The rescue team was a week too late. What was left of the Nebula Company had already been taken hostage by an unknown force.

The four solid walls were all he faced for days. One wall was filled with scratch marks, carved from a small gravel. That single gravel was in the rough palm of the soldier sitting on the ground in an awkward position, his body leaning on the right side wall. He was confined to this miserable space where it was wide enough for him to sit but too small for him to stretch his body. He slept sitting on that same spot of cold concrete for as many days as the number of marks on the left side wall. About sixty days, maybe more. He could not be sure. As all he saw was darkness, he just made it a point to make a marking each time a slice of moulded bread was pushed into his cell. Sometimes, the bread did not even arrive. He was in a state of desolation. The tiny gravel had almost eroded. For the past few days, the soldier used his nails to mark the wall instead. His dirt-stained nails were smeared with blood. It was painful using his own nails as marking tools but he would rather feel physical pain than to lose his sanity. At least the pain kept him alive.

In his half-conscious state, heavy footsteps and the jingling of metal keys clanged in his ears. He knew that they were coming for him. Every week, the same sounds could be heard. Every week, he heard them clearer. Every week, he was drawing nearer to death. Was it interrogation, torture or experimentation? He no longer had any ounce of strength left to let his mind wander. The metal door creaked open. He opened his eyes and glared at the two guards. They wore black singlets and commando pants. Their beefy arms were inscribed with tribal designs.

What the hell…

The soldier felt a hard knock on his head and he was out cold.

The soldier was woken up by a lash to his bare chest. The searing pain lasted for minutes. Then he could feel his own skin split. He scanned his surroundings. Again, darkness. He could not see the attacker.

SHLLLLSHH!!

Another lash came at him, landing on his torso. The soldier let out another primal cry. His survival instincts kicked in. His limbs twitched, struggling to be free from the icy metal chains which subdued them.

“What was the professor researching on?”

Before he could answer, another lash of the whip sliced his torso.

Torture tactics for interrogation purposes. They’re bloody good at it.

The soldier gritted his teeth.

How much information did they already know?

He was not going to divulge even a breath of information. That was the oath he made when he saw the professor die in front of him.

The soldier lost track of the number of lashes he took. After a while, his skin was numbed. He was losing his sanity. But he would rather go insane than betray himself. He chuckled.

“You are not going to get anything out from me,” he whispered.

“We’ll play it your way then, prisoner” came the reply.

Shortly after, the soldier was doused with boiling water. The moment the scalding water touched his open wounds, he yelped. He had already conceded to death. This torment was temporary. It would all be over. His vision blurred. His hearing was fuzzy.

This is it.

He closed his eyes, his body too tired to continue on. He could feel his heart beating weaker. His breathing became shallower. It was his breaking point. Death was inviting him. The exhausted soldier twitched his cheeks and nodded off.

“So naive of you to think that your suffering would end with death, prisoner.”

Those were the last words the soldier heard before he died.