trembling with emotion. "Even if it kills me… ."

Tears burned at the corners of his eyes, but he didn’t wipe them away. He let them fall, dripping silently onto the cold stone floor.

"I’m sorry," he choked, voice cracking. "I failed you… but I’ll make it right. I promise. Just… hold on."

Vegas curled back into himself, his voice barely a whisper as exhaustion overtook him. "Don’t forget me… Kim. Please… don’t forget me."