In a dark, damp chamber, someone pushes him roughly and croaks,
"Get up."
Siren opens his eyes. The darkness remains unchanged, as it has for many months. His gaze sharpens, and slowly the surroundings take on shades of pale gray. It wasn't always like this — once he could see colors like everyone else: the blue sky, the brilliant white sun, and the crimson blossoms of spreading flames.
Old Ke, the eldest man in this place, used to say it was the ore's effect on the body — a rare mineral they mined here. Old Ke knew much about the outside world — a world torn by wars and brief, fleeting peace — but he took all that knowledge with him deep into the mines, where he now lies buried beneath fallen rocks.
Weary, Siren pushes himself up and looks around.
He lies on cold stone, covered with a tattered rag. His side aches — a reminder that he's still alive.
Slowly, he sits up. His spine feels fused from sleep. Joints crack and groan. Chains rattle against his body. Each clinking sound has its own timbre. His — high-pitched, faint, trembling. The collars on some of the other workers nearby have fused deeply to their necks, encrusted with crystallized ore growing upon them — a sign of infection.
No clocks hang here. Only the sense that this sound signals the start of the shift. The beginning of the day — if it can be called a day — is marked by a bucket of water standing by the mine's entrance. The water is filthy. Undrinkable. Given so slaves can wash their hands and faces to keep the ore from embedding too deeply. To drink it would be to wish for a slow, painful death. The dirty water is thick with ore granules; ingestion guarantees infection.
Along the wall lies the gear: picks, shovels, stretchers. Most tools are broken. No one fixes them. A broken handle is no excuse to stop. Those who cannot work are worthless.
Siren picks up a pickaxe. The rough handle rubs his palm raw. He no longer feels pain in his fingers — calluses have sealed it all shut. Descending the old stairs, a sharp creak echoes beneath his feet. Several steps are cracked but no one replaces them. If someone falls — no one helps them up.
Down in the mine, dampness clings thickly. The air is heavy, like steam. It smells of dust, metal, mold, sweat, and blood. A dim lamp hangs from the ceiling, casting a weak greenish light. It offers no warmth, just enough to see the wall — nothing more is needed.
Siren stands among the others — about thirty in all, silent as one. Voices waste energy, and words are needless. Everyone knows what must be done.
He raises the pickaxe and strikes the wall. The stone is hard. The first blow leaves no mark. The second nudges the ore. The third breaks off a chunk. The cycle repeats endlessly.
The blows come slowly. One. Two. Three. Each movement demands strength. Shoulders ache. Hands numb and sometimes tremble. Siren clenches his teeth, biting the inside of his cheek by accident. The metallic taste of blood fills his mouth.
One slave near him falls. His body, overgrown with crystals, slowly crumbles into dust. No one can help him anymore. Moments later, a guard in a heavy gas mask and protective armor approaches, ordering everyone to work away from the fallen corpse.
Many know they are already infected. The disease rides on the dust of unprocessed ore, plentiful in the mine — and on the dust stirred up by the death of the infected.
Siren does not turn away. He watches not out of pity, but to memorize the face — a face contorted in suffering, now unrecognizable beneath thick crystalline growths.
By mid-shift, fingers swell, nails blacken. Sweat streams down faces, backs, chests. Clothes cling damply to skin, reeking of decay, unchanged for months. Sometimes holes appear in the fabric, revealing gray skin beneath.
Dust rises from cracks in the rock, settling in their throats. Eyes water. Those who cough work slower. Those who work slower get hit.
After hours, other slaves, also chained, carry wooden boxes of food on their backs.
Food comes in a large pot barely cleaned. Thick, warm porridge, sticky and smelling of old clay. Bread — dry and hard — is difficult to bite. One slave breaks a tooth but doesn't cry out, only lowers his head.
Siren chews slowly, tasting nothing. He eats to keep his body moving. Sometimes he recalls grapes, water, a hand. A woman's face he can no longer describe.
After eating, back down into the depths. Back to work. The second half of the day mirrors the first. Occasionally, they find rare ore. Then the guards watch closely, ensuring no one hides pieces — though none need to. Everyone knows direct contact only accelerates the disease.
