The Blood on the Bars

Ah, you’re here. Again. How delightful. Sit down, lean in, and let me speak to you plainly. There’s no use in dressing it up for you—what I’ve built here is a monument to my will, a fortress carved out of bits and blood, sweat and fear. This was never just a prison. It was never meant to be. It’s a crucible, a stage, an endless labyrinth where lives unravel and truths are laid bare. But it didn’t start like this. Oh no, it began as nothing. A husk. A single, pitiful room—bare walls, cracked floors, space for two, maybe three. Hardly a prison, more a coffin with the lid propped open.

But I saw potential. Where others would have shrugged and turned away, I saw a masterpiece waiting to be born. I didn’t need strength to build it; no, I had something far better: wealth. Bits enough to drown the doubters, to buy silence, to grease the wheels of ambition. And so I began. Contractors, labourers, architects—ponies lured by promises of gold. They thought they were building an asylum. A place for the broken, the mad, the lost. They were right—just not in the way they imagined.

I told them to make it bigger, more sprawling. More cells, more wings, more space for the damned to writhe. I wanted something vast. Endless. A labyrinth of stone and steel, where every echoing footstep carries a weight of dread. And they built it. They built it well. Too well. Each brick laid down by hands that never questioned, each door bolted by fools who never once wondered why an asylum needed bars thick enough to hold dragons, corridors long enough to lose yourself in. They didn’t care. Not as long as the bits kept flowing.

But here’s the truth about ponies like them—they can’t help themselves. They talk. They whisper to their wives, their friends, their drinking buddies. They trace the lines of blueprints on napkins, share the peculiarities of their work over mugs of cider. They think they’re clever. They think they’re safe. And I couldn’t have that. No loose ends, no witnesses, no evidence. So when the last stone was set, when the gates finally groaned shut, I made my move.

My mercenaries came for them, one by one. They were dragged back here—to this place they had built with their own hands. Some cried, some begged, some tried to fight. It didn’t matter. They became part of the experiment, their screams the first to echo through these halls. A fitting price for their silence, wouldn’t you agree? They laid the foundation with their sweat; I sealed it with their blood.

And now? Now it stands—a fortress that stretches into eternity, a hellscape of stone and shadows. Every cell, every corridor, every inch of this place is soaked in the essence of what it took to build it. And it’s alive. Can’t you feel it? The walls hum with despair, the floors drink the blood spilled upon them, and the air itself is heavy with the weight of survival. This isn’t just a prison—it’s a machine. A relentless, grinding beast that devours hope and spits out only the strongest, the most desperate.

Others build castles, empires, monuments to their glory. Fools. All of them. There is no power in ruling the free. True power lies here, in the cage. In owning the lives of those who cannot escape. In bending their will, their bodies, their very souls, to your design.

So here we are, my dear reader. Witnessing the culmination of ambition. You watch because you crave the raw, the unfiltered. You want to see what ponies truly are when the mask is ripped away. And I? I built this stage to show you exactly that.

Welcome back to my creation. The blood never dries, the screams never fade, and the show? The show never ends.

The alarm blared through the prison, a deep, resonating sound that rattled the walls and made the air feel heavier. It wasn’t a panicked wail like the alarms for a fire or an escape attempt. No, this was something else entirely—lower, deliberate, a harbinger of something that sent a ripple through every soul trapped within the endless maze.

In one of the dimly lit corridors, kneeling, Gritt froze mid-act, his delicate, slender fingers rested against the thestral’s thighs. His client’s hand loosening on Gritt’s head slightly, allowing Gritt to lift his head slowly with a feminine, almost apologetic pout. He wiped the corner of his painted beak delicately with the back of his hand as he looked up between Fang’s legs. “Don’t worry, sugar.” he purred sweetly, his voice laced with sultry charm. “I’ll finish you up real nice when we’re done with all this. Promise.”

