Closing up his forty-ninth bag and popping open the fiftieth one for the remnants of a shattered bone, he could hear an alarm in the distance. It rang far off, in a land out of his reach, while he sank into a watery abyss. Deeper and deeper.

  His body dragged him over a half limb shorn off of a torso and stuck through a hollow skull. He shuffled back and forth, trying to untangle the debris from the mangled mess. His mind harboured no thoughts but the task in front of him, reverting to a blank slate reflecting the lacklustre whitewashed walls, long before they had been violated by abject carnage.

  “Azrael,” came a voice from afar. “Azrael, oi AZRAEL!” The voice morphed into a firm grip on his shoulder, wrenching him free of his reach extender and plastic bags. “We’re done fer the day. Throw yer last bag aside and hang up yer tools. We’re getting outta here.” Stella had grabbed him and nearly swept him off the floor, the gesture raising the question if he was no lighter than air?

  Shaking off his daze, he blinked in confusion, holding his tongue. He nodded in agreement, and she dropped him with a thud. Brushing off the flecks, clinging on to his garb, he decided to obey the hulking woman for now, as she led him out the chamber.

  Before he knew it, in a blur of lights and ushering fumes, he was seated beside her, silently slurping on a bowl of gruel and nibbling on stale bread.

  “One helluva first day, eh?” said Stella, wolfing down her measly meal in three and a half mouthfuls. “I wish they’re less stingy with the portions after all the grunt-work they force unto us in the ‘Carnage Room.’” She clacked her tongue and frowned for emphasis. “What’re ye waiting fer, eat up or ye won’t grow at yer age.” She snatched Azrael’s spoon, forcefully stuffing a serving of gruel down his throat.

  He shook his head, nearly choking on his third mouthful he was force-fed, coughing up the sour gunk. “I can eat with my own hands.” He snatched his spoon back from her, acknowledging the appetite he had supressed. When was the last time I’d eaten? Moreover, how long has it been since I even got here?

  “Looks like there’s still hope fer ye,” she said, tousling his hair. A smile crossed her face while the redhead scarfed down the last morsels of his meal, nearly matching her pace.

  While he was hogging, his vision teared up with greying silvers amongst the tousled chocolate. In a rapid flurry of blinks, he dispelled the intrusive overlay, glossing over the pangs of guilt welling up within. He swallowed the last of his gruel and rose to his feet.

  Everyone from the orphanage is dead. From the looks of it, they aren’t the only casualty Mol’okh’s created. His eyes panned the surroundings, hearing the stifled clack of cutlery and bowls, shifting positions, while a horde of people sat by themselves, widening the space the vacant benches held. They bore looks, more damning than the dead themselves. Hundreds, if not thousands of others, have fallen to his merciless savagery.

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  He clenched his fists, setting his emptied bowl aside.

  “Stella,” he managed in a faltering tone, brimming with the bare bones of resolve. “What’s the routine here like?”

  “Oh, ye’ve regained yer strength?” She pushed herself off the chair, beckoning him to follow. “Good question. After our meals, the lot of us get downtime to do as we please fer a few hours. Most prisoners mindlessly wander about, going back and forth between exercise, and senselessly opening and closing a couple ‘o books. Can’t really blame ‘em, especially after what ye saw. But that doesn’t mean I wanna rot away fer the rest ‘o my life. If ye’ve an opportunity, ye’ve got to make the most ‘o it.” Stella held up a pumped-up arm, donning an expression set to conquer the world.

  All the questions he had had in his mind vanished in that instant, besieged by a voracious urge. “How do I get strong?”

  “Yer mind can only handle so much. But if ye discipline yer body through conditioning, ye can build an indomitable will. Rather than spewing jargon, it’s better if I show ye my spartan regime.”

  Nodding his head in gratitude, he decided to follow her lead till he found his foothold in prison.

  “Compound lifts make the core fundamentals,” she said, grabbing a pair of dumbbells nearly as round as her boulder shoulders. “We start with some bench-press, dumbbell edition, to establish a good mind-muscle connection. Now ye gotta drop yer ego and pick a pair from the other end ‘o the rack.”

  The duo stood in front of an array of weights, standing before half as many weathered, threadbare remnants of leather benches. Needless to say, she had taken Azrael to the side possessing the heaviest set of weights.

  He followed her advice, deciding to half the pair of 50 kg dumbbells she had grabbed. On closer inspection he decided the 25 kg ones intimidated him and decided to drop the weight by another 10 kgs, barely managing to hoist the pair of 15 kgs off the rack.

  “Lighter!” commanded Stella from the opposite end of the rack.

  The redhead dropped the weights by a further 5 kgs, comfortably whisking off the pair of 10 kgs and walked over to his ‘supposed’ trainer.

  She propped herself up on a bench, planting her feet firmly on the ground, pumping out each 50 kg dumbbell effortlessly. Meanwhile, he watched with a keen eye, tracing each arc of her body, noticing the subtle twitches of her rising chest and pumped delts awakening a tributary of veins.

  Rising up from the bench into a seated position, she placed her dumbbells on her thighs, and then, rose to her feet, positioning the weights on the rack. Her muscles bulged, engorged with blood, hulking up her colossal frame.

  “Now it’s yer turn.” She gestured to the bench, a smug smile turning up the corners of her mouth.

  Azrael walked over with his pair of 10 kg dumbbells, barely managing to haul the weights off his seated position to his chest.

  “No, no, no, NO!” admonished Stella. “Did I plop down, and bicep curl the weights into position!?”

  “What?” asked Azrael, knitting his eyebrows.

  “Place ‘em on yer knees and push it ‘o into position.” She held a steady hand over the weights, urging him to rectify his slip-up.

  Brows stuck in a confused knot, he began questioning the weight of his latest commitment.