Two elite guards escorted Ampelius out of the arena and down a connected corridor. Their footsteps echoed sharply against the polished floor, a change from the muted crunch of the sand moments earlier. Before reaching their destination, they stopped at a security checkpoint where a silent technician awaited with gloved hands and a scanning device.

  Without a word, Ampelius was checked for weapons or concealed tools, though he had none. His body bore only the evidence of recent combat: bruises, shallow cuts, and plenty of dried blood. Once cleared, the technician motioned them forward.

  They entered a new hallway lined with evenly spaced doors, each one marked with a small metal number. It reminded him of a hotel, except these doors were reinforced and bolted from the outside. Prison rooms, not guest suites.

  They didn’t walk far before stopping at Room 5. One guard unlocked the door while the other stepped aside. Without speaking, they gestured for him to enter. Ampelius obeyed without resistance.

  Inside, the room was surprisingly clean. A stripped-down version of comfort—someone’s idea of civility, but without the warmth. A soft bed sat in the far corner beside a wide observation window, through which he could see the empty arena floor.

  Opposite the bed stood a narrow metal desk with a chair and a few drawers. Inside, he found neatly stacked books. Each one covered either the histories of Rome, imperial doctrine, or cultural commentaries. All state-approved for a prisoner to read.

  The lighting was dim. Air filtered through a vent that hummed faintly overhead. It was weak, but breathable. This was, without question, the nicest place he’d seen in months.

  Ampelius began pacing the small space, inspecting it piece by piece. The sink flowed with cold water and steady pressure. The mirror above it was shattered, fractured into a spiderweb of cracks. Someone had punched it and was never replaced.

  He ran a hand along the wall, pausing at the edges of the room. Everything was too precise. Sanitized. Like a cage that didn’t want to look like one. He sat on the bed. No clock. No calendar. Just silence. The kind of silence that let old voices slip through.

  But then, something began to stir inside his head, as if radio static was searching for the right frequency. Beneath the white noise, a soft voice broke through.

  “Can you hear me?”

  Ampelius frowned, unsure if he was actually hearing something or if it was just his own mind unraveling. The Asventi? A hallucination? He laid down on the bed, trying to focus.

  “It’s Casper. Can you hear me?”

  He shot upright.

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  “Casper?”

  Ampelius stood and began pacing. He waited. Only silence. Then a voice returned—something was wrong. It was distorted and hostile.

  “Killer. You enjoy killing? Suffer. Make them suffer.”

  He froze. That didn’t sound like Casper. He sat back down slowly, breathing shallow until the thought occurred to him.

  “This can’t be real,” he muttered. “I’m just imagining it.”

  But the voice returned, more fragmented this time.

  "Imagine not. Plan in place. Plans to free subject. Patience."

  As the days began to pass, Ampelius fought daily solo fights against other prisoners. Each time, he struck them down with little to no effort. Some of them fought well, with a handful skilled in melee, but it didn’t matter. None could beat him.

  As the days turned to weeks, the arenas changed. The opponents he fought began to multiply. At first, they would make him fight pairs, then groups of three. In his room, he began marking the walls with each kill. He included a number above each day to track the time passing. On the thirtieth day, the kill-count had reached forty-five.

  By this time, the Romans were so impressed that even some of their elite soldiers were requesting to face him in combat. Ampelius knew this, not because anyone had told him directly, but because he heard the murmurs. Conversations would drift from the observation windows above the arena after every match. Voices laced with curiosity, admiration, and a trace of fear.

  “They say he doesn’t tire.” One voice said.

  “No one's lasted more than a minute.” Another replied.

  “Let me in there. I want to see what he’s made of.”

  At first, it was just guards whispering. But as the matches continued on, the whispers became discussions, and the discussions became formal requests. His audience was growing. Someone, somewhere, was watching closely. More than just prison officials or Roman commanders, but someone with influence. He could feel the weight of eyes on him now, even when he was alone. They knew who he was, and they knew what he was capable of.

  Ampelius returned to his room, just like he had every day. Basic clockwork routine that is now etched into muscle memory. He walked to the marked section of the wall, where dozens of tallies had formed a mural of violence and survival. Without a sound, he added a single dash for today’s kill and etched a number above it.

  250.

  It was day two hundred and fifty since the fights had started. And yet, nothing had changed. No promises. No answers. No end. Except today.

  A sound broke the silence within the outside hallway. Marching boots. The hard rhythm of metal on metal, echoing down the corridor toward his door. Not soft-soled guards this time. They marched with purpose and speed.

  The door burst open. Two soldiers entered, clad in exoskeletons, much heavier, stronger, armed for control. Their rifles leveled at him in unison.

  “Hands above your head,” one barked.

  “Turn around. Now,” the other added.

  Ampelius obeyed. No resistance. No words.

  The moment his hands were raised, they moved in on him in a swift, practiced, and efficient manner. He felt the cold grip of steel on his wrists as they locked him in place, then a sudden lurch as they forced him to his knees.

  Next they dropped a bag over his head. A thick but heavy fabric shut out the light very well. His world became breath and heartbeat. The sterile smell of the room vanished, replaced by the stale scent of recycled air.

  Suddenly, he heard more footsteps. A third pair entered, then the needle. A sharp sting in his upper arm, followed by the spreading warmth of the drug. His muscles slackened almost immediately, like someone had cut the strings that held him upright. His legs folded beneath him as he fought to stay conscious, but the floor seemed to tilt sideways beneath his weight.

  His last thought was a whisper that didn’t come from him. We’re not done yet. Then darkness took him.