When the shift ends, the slaves are marched back. Chains clink, stairs creak. The air above feels slightly lighter, but no cleaner.
The sleeping quarters are damp. The stone cold. No water to wash. Only rest.
Space is tight; all sleep pressed close together. Some fall asleep immediately; others lie awake, staring.
Siren lies down, clutching the chains to his chest — it helps him feel they're still there, keeps his balance. He breathes slowly, listening to a whisper nearby:
"Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll leave."
He stays silent. He doesn't believe. But he doesn't argue.
In his mind, he paints an image of the sky — not the mine's, but the real sky. Gray or blue — it doesn't matter. What matters is that it's open.
Someone nearby murmurs over and over:
"I'm not here. This isn't my body. This isn't my life."
They repeat this every night to remember that another way might exist. Eventually, silence falls.
Sleeping on cold stone, Siren always sees the same vision. Tonight is no different.
In his dream, he walks down an endless corridor. Walls smooth as mirrors, but with no reflection. No doors or windows line the way. Beneath his feet is water — a cold, thin layer — growing deeper with each step.
First to his ankles.
Then his knees.
Then his chest.
He cannot turn back. Behind him is darkness — true darkness, that halts thought itself. Out of despair, he moves forward.
Chains hang from the ceiling, swinging quietly, as if someone just climbed down. Water drips, slow and steady.
He feels no body — it responds faintly, sluggishly. His hands don't obey fully; fingers won't bend all the way. Each step feels like his feet are tied to the ground.
Every time he opens his eyes, it's the corridor again.
Step by step.
Deeper still.
Sometimes, in a dream, he reaches the end. There's a door he reaches for. The handle feels alive — warm and pulsing. It coils around his wrist, but he does not pull away.
Because he knows — behind that door may be freedom. Or something worse.
A sharp cry pierces nearby — muffled, choked, ragged, like from a throat long silenced.
Siren jerks awake, not immediately realizing he's awake.
It's dark and smells of burning. Someone screams hoarsely nearby. Metal clangs, and someone pounds hard on the door.
No command was given. No flag raised. Everything happened like a storm — an avalanche — the earth's sudden breath.
At some point, the dust thickened, hanging like dense smoke in the mine tunnels. Every breath burned inside. But they no longer felt the burn. It became part of them — like the dust itself.
At first, one of them — coal-black from ore, eyes glittering with a stillness — threw down his pickaxe and laughed. Loudly. Madly. The laughter echoed deep inside, and others joined in — hoarse, crackling in their throats, as if the mine itself was laughing.
Then someone struck — not the guard, but the wall. A fist pounded it, until blood, until cracking. But the blood wasn't red. It shimmered with tiny silver flecks. His face was already covered with thin grooves, like cracks in stone. Crystals gleamed between them. They grew.
Someone began to sing. The voice cracked like an old man's, but the body was young. He swayed forward, and others followed — not to escape. No. They carried the ore inside them. And the ore called.
The overseer shouted — but no one listened. One sick man grabbed him, and when the body fell, the face was torn away by shards growing from his fingers.
It wasn't anger. Not rage. It was... silent surrender to a new rhythm. As if the stone had become a heart — beating in time with a foreign world.
Dust swirled thicker and thicker. Coal, sweat, metal mingled with the scent of blood. The healthy stepped back, unsure who to fear more — guards or those once human.
The sick had no hatred in their eyes. Only cold, heavy peace — like silence underground. They carried death unknowingly. They laughed, sang — no words, only rhythm. Broken. Like pickaxe blows.
Somewhere a tunnel collapsed. Stones crushed dozens. But survivors did not cry for help. They crawled from rubble like insects, their skin hardened. Their faces showed no pain — for the pain was gone, leaving only a thirst to move forward.
The mine smoked. Outside, dawn paled. But below, no light, no time remained. Only a gleam — in veins, eyes, tongues.
When the guards realized it wasn't a rebellion — it was too late.
It wasn't a rebellion.
It was an infection.
