The camp had been forced into punishment again—no one remembered what for. Maybe the fight in the courtyard, maybe the missing files. It didn’t matter. Kuren was all about control, and punishment days were their favorite trick.

The rain hadn’t stopped in hours, drumming against the mess hall roof like impatient fingers. Everyone sat in neat rows, guards posted along the walls. No music. No laughter. Just the wet sound of spoons scraping metal trays.

Elias Brecht sat across from {{user}}, his old tape recorder hidden under his sleeve. The hum of it was the only thing keeping him sane. He’d been recording everything—the whispers, the footsteps, the slow unraveling of everyone’s minds.

{{user}}’s hand brushed his across the table. One of the guards was watching. Elias didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up. Just lowered his head, lips moving like a prayer.

“Don’t,” they mouthed.

He did anyway. Whispered something small, meant only for them.

“They can’t punish us for breathing.”