Elsewhere, in the showers, Pup froze under the spray of cold water, her body still streaked with the remnants of the day—blood smearing her fur, sperm clinging to her thighs. She let out a huff through her nose, her ears twitching at the sound of the alarm. Without a word, she shut off the water, grabbed a towel, and began drying herself, her movements brisk and detached, as if this was just another routine.

Deep within the medical ward, The Doctor stood hunched over Brown, his gloved hands pressing against a bruised rib with precise, methodical care. He glanced toward the source of the sound, his sharp grey eyes narrowing. “Ah, der alarm. Ja, ja…” His voice was tinged with his thick accent. “Es ist time again, hmm? Always zis… zis noise.” He chuckled softly, almost to himself, as he patted Brown’s shoulder with an unsettling gentleness. “You vill survive, ja? But survive better… if you rest.”

Nearby, Z leaned against the wall, his arms crossed as he observed the scene. His ears twitched at the sound, his dark eyes flicking toward the ceiling as if he could see the source of the alarm through the concrete. “The auction.” he muttered under his breath, his voice low and steady, carrying a slight Zebrican lilt.

In another cell, Geek and Irela sat together, the atmosphere tense but familiar. Geek, his glasses askew, had been muttering something under his breath, perhaps a calculation, perhaps a prayer. Irela’s posture was relaxed, one leg thrown over the other as she sharpened her knife. When the alarm hit, Geek immediately went rigid, his wide orange eyes darting to the door. “Oh, no, no, no—” he started to stammer, but Irela cut him off with a sharp laugh.

“Ah, pipe down, will ya?” she said, rising to her feet with an almost predatory grace. “Y’know the drill. Ain’t the first time, and it won’t be the last. Now quit whinin’ an’ move.” She shoved him gently toward the door, her smirk vanishing as her eyes darkened.

In the heart of the prison, The Boss lounged in his luxurious, oversized chair, his five wives gathered around him: a sleek zebra, a sultry Thestral with bat-like wings, a griffin with feathers like molten gold, a slim dragoness with shimmering scales, and a wolf with striking brown fur. They were draped across him, their hands roaming, their voices soft and murmured as they vied for his attention.

The alarm cut through their laughter like a blade, and the zebra froze, her bracelets jingling faintly as her hand fell away. The Thestral tilted her head, her ears twitching. The griffin clicked her beak in irritation, while the dragoness hissed softly under her breath. The wolf was the first to move, standing and stretching her lean frame before glancing at The Boss.

He smiled lazily, his piercing red eyes scanning each of them. With a casual wave of his hand, he dismissed them. “You heard it, girls. Off you go. Time to see what treasures await us today.” His voice was smooth, his words dripping with authority.

From the gangs to the loners, from the desperate to the defiant, every soul in the prison knew what the alarm signified. The auction. The chance to gain supplies, power, or maybe just one more day of survival. A chance, too, to be sold, traded, or betrayed.

The alarm faded, leaving a heavy silence in its wake. It wasn’t the kind of silence that brought peace—it was the silence of predators circling prey, of plans being hatched, of desperation clashing with opportunity. One by one, they moved. Toward the auction. Toward the stage where survival hung on the edge of every word, every bid, every whispered promise.

The auction room sat empty, its vast, foreboding interior devoid of the chaos that would soon fill it. It was a cold, industrial void, designed with calculated precision to embody dominance and despair. The faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead was the only sound, their harsh glow reflecting off rusted metal beams and casting long, jagged shadows that seemed to crawl across the walls.

At the centre of the space loomed the raised, octagonal platform. It stood like a monument to cruelty, its sharp edges and angular design cutting through the room’s oppressive stillness. Metal stairs ascended to it from multiple sides, their grated steps worn smooth by countless feet over the years. The platform’s surface bore faint stains—dark smudges and streaks that time could not erase—silent witnesses to the countless lives paraded and bartered upon it.

