Page 30 of The Chamber

"Suit yourself," the minion smirked, lunging forward to rip off Kenneth’s shirt.

"Fine—I’ll do it—hands off me,” Kenneth growled, removing his own clothing and tossing it aside. His body, a muscular tapestry of scars, seemed to ripple under the flickering light.

"Let's just get this over with," Jeremiah muttered, following Kenneth's lead and stripping off his shirt. They exchanged a brief, somber look before the forced march to the posts.

"Remember," Kenneth whispered as they were bound, their bodies now vulnerable to whatever horrors were ahead. "We survive."

Jeremiah nodded, his expression unyielding.

Kenneth took a deep breath, steeling himself. He couldn't let himself break down; he needed to find a way to push through, to hold on to the sliver of hope that remained.

Cold metal cuffs bit into Kenneth's wrists as he struggled against them. He felt the heat of Jeremiah beside him, their bodies straining against their restraints.

The reality of their situation was clear—they were pawns in a cruel game, mere playthings for the depraved amusement of others.

"Kenneth," Jeremiah whispered, his voice strained. "Whatever happens—don't give up."

"Never," Kenneth replied through gritted teeth. He glanced at Jeremiah, and their eyes met.

At that moment, he knew they might become more than resolute comrades if—no, when—they survived. The taste of Jeremiah’s kiss came back. There was comfort in that shared gaze, an unspoken understanding that they would endure together.

Laughter echoed around the arena as the audience filed in, some in perfectly-tailored suits and others adorned with glittering jewels. Their faces showed a sickening anticipation, and their eyes gleamed with hunger for the spectacle to come.

Look at them, Kenneth thought bitterly, his anger boiling beneath the surface. They're nothing more than vultures, feasting on our pain.

"Place your bets!" a man shouted from the sidelines, gesturing toward the bound men with a wicked grin. "Who will last the longest? Which one will break first?"

"Disgusting," Jeremiah spat under his breath, his eyes dark and glaring. "We're just objects to them. Entertainment for the rich."

“Ignore them—they don’t matter,” growled Kenneth.

“We’ll give them a show they won't forget," Kenneth said, tenacious grit flaring inside him. "Let's prove we're not just something they can use and discard."

"Agreed.” Jeremiah set his jaw.

As the crowd placed their wagers, their laughter and taunts echoed through the arena. Kenneth focused on the steady rhythm of his breathing. Inhale—exhale. He felt the weight of Jeremiah's presence beside him—their bond forged in shared adversity.

Jeremiah was Kenneth’s anchor. They could support each other in the face of bitter cruelty.

"Are you ready for this?" Kenneth asked quietly.”

Ready as I'll ever be," replied Jeremiah, attempting to exude a sense of calm that both of them knew was far from genuine.

The anticipation was suffocating; each step closer to the commencement of the Battle filled Kenneth with a mixture of dread and rage.

"Focus on us," Jeremiah whispered. "That's all that matters now."

"Us?" Kenneth asked, trying to sense whether Jeremiah found their connection strong, too. Would he want it to continue beyond the walls of the Chamber—after their escape?

"Us," Jeremiah confirmed, his soft brown eyes blinking once before he stared out at the gathered crowd.

"Five hundred on the blond!" a voice shouted from somewhere in the audience, followed by still more bets and taunts. Kenneth gritted his teeth, anger boiling inside at the thought of being reduced to an object of diversion—like a rooster in a cock fight.

"Try to block them out," Jeremiah advised, his voice barely audible over the brutal discord. "It's just noise."

“Sounds simple when you say it,” Kenneth muttered, though he knew Jeremiah was suffering just as much as he was. He closed his eyes, focusing on the sound of his breathing and the racing beat of his heart.

FOURTEEN

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