DARK PARTITION

Thursday, 10th of December, 2150

…

He inhaled, mustering the strength to stand, but failed—his hands were shackled to the stone floor by a short iron chain. He tugged at it, alternating between hands, but the chain was embedded in the solid stone.

Patting down his coat and jacket, he found his pockets empty. His wallet, phone, papers, and weapons, including the Grex, were all gone. However, he still had his watch. Pressing the dial’s backlight, the face briefly glowed blue; it was nearly five in the morning. By his estimate, he had been out for almost fifteen hours.

Sullivan leaned his head back against the wall, his gaze fixed on the old lantern. How did they find me? He was certain he hadn’t been tracked; he’d been cautious and had routinely checked for followers. And there were no bugs on him—his phone’s detector would have picked them up. The answer was obvious—security cameras. This meant that Krista hadn’t caught the ‘mole’.

He took a deep breath and let his eyelids fall shut, trying to centre himself amidst the chaos.

His watch now read six in the morning. Moments later, a faint jingle of keys echoed from beyond the door. The lock gave a loud clank as it turned, and the door groaned open. Two figures stepped into the cell. Without a word, one of them strode over to Sullivan and delivered a harsh kick to his side.

"Wakey, wakey, scumbag!” the man sneered.

“Ah, Ari,” Sullivan greeted with forced nonchalance. “Fond of playing with handcuffs, I see.”

“And with coffee,” Hakeni retorted, his laughter echoing in the cell. “Amazing what people will do for twenty quid, isn’t it?”

“What was in it?”

“Cold Storm. Triple the fun,” Hakeni spat with anger. “Consider that payment for my shot arm!” He raised his foot to kick again.

“That’s enough, Ari! Leave now!” a voice with an American accent commanded from the doorway.

“Just one more…”

“Out, now!” the shadowy figure shouted, forcing Hakeni storm out of the cell.

“Mr. Sullivan.” The man spoke with a surprisingly calm tone. He moved closer to Sullivan, his back blocking the dim lantern light. “I need your assistance.”

Muffled voices drifted through the open door—a woman and a man, perhaps.

Sullivan tilted his head up, straining to see the man’s face in the dark. “Assistance?” he asked with a wry smile. “You have an interesting approach to asking for help.”

The stranger flicked on a flashlight, aiming the intense beam directly at Sullivan’s face. In the split second before Sullivan turned away, he caught a glimpse of the man’s hand, old and long-fingered, adorned with a large gold ring.

“Apologies, but I prefer to see who I’m speaking to.”

“I’d say the same,” Sullivan retorted, squinting against the bright light.

“Not this time.”

“Who are you? What do you want?”

“You see, Rory... May I call you Rory?” The man didn’t wait for a response, continuing, “My name wouldn’t mean much to you. We play in different leagues. You’re in a much lower one. Our paths crossing was an unfortunate accident. But now that you’re here... To be blunt, you have something we need. Do you understand what I’m referring to?”

“Let me guess. Impeccable manners, unmatched charm, and success with the ladies?”

“A sense of humour, I see. But no, I’m referring to the stabiliser.”

“What stabiliser?” Sullivan feigned ignorance.

“The one Orla Gallagher had.”

“Orla who died in New York?”

“Let’s be clear, Rory.” The man’s voice was eerily calm. “Your survival isn’t an option. The only variable is how you meet your end. It could be slow and excruciating, or swift and sudden.”

“Look, buddy." Sullivan angled his face towards the man, trying to shield his eyes from the blinding flashlight. “Whatever you’ve been told, I never met Orla Gallagher, and I definitely don’t have any stabilisers.”

“That’s unfortunate.” The man sighed. “Ari’s prepared a special concoction. One dose, and you’ll spill everything within the hour. The next dose ensures a slow death over several days, filled with unspeakable pain. You’ll be biting off pieces of your own flesh.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “This is your final chance. Where’s the stabiliser?”

“I told you, I don’t know.”

“As you wish, Rory. Unlike you, I have time.” The man snapped off the flashlight and called out loudly for Ari before exiting the cell.

Ari Hakeni re-entered, a small syringe in hand. He was accompanied by a muscleman, who grabbed Sullivan’s legs, yanking him from the wall. Sullivan hit the floor hard, his head striking the cold stone. The muscleman then sat on his chest, crushing and restricting the Irishman’s breath. He held Sullivan’s head to the side, immobilising it with his strong grip. Sullivan could feel the man’s rancid breath, mixed with a faint yet distinctive scent of perfume, carrying tones of fire and ocean.

Hakeni hovered above, driving the needle into Sullivan’s neck. He pressed the plunger, injecting the syringe’s contents. In an instant, Sullivan’s vision began to blur, and an intense burning sensation erupted in his head.

The muscleman rose, lifting Sullivan by the collar and roughly propping him back up against the wall. “Don’t wander off... We’ll return in an hour,” Hakeni jeered, his laughter echoing in the small cell. After a brief pause, he delivered a forceful kick to Sullivan’s side.

Sullivan’s vision had merged into a formless blur, but he heard the harsh scrape of the door closing and the muffled click of the lock. Gasping for air, his breaths came rapid and shallow as he struggled to cope with the drug’s effects. His eyes struggled to focus, his head burned from within, nausea churned, and his whole body ached, accompanied by chills and weakness. It had to be Scythe—the synthetic drug once used by military intelligence, now outlawed. Known for its efficiency in extracting information, Sullivan had endured its torment before. After three rounds of injections, his memories would fade to nothing. Occasionally, Scythe had a notorious side effect: irreversible brain damage.

…