Surrounding the platform, the iron-barred catwalks rose in tiers, layer upon layer of steel weaving into a towering structure. They lined the walls like an ominous theatre, each level overlooking the stage below, ready to host the voyeurs and vultures who would soon press against the bars. The catwalks seemed endless, stretching high into the shadows, a maze of intersecting paths designed for viewing, watching, and judging.

The cold steel walls absorbed and reflected the faint vibrations of the alarms echoing through the prison, their low, ominous drone seeping into the very bones of the room.

Here, in this hollow chamber of despair, the groundwork was laid for the prison’s cruelest ritual. Soon, the air would fill with the noise of shuffling bodies, murmured threats, and desperate bargains. Soon, the prisoners would arrive, their eyes drawn to the platform at the centre like moths to a flame, knowing that everything they saw would decide somepony’s future—or their own. But for now, the room waited, patient and silent, ready for the spectacle to begin.

Despite the absence of prisoners, the auction room was not empty. In the dark corners, where the flickering fluorescent lights struggled to reach, The Black Watch stood motionless, like shadows given form. These were no ordinary guards. They were sentinels of silence and fear, their mere presence a statement of the prison’s absolute control.

Everything about them was black—their tactical uniforms, their armour, their weapons, even their fur and manes. Their eyes, void of colour, seemed like endless pits of darkness, giving no hint of emotion or life. They blended seamlessly with the shadows, making it difficult to tell where the room ended and they began. They didn’t just inhabit the space; they consumed it, their presence as oppressive as the steel walls around them.

Each member of The Black Watch was a soldier of the highest caliber, handpicked for their ruthlessness, skill, and unwavering loyalty to whoever—or whatever—held the leash. Ex-military, ex-special forces, assassins, mercenaries—they hailed from the bloodiest battlefields and darkest corners of the world. They were masters of violence, their training a synthesis of lethal precision and psychological warfare. Every movement they made, however minimal, was calculated, efficient, and deliberate, like predators conserving energy before a kill.

Their weapons, equally black and meticulously maintained, were not standard issue. These were tools of war, customised and deadly, capable of ending lives with surgical precision. They carried everything from suppressed assault rifles to combat knives honed to a razor’s edge, and grenades that shimmered faintly under the cold light. They wore advanced tactical gear, reinforced with armour that made them look more machine than pony, impervious to most of the improvised weapons the prisoners could muster.

Even among the most dangerous beings in the prison, The Black Watch were a breed apart. They were not like Jaws, whose intimidation stemmed from brute force, or The Boss, who wielded charisma and fear like weapons. The Black Watch were silent executioners, their power rooted in their anonymity and precision. They didn’t threaten, they didn’t warn—they simply acted.

Rumours about them circulated among the prisoners like ghost stories: that their armour was enchanted to withstand anything short of a cannon blast, that they had no names or identities beyond their rank, that they could see in total darkness, and that they felt no pain. Some whispered they were dead already, animated by dark magic or cursed technology, incapable of emotion or mercy. Others believed they were so loyal to the prison’s mastermind that they would sacrifice their lives without hesitation if ordered.

Even The Boss, the self-proclaimed ruler of this domain, treaded carefully around them. The Black Watch gave him no deference, no special treatment. He, like everypony else, was just another figure under their gaze. And while The Boss relished his dominance over the prisoners, there was an unspoken tension whenever The Black Watch was near—a reminder that, even at the top of the food chain, he was not untouchable.

Now, as they stood in the auction room, they were more than guards. They were the embodiment of the prison’s unyielding power, an unspoken message to all who entered this space: you are not in control, you are not safe, and there is no escape. Their stillness was unnerving, their silence deafening, as if they were waiting for the slightest excuse to unleash their lethality.

The Black Watch didn’t just protect the auction—they ensured its integrity, its finality. They were the shadows that moved when no one else dared, the arbiters of death in a place that had long abandoned the pretence of justice. In their presence, even the silence felt dangerous, as if the room itself held its breath, afraid to disturb them.

