Chapter 84
6AM✓✓GERMAN EMPIRE
The heavy iron door creaked open, sending a wave of dread through the cold, damp cell.
Stephanie and Chiara exchanged a fleeting glance, their expressions heavy with fear but laced with an unspoken resolve.
The guards, clad in dark military uniforms with insignias that were unfamiliar and foreboding, barked orders in a German language neither of the captives understood.
The clinking of chains echoed as the guards yanked Stephanie and Chiara to their feet.
The corridor outside was dimly lit, with flickering fluorescent lights that cast eerie shadows along the cracked concrete walls.
The sharp scent of disinfectant barely masked the underlying stench of sweat and despair.
Stephanie gritted her teeth, holding Chiara’s trembling hand as they were roughly herded forward.
The corridor opened into a massive hall.
The air here felt oppressive, as though it carried the weight of countless hopeless souls.
Stephanie's breath hitched at the sight.
Rows upon rows of captives stood, all bound and silent, their eyes a mixture of fear, exhaustion, and numbness.
Men, women, and even children were arranged in long, straight lines, their ragged clothes and disheveled appearances painting a harrowing picture of suffering.
The hall’s high ceilings amplified every sound — the heavy boots of guards, the occasional sobs of the captives, and the sharp crack of a whip meant to enforce silence.
Along one side of the hall, a crude assembly line had been formed.
Captives were being shuffled forward, one by one, to face a table where several guards sat with clipboards and a large, archaic numbering machine.
The guards themselves were a chilling sight.
Clad in black armor adorned with metallic insignias, their faces were obscured by cold, expressionless masks that gave them an almost inhuman aura.
They moved with practiced precision, each action methodical and devoid of empathy.
One guard stood at the head of the line, holding a long baton that he used to shove captives into place.
Another operated the numbering machine, which spat out small metal tags etched with numbers.
As Stephanie and Chiara were forced into one of the lines, Stephanie couldn’t help but notice the glint of the machine's sharp edges.
When each number was handed to a captive, it was accompanied by a thin metal bracelet that snapped around their wrists with an audible click.
The bracelets were tight and uncomfortable, like shackles meant to remind them of their captivity.
Chiara’s breathing grew erratic as they neared the front of the line.
Stephanie squeezed her hand, her voice barely above a whisper.
“We’ll get through this. Stay calm.”she reassured Chiara
When their turn came, a guard grabbed Stephanie’s arm roughly, yanking her forward.
The numbering machine buzzed, and a metal tag was pressed into her hand.
She flinched as the bracelet was snapped onto her wrist.
The cold metal seemed to burn against her skin, a grim reminder of her loss of freedom.
Chiara was next.
The guard shoved her forward with enough force to make her stumble.
She bit back a cry as the bracelet clicked into place around her delicate wrist.
“Move!” barked another guard, motioning for them to step aside and join the growing crowd of numbered captives.
Stephanie and Chiara were pushed toward a corner of the hall, their eyes darting around for any sign of escape or hope.
But all they saw were rows of the defeated, each marked with a number that had stripped them of their names, their identities, and, for now, their futures.
Few minutes later the guards roughly shoved Stephanie and Chiara into the overcrowded cell.
The cold, hard floor scraped against their feet as the heavy metal door slammed shut behind them with a deafening clang.
The sound reverberated through the dimly lit space, making both them to flinch.
The cell was packed with captives, huddled together in small groups.
The air was thick with the stale stench of sweat, fear, and despair.
Chiara clung tightly to Stephanie’s arm, her wide eyes scanning the room with terror.
Stephanie led her to a small, empty patch of floor near the corner, guiding her down to sit.
Beside them, a woman with striking auburn hair and kind but weary eyes shifted slightly to make room.
She appeared to be in her late thirties, her face lined with exhaustion but radiating a warmth that stood out in the grim surroundings.
She offered a faint smile as they settled beside her.
“You’re new,” the woman said softly, her voice carrying a quiet strength. “Don’t worry, you’ll adjust… as much as one can obey the instructions.”
Stephanie met her gaze, her own face a mixture of gratitude and guarded suspicion.
“I’m Stephanie,” she said, her voice hoarse from the dry air and tension. “This is Chiara.”
The woman nodded.
“I’m Emory,” she said, her tone gentle. “I’ve been here for ten years now"
Stephanie's head snapped up, her eyes wide with disbelief.
Chiara froze, staring at Emory as if she’d misheard her.
"Ten years?" Stephanie whispered, her voice tinged with shock.
"How is that even possible? You… you don’t look like someone who’s been locked away for that long."
Chiara shook her head slowly. "I thought you were new here too" she admitted, her voice barely audible.
Emory exhaled, her expression unreadable. "No I am not new here, you should prepare your mind because you'll be spending the rest of your lives here, security around this prison is tight—tighter than anywhere else in this place. They don’t take chances."
Stephanie and Chiara exchanged uneasy glances but said nothing.
The weight of Emory’s words hung between them like a heavy shroud.
After a long pause, Stephanie finally spoke.
"Do you know any woman bearing Monica?."
Emory’s gaze sharpened, curiosity flashing in her eyes.
"Monica?" she asked, her voice low but firm.
Chiara nodded. "She’s the reason we’re here. We came to find her and… get her out."
Emory tilted her head slightly, her lips curling into a faint, knowing smile.
"Do you even know who Monica really is?"
Neither Stephanie nor Chiara answered.
The tension in the room grew thicker as they looked at each other uneasily.
Emory’s expression darkened, her smile fading into something more serious.
"Monica," she said, her voice quiet but filled with certainty, "is the most powerful werewolf in the empire."
Stephanie and Chiara both stiffened at her words.
Chiara finally found her voice.
"Wait," she said slowly, "is she… here? In this cell? In this prison with us?"
Emory shook her head. "No. Our prison is different. It’s a twenty-seven-minute walk from here—another block entirely."
The revelation made Stephanie heart sink.
"Then… how are we supposed to find her?" she muttered, her voice trembling with frustration. "She’s the reason we came here. We have to find her. We have to."
Emory leaned back against the wall, her gaze distant.
"If you came for Monica, then you’re in for a fight," she said grimly. "She’s not just locked up, she has been chained down all alone in a lonely prison and the ones who keep her there? They’ll make sure she stays that way."
Silence fell over the group again, the reality of their mission settling in like the cold stone around them.
Finding Monica would be harder than any of them had imagined.