In a dark, damp chamber, someone pushes him roughly and croaks,
"Get up."
Siren opens his eyes. The darkness remains unchanged, as it has for many months. His gaze sharpens, and slowly the surroundings take on shades of pale gray. It wasn't always like this — once he could see colors like everyone else: the blue sky, the brilliant white sun, and the crimson blossoms of spreading flames.
Old Ke, the eldest man in this place, used to say it was the ore's effect on the body — a rare mineral they mined here. Old Ke knew much about the outside world — a world torn by wars and brief, fleeting peace — but he took all that knowledge with him deep into the mines, where he now lies buried beneath fallen rocks.
Weary, Siren pushes himself up and looks around.
He lies on cold stone, covered with a tattered rag. His side aches — a reminder that he's still alive.
Slowly, he sits up. His spine feels fused from sleep. Joints crack and groan. Chains rattle against his body. Each clinking sound has its own timbre. His — high-pitched, faint, trembling. The collars on some of the other workers nearby have fused deeply to their necks, encrusted with crystallized ore growing upon them — a sign of infection.
No clocks hang here. Only the sense that this sound signals the start of the shift. The beginning of the day — if it can be called a day — is marked by a bucket of water standing by the mine's entrance. The water is filthy. Undrinkable. Given so slaves can wash their hands and faces to keep the ore from embedding too deeply. To drink it would be to wish for a slow, painful death. The dirty water is thick with ore granules; ingestion guarantees infection.
Along the wall lies the gear: picks, shovels, stretchers. Most tools are broken. No one fixes them. A broken handle is no excuse to stop. Those who cannot work are worthless.
Siren picks up a pickaxe. The rough handle rubs his palm raw. He no longer feels pain in his fingers — calluses have sealed it all shut. Descending the old stairs, a sharp creak echoes beneath his feet. Several steps are cracked but no one replaces them. If someone falls — no one helps them up.
Down in the mine, dampness clings thickly. The air is heavy, like steam. It smells of dust, metal, mold, sweat, and blood. A dim lamp hangs from the ceiling, casting a weak greenish light. It offers no warmth, just enough to see the wall — nothing more is needed.
Siren stands among the others — about thirty in all, silent as one. Voices waste energy, and words are needless. Everyone knows what must be done.
He raises the pickaxe and strikes the wall. The stone is hard. The first blow leaves no mark. The second nudges the ore. The third breaks off a chunk. The cycle repeats endlessly.
The blows come slowly. One. Two. Three. Each movement demands strength. Shoulders ache. Hands numb and sometimes tremble. Siren clenches his teeth, biting the inside of his cheek by accident. The metallic taste of blood fills his mouth.
One slave near him falls. His body, overgrown with crystals, slowly crumbles into dust. No one can help him anymore. Moments later, a guard in a heavy gas mask and protective armor approaches, ordering everyone to work away from the fallen corpse.
Many know they are already infected. The disease rides on the dust of unprocessed ore, plentiful in the mine — and on the dust stirred up by the death of the infected.
Siren does not turn away. He watches not out of pity, but to memorize the face — a face contorted in suffering, now unrecognizable beneath thick crystalline growths.
By mid-shift, fingers swell, nails blacken. Sweat streams down faces, backs, chests. Clothes cling damply to skin, reeking of decay, unchanged for months. Sometimes holes appear in the fabric, revealing gray skin beneath.
Dust rises from cracks in the rock, settling in their throats. Eyes water. Those who cough work slower. Those who work slower get hit.
After hours, other slaves, also chained, carry wooden boxes of food on their backs.
Food comes in a large pot barely cleaned. Thick, warm porridge, sticky and smelling of old clay. Bread — dry and hard — is difficult to bite. One slave breaks a tooth but doesn't cry out, only lowers his head.
Siren chews slowly, tasting nothing. He eats to keep his body moving. Sometimes he recalls grapes, water, a hand. A woman's face he can no longer describe.
After eating, back down into the depths. Back to work. The second half of the day mirrors the first. Occasionally, they find rare ore. Then the guards watch closely, ensuring no one hides pieces — though none need to. Everyone knows direct contact only accelerates the disease.