The heavy sound of gates clanging open reverberated through the room, followed by the shuffle of countless footsteps. The prisoners poured in from every side, filling the catwalks layer by layer, like ants swarming into a nest. The oppressive silence of the auction room gave way to murmurs and whispers, low and venomous, accompanied by the weight of glares that cut through the air like daggers.

Unity, in their distinct orange jumpsuits, entered from one end of the room. They moved together in tight formation, heads high and backs straight. Their steps were measured, , their eyes scanning the room with sharp, calculated movements. The zebras among them stood out with their striped fur, a stark contrast to the muted tones of their uniforms. Whispers followed their entrance, respect tinged with resentment, though none dared to meet their gazes for too long.

At the opposite end, The Blood Pact entered. Their plain blue jumpsuits made them seem less coordinated, but their presence was no less intimidating. They moved in a looser group, their expressions smug and cocky, as if they already owned the room. A few of them grinned at the glaring faces of Unity, their taunts muted but unmistakable, like wolves circling prey.

Finally, at the far end of the room, The Revenants arrived. Their white-and-navy-blue jumpsuits made them appear almost regal compared to the other factions, but there was no nobility in their presence. They looked haggard, worn, but dangerous all the same—a pack of survivors who had weathered more storms than most. Positioned between Unity and The Blood Pact, they were forced to endure the hateful stares and muttered insults from both sides.

The tension in the room was thick, palpable. Whispers turned to low, biting mutters as each faction filled their respective sections of the catwalks.

Above them, glowing screens flickered to life, displaying viewer comments in bold white text against a black background. The massive 370-inch screen mounted on the wall opposite the platform dominated the space, ensuring no prisoner could ignore the ever-watchful eyes of the audience. The Anonymous viewers were already active, their comments flooding the screens with interest and anticipation.

Anonymous3421: Finally, the auction! Let’s see what they’ve got today.

Anonymous1298: Bet somepony’s getting sold to Unity. They’ll probably work them to death in no time.

Anonymous5674: Blood Pact’s probably here to bid for weapons again. Predictable.

Anonymous9087: Who’s the highlight today? Anypony worth watching?

Anonymous4563: Where’s Brown? Haven’t seen him in a while. Think he’s up for trade?

Anonymous3421: Doubt it. That freak’s too broken to be worth anything.

More comments poured in, faster than they could be read, their tone oscillating between curiosity and cruel amusement.

Brown huddled at the very back of the catwalk, his shoulders hunched and his frame turned slightly inward as though trying to make himself smaller, invisible. He kept his distance from the edge, away from the glares, the tension, and the oppressive weight of the auction below. His hand rested lightly on his ribs, a dull ache reminding him of the latest beating he’d endured.

He was unbothered by the auction itself, if such a thing were possible in this place. Truthfully, if he had a choice, he’d still be in his cell, lying on his threadbare mattress and staring at the cracked ceiling in silence. But there were no choices here—everypony was part of the auction. Like a machine, the system forced participation, whether you were on the platform or standing in the crowd.

Brown had been here too many times to feel anything about it anymore. His fate seemed different from the others; somehow, The Boss hadn’t traded him. Not for weapons, not for food, not for armor, not even for extra ammunition. It made no sense. Perhaps The Boss didn’t even know he existed. Or maybe Brown served some twisted purpose, kept around as a living punching bag for the others to release their frustrations on. Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter to him. He survived, and that was all.

Beside him, Z leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed and sharp eyes scanning the room. He was always watching, always analyzing, his gaze flicking across the gathered prisoners before settling on the shadowy figures of The Black Watch. His frown deepened.

“Ever been up there?” Z asked suddenly, his voice low but cutting through the muffled whispers around them.

Brown didn’t respond immediately. His head tilted slightly, but his glazed-over eyes remained fixed on the floor, refusing to meet Z’s. Finally, he gave a slow, subtle shake of his head.

