Thorne stormed out of the training area with long, deliberate strides, his fury simmering just below the surface. Rafe's words played on a loop in his mind, each one stoking the anger that burned hotter with every step. The glares from Rafe's lackeys barely registered, nor did the murmurs of a few recruits lingering in the corridors. His focus was singular—move forward, stay in control. His clenched fists and tense jaw were the only outward signs of the storm raging inside.

By the time he reached the staircase, the flickering green torchlight revealed a familiar figure leaning against the rough stone wall. Vance. The boy was whistling, attempting to appear casual, but his fidgeting hands and the nervous flicker in his eyes gave him away. When Vance spotted Thorne approaching, he straightened up quickly, his carefree facade slipping for a moment.

"That looked... intense," Vance remarked, his voice laced with an awkward mix of caution and curiosity. "Friend of yours?"

Thorne shot him a glare sharp enough to make Vance take an instinctive step back. "Ouch," Vance muttered, forcing a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Touchy subject?"

Thorne stopped abruptly, his patience threadbare. "I'm not your bodyguard," he snapped, his voice laced with irritation.

Vance blinked, clearly caught off guard. "Huh? What are you talking about?"

"Why are you here?" Thorne demanded, his tone colder now. "Don't you have better things to do than wait around for me?"

Vance scratched the back of his head, looking sheepish. "Better things? Like what?"

"Oh, I don't know," Thorne scoffed, his words dripping with sarcasm. "Like finding food? Or maybe figuring out how to not starve to death in this hellhole?"

Vance shuffled his feet, his bravado faltering. "I thought we'd, you know, search together," he admitted quietly, his usual energy muted.

Thorne narrowed his eyes, his frustration bubbling over. "I'm not your bodyguard," he repeated, his tone low and threatening.

Vance threw up his hands in exasperation. "I don't want you to be! I can handle myself. Look, it's nice having someone to watch my back, sure, but that's not why I stuck around." His voice sharpened, cutting through Thorne's hostility. "I don't need you to protect me—I'm actually a good fighter if you haven't noticed!"

Thorne clenched his fists, ready to retort, but something in Vance's words gave him pause. The boy's earnestness, his frustration, and the undeniable truth in his tone disarmed him. Thorne's anger ebbed slightly, leaving behind a strange mixture of guilt and grudging respect.

For a moment, neither of them spoke, the tension thick between them. Finally, Thorne let out a long breath, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. "Fine," he muttered, his voice still rough but less venomous. "Let's go."

Vance's relief was almost tangible, but he wisely refrained from gloating or pushing for more. He simply nodded and fell into step beside Thorne as they descended the uneven staircase in silence.

The damp air of the main tunnel greeted them, and as they navigated the twists and turns, Vance broke the quiet, his tone lighter now but still cautious. "You know," he began, casting a sidelong glance at Thorne, "for someone who doesn't want to be a bodyguard, you're doing a pretty decent impression of one."

Thorne shot him a withering look, but for once, he couldn't summon the energy to argue.

"To be completely honest," Vance said, his tone half-joking but tinged with a nervous energy, "I may have approached you because of your ties with Uncle. It doesn't hurt to have friends in high places."

Thorne rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath, "Whatever." His tone was dismissive, but inwardly he filed the comment away, another piece of information to consider about his companion.

They continued down the tunnel in a silence that, while more comfortable than before, was still tinged with unease. Thorne's thoughts churned, circling back to his confrontation with Rafe. At first, he'd felt a spark of relief at seeing a familiar face, someone who might help him navigate this hellish place, someone who might share advice or lend support. But Rafe's arrogance, the way he dismissed Ben and Darius—it left a sour taste in Thorne's mouth. Yeah. A reunion wasn't happening anytime soon.

The air in the tunnels was cool and damp, carrying with it the faint scent of wet stone and rusted metal. Their cautious footsteps echoed faintly, amplifying the eerie quiet. Every now and then, they passed doors, each one sealed tight, their destinations unknown. Occasionally, Thorne's sharp eyes caught glimpses of faint markings around the frames—symbols he didn't recognize but didn't trust either.

Then they came upon a door that was slightly ajar, its faint glow casting flickering shadows on the walls. Thorne exchanged a quick glance with Vance, who shrugged. "You're the one with the death wish," Vance muttered under his breath, but he followed when Thorne pushed the door open wider.

The room beyond was small and cluttered, its walls etched with strange, spidery symbols that seemed to shift when caught in the flickering light.

In the center of the room stood a pedestal, and on it rested a cracked crystal that pulsed with a faint, eerie glow. Its fractured surface refracted the dim light in strange patterns, casting jagged shadows that danced along the walls. Scattered around the pedestal were bones—small ones, like those of animals, though some seemed unsettlingly human—and scraps of brittle parchment covered in faded writing.