When the shift ends, the slaves are marched back. Chains clink, stairs creak. The air above feels slightly lighter, but no cleaner.
The sleeping quarters are damp. The stone cold. No water to wash. Only rest.
Space is tight; all sleep pressed close together. Some fall asleep immediately; others lie awake, staring.
Siren lies down, clutching the chains to his chest — it helps him feel they're still there, keeps his balance. He breathes slowly, listening to a whisper nearby:
"Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll leave."
He stays silent. He doesn't believe. But he doesn't argue.
In his mind, he paints an image of the sky — not the mine's, but the real sky. Gray or blue — it doesn't matter. What matters is that it's open.
Someone nearby murmurs over and over:
"I'm not here. This isn't my body. This isn't my life."
They repeat this every night to remember that another way might exist. Eventually, silence falls.
Sleeping on cold stone, Siren always sees the same vision. Tonight is no different.
In his dream, he walks down an endless corridor. Walls smooth as mirrors, but with no reflection. No doors or windows line the way. Beneath his feet is water — a cold, thin layer — growing deeper with each step.
First to his ankles.
Then his knees.
Then his chest.
He cannot turn back. Behind him is darkness — true darkness, that halts thought itself. Out of despair, he moves forward.
Chains hang from the ceiling, swinging quietly, as if someone just climbed down. Water drips, slow and steady.
He feels no body — it responds faintly, sluggishly. His hands don't obey fully; fingers won't bend all the way. Each step feels like his feet are tied to the ground.
Every time he opens his eyes, it's the corridor again.
Step by step.
Deeper still.
Sometimes, in a dream, he reaches the end. There's a door he reaches for. The handle feels alive — warm and pulsing. It coils around his wrist, but he does not pull away.
Because he knows — behind that door may be freedom. Or something worse.
A sharp cry pierces nearby — muffled, choked, ragged, like from a throat long silenced.
Siren jerks awake, not immediately realizing he's awake.
It's dark and smells of burning. Someone screams hoarsely nearby. Metal clangs, and someone pounds hard on the door.
No command was given. No flag raised. Everything happened like a storm — an avalanche — the earth's sudden breath.
At some point, the dust thickened, hanging like dense smoke in the mine tunnels. Every breath burned inside. But they no longer felt the burn. It became part of them — like the dust itself.
At first, one of them — coal-black from ore, eyes glittering with a stillness — threw down his pickaxe and laughed. Loudly. Madly. The laughter echoed deep inside, and others joined in — hoarse, crackling in their throats, as if the mine itself was laughing.
Then someone struck — not the guard, but the wall. A fist pounded it, until blood, until cracking. But the blood wasn't red. It shimmered with tiny silver flecks. His face was already covered with thin grooves, like cracks in stone. Crystals gleamed between them. They grew.
Someone began to sing. The voice cracked like an old man's, but the body was young. He swayed forward, and others followed — not to escape. No. They carried the ore inside them. And the ore called.
The overseer shouted — but no one listened. One sick man grabbed him, and when the body fell, the face was torn away by shards growing from his fingers.
It wasn't anger. Not rage. It was... silent surrender to a new rhythm. As if the stone had become a heart — beating in time with a foreign world.
Dust swirled thicker and thicker. Coal, sweat, metal mingled with the scent of blood. The healthy stepped back, unsure who to fear more — guards or those once human.
The sick had no hatred in their eyes. Only cold, heavy peace — like silence underground. They carried death unknowingly. They laughed, sang — no words, only rhythm. Broken. Like pickaxe blows.
Somewhere a tunnel collapsed. Stones crushed dozens. But survivors did not cry for help. They crawled from rubble like insects, their skin hardened. Their faces showed no pain — for the pain was gone, leaving only a thirst to move forward.
The mine smoked. Outside, dawn paled. But below, no light, no time remained. Only a gleam — in veins, eyes, tongues.
When the guards realized it wasn't a rebellion — it was too late.
It wasn't a rebellion.
It was an infection.