“No.” he muttered, his voice hoarse, barely audible over the hum of the fluorescent lights. “There was no auction when I came in. I was just… thrown in here. No one told me anything.”

Z exhaled sharply, his lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile, more like a grimace. “Lucky bastard.” he said, shaking his head. “You don’t know how good you had it. At least they gave you a shot to survive.”

Brown’s brow furrowed slightly, but he still didn’t lift his gaze.

Z pushed off the wall, gesturing faintly toward the platform. “Back when I got here, there was no mercy. No time to figure out where you were, who to trust, what to do. You got dragged up there, lined up like livestock. Either some gang bid for you, or they put a bullet in your head right there on that stage. No second chances. No mistakes.”

Brown didn’t respond, but his jaw tightened, his fingers twitching slightly against his side.

Z chuckled darkly, the sound carrying a bitter edge. “Yeah. Lucky. They just threw you in and let you figure it out. Me? I was up there, praying to whatever gods might listen that some gang would take me. Hell, even The Blood Pact would’ve been better than a bullet.” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “Didn’t really matter, though. You find out real quick that getting picked doesn’t mean you’ve survived. It just means you’ve got a little more time to figure out how to.”

Brown said nothing, his silence louder than any words he could have spoken. He kept his gaze fixed downward, his expression unreadable.

Z sighed, leaning back against the wall again, his sharp eyes still scanning the room. “Guess you’re still lucky, though. Even if you’re just The Boss’s punching bag, you’re still breathing. That’s more than a lot of ponies can say.”

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and bitter, as the murmurs of the crowd grew louder. Down below, the platform stood empty, waiting, its polished surface gleaming under the harsh lights.

“Brown!”

The sound made him flinch slightly, his body instinctively stiffening. He barely had time to turn before something soft and warm collided with his arm. His gaze dropped, and there she was—Pup. She was clinging to him, her arms wrapped snugly around his arm, her head leaning against his shoulder like she’d been waiting for this moment all day.

“Hi, Brown.” she said softly, her voice low and warm, carrying a hint of cheerfulness that didn’t quite match her worried eyes.

He blinked down at her, startled by her sudden closeness. She smelled clean, the faint scent of soap and something sweet lingering around her, a stark contrast to the metallic tang of blood and rust that usually clung to everypony in this place. Her freshly groomed fur shimmered faintly under the harsh fluorescent light, and her tail swayed gently—not the wag of unrestrained joy but a subtle, content rhythm.

Her eyes scanned his face, her initial smile faltering as her gaze locked onto the bruising around his swollen eye and the hunched way he held himself. The concern in her expression deepened as her ears twitched slightly, flattening for a moment before perking back up.

Her hand reached up, and without hesitation, she gently cupped the side of his face, her thumb brushing lightly over the edge of his swollen eye. Her touch was feather-light, careful not to cause him more pain. “What happened to you?” she asked, her tone soft but edged with something firm, almost protective.

Brown shifted under her touch, uncomfortable with the attention. He glanced away, his voice low and rough. “Got into a fight.” he said simply, like it was the most mundane thing in the world.

Her thumb paused for a moment, lingering near his eye as her expression shifted. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her brows furrowing. She let out a quiet sigh, her other hand releasing his arm as she took a small step back, though her gaze never left him.

“Brown.” she said softly, her voice carrying a faint tinge of disappointment. “How many times are you going to let them do this to you?”

Her words hung in the air, and for the first time, his gaze dropped fully to meet hers. She wasn’t angry—her tone wasn’t scolding. She sounded… sad.

“I didn’t.” he said after a moment, his voice low but steady. “I fought back.”

Pup blinked, her expression softening. Her ears perked up slightly, and a faint, relieved smile tugged at her lips. “You did?”

He nodded, his movements stiff, but there was no hesitation in his answer.

