Chapter 2 - 0: Where Am I?
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The man’s anger did not cool. If anything, it fermented in the dark like something left too long in a jar.
He strained against the chains again and again until his shoulders burned and his wrists felt like they were being sanded down to bone. Every attempt earned him the same reward: a dull, mocking rattle and that dripping water stabbing into his head.
"Those things," he snarled, voice rough from disuse. "That irritating water sound is giving me a headache. My hands are tied up too. I cannot even cover my ears. I cannot even rub my eyes. What kind of sick decorator built this place."
He cursed until the words blurred together. He cursed at the chains. He cursed at the ceiling. He cursed at Null itself. He cursed at the shadow beast that had started the whole disaster. He even cursed at the drip, drip, drip, as if the water might feel shame and stop out of embarrassment.
It did not.
Hours passed, or minutes, or nothing at all. In that room, time was a joke that kept changing the punchline.
Eventually his rage ran out of fuel. His voice cracked. His throat turned raw. His body sagged as far as the chains allowed. Exhaustion swept in like a heavy blanket, and he fell asleep mid-breath, hanging there like a man who had been forgotten by the world.
Outside the room, the world had not forgotten him.
Two voices argued in the corridor, low and lazy, like two boulders trying to negotiate who had to roll downhill first.
They were the green things.
Orcs.
They were enormous compared to any normal human. Each stood about nine feet tall, built like a wall that had learned to waddle. Their bodies were thick and round, shoulders broad, bellies heavy, arms like tree trunks. Their skin was so green it looked unnatural, like moss painted onto muscle. Their heads were bald and shiny under the corridor torchlight, and each had a thick mustache sitting above a mouth dominated by two huge tusks that curved upward until they nearly touched the hairline of the mustache.
Ugly was not even the right word. Ugly was too polite.
Their eyes were big and a little too close together. Their lips were fat. Their noses looked like they had been punched into that shape and never recovered. If they were meant to intimidate, they succeeded simply by existing.
One of them held a red box in both hands as if it were precious, or as if it might bite him if he let go. The box was smooth and lacquered, with faint patterns carved into its surface that caught the torchlight in quick, shy flashes.
The orc with the box shifted his weight and grunted. "I am holding the box. You go open the door."
The other orc stared at the door like it had personally insulted his ancestors. "That door is very heavy. You go open it. I will hold the box."
The orc with the box hugged it tighter. "No. If you hold it, you drop it."
"I do not drop things," the other orc said, offended.
"You dropped your lunch yesterday," the box-holder replied.
"That was not dropping," the other orc argued. "That was... tactical placement. The meat needed air."
"Tactical placement," the box-holder repeated, voice dripping with mock respect. "Yes. You tactically placed your lunch on the floor. Then you tactically cried about it."
"I did not cry," the other orc snapped.
"You made a noise," the box-holder said. "Like a dying pig."
The other orc puffed up, which on a creature that large was a terrifying sight, if the sight was not also ridiculous. "You are the dying pig. You smell like boiled swamp."
"I smell like boiled swamp," the box-holder echoed, then leaned in with a grin full of tusk. "You smell like unboiled swamp."
They glared at each other. The torch crackled. The door sat there, huge and unmoving, as if enjoying the show.
The orc without the box jabbed a thick finger toward the door. "Listen. We push. You push. Door opens. We both stop being here."
The box-holder hesitated, still hugging the red box like a child protecting a toy from a thief. "If the box gets scratched, I am blaming you."
"If the box gets scratched, I will scratch your face," the other orc said calmly, as if that was a fair workplace policy.
"Fine," the box-holder grunted. "Both push."
They shuffled into position like two lazy mountains deciding to cooperate. The box-holder tucked the red box under one arm, braced his free hand against the door, and planted his feet. The other orc spat on his palm for motivation, which did not help anything except making the floor slightly more disgusting.
They pushed together.
