Page 13 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius
“You controlled the fear,” he finishes, understanding in his eyes.
“Something like that.” I’m not used to being this transparent with anyone. “The podcast began as research framed as something productive rather than obsessive. Then it found an audience, and I had sponsors, expectations…”
“And the shell that began as protection became a prison.”
His insight is so accurate it leaves me momentarily speechless. No one has ever seen through my carefully constructed layers so effortlessly.
A deep rumble interrupts the moment, stronger than before. Dust and small pebbles rain down from the ceiling.
“We should leave,” Lucius says, all business now. “These old passages aren’t as stable as they should be.”
We retrace our steps with increased urgency, the intermittent rumbling growing more frequent. The narrow passage we squeezed through earlier seems even tighter now, the walls pressing in from all sides.
“Almost there,” I encourage, more to calm my own rising panic than for his benefit. The past two years of exploring hauntedlocations haven’t eliminated my claustrophobia—just taught me to manage it better.
We reach the main tunnel just as a more violent tremor shakes the mine. A support beam groans ominously overhead, ancient timber cracking under stress never meant to endure for centuries.
“Move!” Lucius shoves me forward as the beam gives way.
The crash behind us sends vibrations through the stone beneath my feet. Dust billows through the tunnel, choking and blinding. For a terrifying moment, I can’t see Lucius through the haze.
“Lucius!” My voice echoes desperately off the stone walls.
“I’m here.” His hand finds mine in the thick dust. “Are you hurt?”
“No, I’m okay.” Relief makes my knees weak. “You?”
“Unharmed.” His grip tightens. “But we need to reach the surface quickly. That collapse could trigger others.”
We half-run through the main tunnel, flashlight beams bouncing wildly across the walls. Every creak of timber overhead sends a fresh spike of adrenaline through my system. The mine feels suddenly, intensely alive—not with ghostly presences but with the very real danger of tons of rock poised to fall.
The sight of the entrance ahead—a patch of night sky visible through the dust—brings a sob of relief to my throat. We emergeinto the cool evening air, gasping like swimmers breaking the surface after too long underwater.
Only when we’re safely away from the entrance do we stop, collapsing onto the ground several yards from the mine. My hands shake as I brush dust from my clothes, my hair, my face.
“That was close,” I manage between deep breaths.
Lucius doesn’t immediately respond. When I look over, I realize he’s shielding his eyes from the parking lot’s security light, his face contorted in pain.
“What’s wrong?” I move closer, alarmed by his expression.
“Light sensitivity,” he says through gritted teeth. “My condition makes bright light painful.”
A surge of guilt washes through me. Of course—albinism causes extreme photosensitivity. The mine’s darkness would have been comfortable for him; the bright exterior lights must feel blinding.
“I’m so sorry—I should have thought of that.” Without hesitation, I shrug off my jacket and hold it up to shield his face. “This should help until your eyes adjust.”
He accepts with obvious relief. “Thank you.”
“I researched albinism for a podcast last year—I know about photosensitivity. I can’t believe I didn’t consider it.”
“You couldn’t have predicted the collapse or our hasty exit,” he says, his tone softening.
Something in his voice makes me look up. Our eyes meet beneath the jacket’s shadow, and for a moment, neither of us speaks. Dust covers his pale features, turning his white hair ghostly gray.
The realization hits me—I’m not seeing him as content anymore. Not as the mysterious albino gladiator for a perfect podcast. Just as a man with specific needs who nearly got himself buried because I wanted to explore with him.
“We should get you somewhere darker,” I say, helping him to his feet while maintaining the jacket shield. “My car has tinted windows.”