“Good.” she said firmly, her smile growing just a little wider. “Good. You need to stand up for yourself, Brown. You can’t let them break you down, not any more than they already have.”

Her words carried a quiet strength, the kind of maturity that seemed to clash with the image of her sweet demeanour. She stepped closer again, her hand returning to his face, this time resting lightly on his uninjured cheek. “Promise me you’ll keep doing that. I don’t care how bad it gets. You have to fight back, even if it’s just to prove you’re still here, that they haven’t won.”

Brown didn’t reply, but there was something in his eyes—just a flicker of something beyond the usual emptiness—that made her believe he understood.

Nearby, Z leaned against the wall, his arms crossed as he watched the interaction with a raised brow. His sharp eyes flicked between the two of them, his expression unreadable.

“Well.” Z drawled after a moment, his voice cutting through the tension. “Aren’t you two cozy?”

Pup turned her head toward him, her expression shifting instantly. She didn’t pull away from Brown, didn’t let her hand drop from his face, but a teasing smirk crossed her lips. “Jealous, Z?” she asked playfully, a hint of mischief in her tone.

Z raised both brows, his frown deepening. “Hardly.” he muttered, shaking his head. “You’re just clingy.”

Pup laughed softly, pulling her hand away from Brown’s face and placing it on her hip instead. “Oh, is that what this is? Don’t worry, Z. If you want a hug, just ask. I won’t judge you for needing affection.”

Z let out a low grunt, looking away, but not before she caught the faintest twitch of a smirk at the corner of his mouth.

Turning her attention back to Brown, Pup’s teasing smile softened again. She gave his arm a gentle squeeze before stepping back just enough to give him space. “Come on, Brown.” she said, holding his hand with hers. “Let’s just get through this, okay? Then we can get you back to my cell and rest. You look like you need it.”

Her voice was soothing, filled with quiet affection that didn’t need to be loud to be felt. Brown didn’t respond, but he allowed himself a faint nod, the closest thing to agreement he could muster.

Pup stayed close, her presence a quiet but persistent comfort as the auction loomed ahead. In a place where cruelty reigned supreme, she was a rare flicker of kindness—one Brown hadn’t realised how much he needed until now.

Some of the Viewers, seeing this warm interaction expressed their annoyance and disbelief.

Anonymous9087: Imagine a bomb being up for grabs! It would most likely be the end of the sacrifice games but, would be cool!

Anonymous8263: Nah, I wanna see The Boss fight one of them Black Watch soldiers first.

Anonymous2736: Look at this slut! Imagine getting raped for hours by Jaws and anothers for cozying up with a stallion like Brown only to cozy up to the same stallion again!

Anonymous2736: others*

Anonymous0927: What? What cam is that on? There’s too many damn cameras!

Anonymous3341: Can’t fix a whore. She probably likes it. Look at that tail wagging.

Anonymous7373: I wish I could fuck Pup, make her my sex slave.

Anonymous6362: WOOOOOOOOOOOOW! Nah, she’s doing this on purpose now. She’s just a attention seeking whore.

Anonymous1124: Somepony tell her to just stay in her lane. She’s a hole for Jaws and nothing more.

Anonymous2927: Jaws and Pup was the best couple! Why is she fucking it up!? Fucking cheating bitch!

Anonymous0927: What cam is it!?

Anonymous8272: She obviously likes being chained up and fucked silly, I can’t think of other reason why she is doing this to herself.

Anonymous0045: Jaws is probably watching, cock in hand, ready to remind her who she belongs to.

Anonymous5643: Brown better watch his back. Jaws doesn’t share, and he’s not gonna like seeing his toy all over that freak.

Anonymous9087: Jaws > Brown.

Anonymous5637: I can’t wait for Jaws to put her back in her place as a cumdump, it was so hot seeing her getting fucked over and over again. I came twice watching it!

Anonymous0927: WHAT CAM IS IT!!!

