Away from the dimly lit storage rooms where Maarg and the others sat planning, another scene was unfolding in a different part of the cannibal compound.
From the end of a foul-smelling hallway, a figure emerged from the shadowy washroom, wiping her bloodied hands on her worn pants. She moved with an eerie calmness, her expression detached, hollow. Once vibrant red hair framed her face, but the strands had lost their shine, dulled under days of captivity.
Carla, the true second-in-command of the Vipers, carried herself with quiet strength, even now when the world around her had turned into a nightmare.
She stepped back into the room she had been assigned—a miserable cell with crumbling walls and a mildew-stained floor. In the corner of the small space, she found Tara.
The girl sat against the wall, knees pulled to her chest, a sharp shard of broken glass clutched tightly in her trembling hand, pressed against her throat. Her body shook with silent sobs, eyes swollen and red from crying for hours on end. Desperation clung to her like a second skin.
Carla didn't hesitate.
Without a second thought, she crossed the room in two strides, grabbed Tara's wrist, and deftly knocked the shard away. The glass nicked Carla's palm as it flew from Tara's grasp and clattered to the floor. Blood trickled down Carla's hand, but she didn't even glance at the wound.
Tara gasped, looking up at her through tear-blurred vision.
"Miss Carla..." she whimpered. "Why would you not let me end my suffering? There's no hope left for us."
Her voice cracked mid-sentence, heavy with the kind of pain only fear and helplessness could forge.
Carla crouched down, ignoring the searing sting from her cut, and pulled Tara into a firm embrace. Tara stiffened at first but quickly collapsed into Carla's arms, breaking down fully as sobs wracked her body.
Carla held her tightly, resting her chin atop Tara's tangled hair.
"Crying and surrendering doesn't suit brave women like us," Carla whispered, her voice rough but steady. "You hear me, Tara? We're fighters. We don't crumble because of monsters."
Tara shook her head weakly, still crying. "But they... they're going to... they're going to kill us. Or worse."
Carla tightened her arms around her. "Maybe. But not today. Not without a fight."
She pulled back slightly to look into Tara's broken gaze, her own eyes fierce, burning with stubborn fire.
"I didn't survive this long, and you didn't either, just to lay down and die in a place like this. They want you broken. They want you hopeless. Don't give them the satisfaction."
Tara sniffled, wiping her face on her dirt-streaked sleeve. Her hands were shaking, but there was a tiny spark returning in her dull eyes. A fragile, flickering ember.
Carla smiled faintly. "Good. Hold onto that anger. That fear. Mold it into something sharp. You'll need it."
Outside the room, faint footsteps echoed in the corridor. Both women instinctively tensed. Carla's arms slipped away, her hand finding the shard of glass again and hiding it under a torn cloth nearby.
The sound passed, but the tension stayed.
Carla's mind raced. She knew rescue was unlikely unless Cobra somehow pulled a miracle—or unless she made her own way out. But she hadn't survived all these years by hoping someone would come save her. No, she knew better.
She glanced once more at Tara, brushing a stray strand of hair from the girl's face.
"Stay awake. Stay strong. Help is coming," Carla whispered, even if part of her wasn't sure if it was a lie or a stubborn belief.
***
The heavy door groaned as it opened, rusted hinges screaming in protest. Cold air crept into the room like a warning.
Footsteps echoed.
Deliberate. Confident. Cruel.
Gunther entered — a towering figure clad in patchwork armor made from scavenged riot gear and blood-stained fabric. His presence seemed to suck the warmth out of the room.
A long scar traced its way from the base of his neck all the way up to his right eye, warping his sneer into something grotesque. That eye—milky and blind—added to his monster-like visage, while the other gleamed with savage amusement.
He stopped at the doorway, tilting his head slightly as if he were inspecting livestock.
"How are my little kittens doing?" he asked, voice thick with mockery.
Carla's jaw clenched, but she said nothing. Her posture remained steady, spine straight, legs crossed at the ankle, as if she were merely lounging in her own office.
Tara instinctively shrank into herself, eyes wide, trying not to meet Gunther's.
The man took a few slow steps forward, bootheels thudding against the concrete floor.
He stopped in front of Carla, his smirk widening.
"Still giving me the silent treatment?" he asked, pretending to pout. "That hurts, Carla. Deeply. You used to be more talkative back in the day. You know, before your crew crumbled like a stack of wet paper."
He leaned closer.
"You do know your husband isn't coming, right? Or have you finally accepted that little truth while sulking in here?"
Still, Carla said nothing. Her green eyes stared back at him without blinking. Flat. Calm. Controlled.
Gunther's tone shifted ever so slightly, the amusement thinning into irritation.
"Why are you so fixated on waiting?" he asked, his voice low. "You act like loyalty's a virtue. You think these people would do the same for you?"
He turned, pacing slowly, then faced her again.
"I've been patient. Very patient. But that patience has a limit." He tapped the scar on his face, the gesture as casual as it was unnerving. "You remember what happens when my patience runs out."
Tara inhaled sharply beside Carla, but Carla reached out and placed a gentle hand over the girl's trembling one. Her stare never left Gunther.
"I don't need your loyalty, Carla," Gunther said finally, stepping back with arms open like a devil offering a warm embrace. "I just need your cooperation. Join us. Help run this place with me. You'd live like royalty. You're too strong to waste away in a cage."
Silence.
He chuckled and turned his attention briefly to Tara.
"Though, if you keep refusing... well..." He ran his tongue over his teeth like a predator imagining its next bite. "Maybe I'll let the boys decide what to do with your little friend."
Carla stood. Slowly. Deliberately.
Gunther's smile faded just a fraction.
"If I wanted to rot on a throne built on corpses, I'd have stayed married to a politician," Carla said evenly. "You're not half the leader you think you are. Just a man with power he doesn't know how to use. That makes you dangerous... and stupid."
Gunther's expression twisted. Anger flickered in his good eye.
Carla didn't blink.
"You want an answer?" she said. "Here it is: I'll never help you. So go ahead, run out of patience. Let's see what you really are without your dogs."
For a second, the room froze. Even Tara looked up at Carla in stunned awe.
Then, Gunther laughed.
It wasn't a chuckle — it was the kind of deep, maddened laughter that made the walls feel thinner, the darkness thicker.
"Ahhh, that's the fire I remember!" he said, stepping back toward the door. "Fine. Keep pretending to be strong. I'll come back later... maybe after your friend's a little more willing to bargain."
He paused at the doorway, turning back one last time.
"And Carla... when the crying starts — when you beg me for help — I'll still be patient. But I won't be kind."
He slammed the door behind him.
The echoes lingered long after he was gone.
Tara was shaking again, but this time she looked at Carla not just with fear — but with a flicker of awe, and something like hope.
Carla sat down beside her once more, the adrenaline slowly fading from her limbs.
"I said stay strong," Carla murmured, voice calm but fierce. "I never said it would be easy."