No Turning Back

Pain was no longer something Alex feared.
It was part of him now.

He woke in the same cell, ribs taped tight with a strip of stolen cloth. The girl—her name was Sofia—had helped clean his wounds as best she could. There were no real supplies. Just rusted pipes, dust, and whatever could be scavenged. But Alex was alive.

And that meant the fire still burned.

He stood slowly, leaning on the wall. His side ached like fire every time he breathed, but he didn’t let it stop him. Outside the cell, the guards had grown more brutal, more paranoid. They beat children openly now. Any whisper of resistance earned punishment.
But it didn’t stop the whispers.

Sofia looked up from where she sat, wrapping a string of wire around a broken spoon handle.

“You're not ready yet,” she said. “You can barely stand.”

Alex didn’t answer.

“You’re going to get yourself killed.”

He looked at her, eyes like steel.

“Then I’ll take a few of them with me.”

A long silence passed between them.

“Why you?” she finally asked. “Why do you fight?”

He didn’t speak for a moment. When he did, his voice was quiet, hoarse.

“Because I saw a kid get taken once. I saved him. But I got caught. And now I know what they’re doing here. What they really want. I’m not leaving this place unless I burn it down behind me.”

Sofia looked away.

“You’re not the only one,” she said. “There are others.”

“Where?”

She hesitated. Then pointed toward the vent near the ceiling.

“They’ve been passing notes. Through the vents. Kids from the north block, east wing. Some from the kitchens. They’re planning something big. Waiting for a sign.”

Alex breathed in slowly, his cracked ribs protesting.

“Then we’ll give them one.”

Later that night…

Alex limped into the old laundry block. It was abandoned—too close to a collapsed tunnel—but perfect for meeting in secret. There were five of them now. Sofia. Dorian, who had survived the last fight. Mira, a wiry eleven-year-old who stole keys from guards with terrifying ease. Jonah, a mute boy with eyes sharp as glass. And Alex.

Dorian knelt beside a rusted panel, opening it to reveal a network of ancient pipes and fuses.

“This connects to the old boiler system,” he whispered. “Still hot. Still dangerous. But we could use it.”

Alex looked at each of them.

“Spread the word. Quietly. We meet here. This is where it starts.”

“What is starting?” Mira asked.

Alex’s voice was like gravel.

“A war.”

Two days later...

The whispers turned into a current.

Children who had once stared at the floor now lifted their heads. Tiny bits of food were hidden in cracks. Nails. Wire. Anything useful. Eyes darted. Hands passed things beneath the table.

Guards noticed the change.

They cracked harder.

But fear had changed sides.

Sofia came running to the laundry block one night. Her eyes wide, out of breath.

“They found the boy from the kitchen team—Noel. They think he helped steal the batteries. They took him downstairs.”

Alex clenched his fists.

“Then we get him back.”

Sofia blinked. “Are you insane? We’re not ready!”

“I wasn’t ready the last time either,” he growled. “But I’d rather die fighting than wait for a truck to take my heart out of my chest.”

Jonah stepped beside him, nodded.

Dorian followed. “No turning back?”

“No turning back,” Alex said.

He didn’t know if they’d win.
He only knew this:

Every minute they waited, another child was sold.
Another piece of hope was stolen.

He had made a promise—not just to the kids.
To himself.
To Marios.
To all the ones the world forgot.