The whip cracked. It was a familiar sound by now. One, two, three lashes across shoulders already a lattice of scars. Y/n did not flinch. Flinching was a luxury.

The children above giggled. A small boy, no older than seven, threw a pebble. It bounced off Y/n's arm, leaving a faint red mark.

The lieutenant grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked Y/n's head back, exposing a face marked with old burns and new bruises.

Somewhere far above, in the shadows of the cave's high ceiling, a faint blue light flickered. Not a torch. Not the Pit.

The transmission was encrypted, scrambled, and bounced through three satellite relays. It reached exactly eight receivers across the globe.

The whip came down.