A shiver ran down Thorne's spine as he stepped closer, his gaze locked onto the crystal. There was something wrong about it, something that made his core churn uneasily. The glow of the crystal seemed alive, almost sentient, and as Thorne stared into its depths, he felt an inexplicable pull, as if it were calling to him.

Behind him, Vance peered over his shoulder, his usual bravado slipping away. "What the hell is this place?" he muttered, his voice low, barely audible above the hum that seemed to emanate from the crystal.

"I don't know," Thorne replied, his voice tight. The room felt alive, heavy with a memory of something dark and ancient, something that had long since seeped into the stones. Thorne took a deliberate step back, forcing himself to look away. "Let's go," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

They slipped out of the room and shut the door behind them, leaving the strange crystal and its unsettling aura behind. But even as they continued down the tunnel, the memory of it lingered, clawing at the edges of Thorne's mind. For a brief moment, when he had looked into the crystal, he had seen his reflection—not the face he knew, but something darker, colder. His eyes had been harder, stripped of the faint humanity he clung to, and the realization sent a chill through him. It was as if the crystal had shown him a glimpse of what he could become, and he wasn't sure he wanted to see it again.

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The thought clung to him like a shadow as they walked, his steps slower and more deliberate. Vance seemed to sense his unease but said nothing, his earlier chatter replaced by wary silence.

Minutes later, they came upon another door, this one marked by deep, jagged scratches, as if something had tried to claw its way through. Thorne's instincts flared, a silent warning urging him to be cautious. He exchanged a look with Vance, who hesitated before nodding, and Thorne pushed the door open.

The room was larger than the last, lit by faint green flames flickering in sconces along the walls. Training dummies filled the space, but they were far from ordinary. Their surfaces were studded with sharp, jagged spikes, and some had rusted weapons embedded in their wooden frames as if they had been used in violent training exercises. The air was thick with the smell of rust, old blood, and decay, a nauseating combination that made Thorne's stomach churn.

"Whoever trained here wasn't messing around," Vance said, his usual easygoing tone laced with unease as his gaze swept over the brutalized dummies. The jagged spikes and deep gouges made it clear—this wasn't practice for self-defense. This was training for something far deadlier.

Thorne didn't reply, his eyes narrowing as he activated Cunning Trapper. A faint buzz of awareness spread through him, scanning the room for traps or hidden dangers. Nothing. Just the eerie silence of a place steeped in violence. The state of the dummies told him enough. Whoever had trained here didn't just learn how to fight. They'd learned how to kill, and efficiently at that.

"Let's go," Thorne muttered, already heading for the door. Vance didn't argue, following close behind.

The tunnels stretched on endlessly, the cold air gnawing at their skin. They passed door after door, each one leading to empty rooms or forgotten corners piled with broken crates and rusted junk. The further they went, the more oppressive the silence became, the weight of the underground pressing down on them.

After what felt like hours of searching, they finally got lucky. Tucked behind a stack of old crates, Thorne spotted a faint glimmer. He crouched, clearing away the debris to reveal a small stash of food—bruised vegetables and a few pieces of fruit. It wasn't much, but his stomach growled at the sight, and he didn't hesitate to grab an apple, biting into it with a sigh of relief.

Vance snatched up a pear, holding it like it was a precious gem. "Never thought I'd be so happy to see fruit," he mumbled around a mouthful.

They sat on the cold floor, leaning against the stone wall as they ate. The fruit was bruised and bitter, but it was food, and it filled the gnawing ache in their stomachs. For a brief moment, the tension in the air eased, the reality of their situation fading into the background.

When they'd eaten their fill, they pocketed a few apples for later and stood, brushing the dust from their clothes.

"So, back to our room now?" Vance asked, stretching as he spoke.

Thorne hesitated, weighing the options. They'd accomplished what they set out to do, and wandering the maze of tunnels carried its own risks. "We should head back," he said. "Better not push our luck."

Vance frowned, shaking his head. "Come on, we've got time. It's better to explore now while we can. Who knows what else we might find down here?"

Thorne gave him a skeptical look. "We already found food. Wandering around just for the sake of it isn't exactly smart."

Vance grinned, the expression full of mischief. "Since when has smart been fun? Don't tell me you're scared, Thorne. A little adventure never hurt anyone." He nudged Thorne playfully. "Besides, what else are we gonna do? Sit around and wait to be ordered around again? No thanks."

Thorne rolled his eyes, but Vance's energy was infectious. Against his better judgment, he found himself smirking. "Fine," he said, his tone resigned. "But if we get lost, it's your fault."

"Deal," Vance replied, already heading down the tunnel.

They retraced their steps to the first classroom they'd passed, using it as a marker before branching out again. Vance kept the mood light, cracking jokes and pointing out random details in the stone walls, like he was narrating a grand adventure.