The massive door resisted, not because it was stubborn, but because it was built to resist. A deep grinding sound crawled out of the hinges. Dust fell from the frame in thin streams.
Crackle! Crackle! Crackle!
The sound was not fire. It was old stone and metal complaining.
Slowly, the door began to open.
A line of light slid into the dark room, sharp as a blade. It widened as the gap grew, spilling torchlight into the chamber like a flood of gold.
Inside, the man jerked awake at the noise.
His eyelids snapped open. For a moment he did not move, because he had spent too long in darkness to trust his eyes. The sudden light hurt. It stabbed into him, turning the world into blurred shapes and harsh edges.
Then his vision adjusted.
He saw the corridor first, long and wide, lined with rough stone blocks that looked carved rather than built. Torch brackets clung to the walls like metal claws, their flames popping and hissing. The air carried the smell of smoke and old dampness. The floor was uneven, worn down by countless heavy footsteps.
And in the doorway stood two orcs, filling most of the opening like a pair of ugly statues that had decided to become real.
The torchlight reached him fully, revealing what the darkness had hidden.
He had fair skin, now sickly pale from days without sun. His hair was black, messy, and grown out in uneven strands. His eyes were sharp, even through exhaustion, the kind of eyes that looked like they had refused to become soft even when life demanded it. His jawline was clean and hard, though his face was drawn and hollowed by hunger and thirst.
He stood —or rather hung— at about six feet tall, suspended by chains. He wore an old grey long coat that had once been proper, maybe even expensive, but now it was falling apart. The hem was frayed. The sleeves were torn. The fabric was stained with dried blood and grime. His black pants had faded and ripped at the knees. His long shoes were a tragedy of leather and holes, the kind of shoes that begged to be put out of their misery. One of his toes had started poking out like it was trying to escape before the rest of him could.
The moment his eyes landed on the orcs, all the stored anger in his chest erupted.
"You ugly-looking pieces of shit," he shouted, voice raw but loud. "Why did you capture me. I do not have any grievances with your people. Where am I. How long has it been. You idiots did not even give me food or water. Who knows how many damn days it has been."
His words bounced off the walls, echoing back at him, making him sound like there were three men screaming instead of one.
The orcs did not react the way a normal captor would.
They did not threaten him. They did not laugh at him. They did not even answer him.
They looked at each other like two workers hearing a fly buzzing near their lunch.
The orc with the box tilted his head. "That puny one is yelling," he said, slow and annoyed. "It is too loud."
The other orc sighed, eyes half-lidded. "You go and shut his mouth."
The box-holder held up the red box as if it was a sacred excuse. "I am holding the box. You go."
The other orc’s eyelid twitched. "You always hold the box."
"Because you always drop things," the box-holder replied instantly.
The man’s disbelief sharpened into fresh fury. Being ignored was worse than being insulted. He yanked at the chains, rattling them hard enough to make dust shake loose from the wall.
"Fucking idiots," he snapped. "Answer me."
The orc without the box finally moved.
He lumbered forward, each step heavy, relaxed, and unbothered, like he was walking toward a problem someone else should have solved. He approached until his massive shadow swallowed the man again, the torchlight turning the orc’s tusks into pale blades.
He looked up at the chained prisoner with an expression of mild irritation.
"You talk too much," the orc said.
Then he punched him in the stomach.
It was not a quick punch. It was not a trained strike. It was simply power delivered in a straight line, like a hammer deciding it had found a nail.
The impact drove the air out of the man’s lungs. Pain exploded through his abdomen and up his spine. His body folded around the blow even though the chains held him suspended. He gagged, coughed, and blood sprayed from his mouth in a dark, ugly splash.
His vision flashed white.
His strength, already thin from hunger and dehydration, snapped like rotten rope.
He tried to inhale, but his chest refused to cooperate. His head sagged forward. The chains creaked softly as his weight shifted.
The last thing he heard was the orc’s annoyed grunt.
Then the world tilted, softened, and went black again as he fainted from the impact.
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