"Think there's a treasure vault somewhere down here?" Vance asked, gesturing dramatically. "Maybe piles of gold, jewels, secret weapons... Uncle's private stash of loot. Bet he wouldn't even notice if we took a little."

Thorne snorted, shaking his head. "Right. And when he does, I'm sure he'll let us off with a stern lecture."

Vance grinned. "Well, I like to think I'm pretty persuasive."

Thorne didn't reply, but he couldn't help the small laugh that escaped him.

As they continued through the tunnels, Vance kept up a steady stream of chatter, his voice echoing faintly off the damp stone walls. "You know, this place could use a serious makeover. Maybe a few windows, some drapes—"

"Vance," Thorne cut in, his tone sharper than intended. He exhaled slowly, forcing the tension in his shoulders to ease. "Just... focus."

Vance blinked, clearly caught off guard by the edge in Thorne's voice. "Right, sorry. Just trying to keep things light, you know?" For a moment, he was silent, then added in a quieter tone, "You seem... different. Since that talk with Rafe."

Thorne's jaw clenched. "I'm fine," he said curtly, though even he didn't believe it. The words were hollow, a mask to cover the roiling emotions beneath. The rage, the betrayal—it all simmered just below the surface, coiled and waiting for release.

The tunnel ahead split into a crossroads, the air cool and heavy with the scent of damp earth. Thorne's ears perked up, catching the faintest sound—a grunt, followed by a muffled groan of pain. He froze mid-step, holding up a hand to stop Vance.

"Do you hear that?" he whispered, his voice tense.

Vance tilted his head, frowning. "Hear what?"

"Fighting," Thorne murmured, the words barely audible. His eyes darted to the shadows stretching along the intersecting paths. He felt the familiar buzz of his Escape Artist skill nudging at him, a primal urge to find an exit and avoid unnecessary danger. But there was something else—a gnawing compulsion to investigate, to not look away. "Come on," he said, his voice tight as he motioned for Vance to follow.

Vance hesitated, then nodded, his usual levity replaced by wary silence. Together, they crept forward, the sounds grew louder with each step—a thud, a pained cry, the unmistakable rhythm of fists meeting flesh.

They rounded a corner, and Thorne's breath caught in his throat.

Three recruits stood in the middle of the tunnel, savagely beating a prone figure. The flickering torchlight cast jagged shadows on the scene, making it look even more brutal. One of the attackers—a tall boy with a cruel smile—delivered a hard kick to the fallen recruit's ribs, eliciting a broken whimper. The figure on the ground shifted weakly, and Thorne caught a glimpse of red hair, sticky with blood.

"Shit," Vance hissed behind him, the word sharp and filled with disbelief.

Thorne's instincts screamed at him to leave. This wasn't his fight. Getting involved would only make him a target. But then he recognized one of the attackers—the wiry boy with dark eyes who had tried to skewer him during the spear training session. The memory brought the smoldering embers of his anger roaring back to life, flames licking at the edges of his composure. Rafe's voice echoed in his head, mocking and dismissive, fanning the fire.

Before Thorne even realized what he was doing, he stepped forward, his voice erupting in a raw, furious yell. "Hey!"

The shout echoed down the tunnel, raw and commanding, carrying with it all the pent-up fury he'd been holding back. He felt Vance's hand brush his arm, the boy hissing, "What the hell are you doing?" but Thorne ignored him, his focus locked on the attackers.

The two girls who had been kicking the red-haired recruit faltered, startled by the sudden interruption. One of them, a wiry girl with short-cropped hair, delivered a final, vindictive kick to the prone girl's stomach before retreating a few steps. Her companion followed, their eyes darting nervously between Thorne and the tall boy.

The tall boy's head snapped up, his bloodied knuckles curling into fists as he turned to face Thorne. For a moment, surprise flickered in his eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a wide, bloodthirsty grin. He stepped forward, cracking his neck as if relishing the opportunity for another fight. "Well, well," he sneered, his voice dripping with malice. "The little hero wants to play."

Thorne's lips curled into a snarl, the cold indifference he usually wore as a shield stripped away. His fury burned too brightly to hide. He didn't wait for the boy to make the first move. This wasn't going to be a fight—it was going to be a reckoning.

Rafe's words clashed in his mind with the brutality unfolding before him—these three recruits had been given free rein to be as savage and cruel as they wanted, and they were taking full advantage of it. It wasn't about the tattered shirt and pants the red-haired girl wore; it was about the power they had been allowed to wield, the permission they had been given to unleash their worst instincts.

And now Thorne had a reason, too. The inferno of rage within him blazed even hotter, consuming the last remnants of restraint. For a moment, his mother's gentle words whispered in the back of his mind, a reminder of a life he had once known. But that life was gone, and he had been thrust into a world where survival meant being stronger, more ruthless than those around him.

He was done feeling guilty. It wasn't his decision to be here, to be trained as an assassin, but it was his decision what to do with the power he had.

And he had made his choice.

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