From the crowd, the sound of rapid footsteps cut through the rising tension, followed by a sharp, impatient voice that carried over the murmurs.

“Oi, move it, will ya? Bloody useless, the lot of ye.” snapped Irela, shoving her way through the gathered prisoners with a firm grip on Geek’s arm. He stumbled slightly as she pulled him along, his glasses askew and his expression a mix of confusion and mild panic.

Irela’s emerald eyes locked onto Pup, Brown, and Z at the back of the catwalk, and she made a beeline for them, her red mane bouncing with every determined step. “You lot, mind him.” she barked as she approached, shoving Geek forward without waiting for a response.

Geek nearly tripped as he was pushed into their little group, his hands flailing slightly before he steadied himself. He adjusted his glasses quickly, glancing around nervously. “Uh, wait, what? What’s going on?”

“Shut it, Geek.” Irela cut him off, her tone sharp but not unkind. She glanced at the others, her gaze briefly landing on Brown’s bruised face before flicking to Pup and Z. “Good. He’s your problem now.”

She didn’t wait for confirmation, didn’t care whether they agreed or not. Her tone made it clear that this wasn’t a request.

Geek opened his mouth to protest, but she rounded on him before he could get a word out. “Listen here, ya little shit.” she said, jabbing a finger toward his chest. “Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone, yeah? No wandering off, no mouthin’ off, and no gettin’ yer skinny arse into trouble. Got it?”

“W-Where are you going?” Geek stammered, looking utterly lost.

“None of your damn business.” Irela shot back, already turning on her heel. She threw a quick glance over her shoulder, her voice softening just a fraction. “Just don’t make me regret leavin’ you here, Geek. I mean it.”

And with that, she was gone, striding away the same way she’d come, her presence like a storm that had passed through without warning.

Geek stood awkwardly, glancing at Pup, who gave him a small, reassuring smile, and then at Z, who simply raised a brow, clearly unbothered. Finally, his eyes landed on Brown, who said nothing, his battered face unreadable as always.

“Well.” Geek mumbled, his shoulders sagging slightly. “This is… great.”

Following Irela, she stormed through the crowd on the catwalk, her sharp emerald eyes cutting through the sea of prisoners as easily as her biting words. She shoved ponies aside without hesitation, her Irish lilt low and venomous. “Move, ye useless sacks o’ shite. Watch where yer bloody standin’. Ain’t got all feckin’ day.”

She didn’t care about the glares or muttered curses thrown her way. She was used to it. She gave as much as she got, and no one dared to step in her way for long. Her boots echoed harshly against the grated floor as she reached the staircase that spiralled down to the lower levels. The catwalk groaned faintly under the weight of the gathered prisoners, but she descended with quick, confident steps, her focus entirely on the ground floor.

Halfway down, a sharp smack broke her stride.

Irela froze mid-step, her fiery mane whipping over her shoulder as she turned. Behind her stood Richie, his smug face split into a wide grin, his hand still raised from the slap he’d just delivered to her backside.

“Why don’t you get on your knees and blow me, eh?” Richie drawled, his voice dripping with arrogance. “This auction’s boring as fuck. Make it worth my while.”

For a brief moment, silence fell over the prisoners nearby. Everypony was watching, their eyes flicking between Richie’s grinning face and Irela’s frozen form.

And then, without hesitation, Irela moved.

Her knee came up in a vicious arc, slamming into Richie’s crotch with brutal precision. His grin crumpled into an agonised grimace as he let out a strangled gasp, his body folding forward as he dropped to his knees, clutching his groin.

“Didn’t hear ye ask nicely, Richie.” Irela sneered, her voice icy.

Before he could even catch his breath, her hand shot out and grabbed his horn, yanking his head upward with enough force to make him wince. Richie’s wide, panicked eyes locked onto hers, but what he saw made his stomach drop—a knife, small but deadly, its blade gleaming under the harsh fluorescent light, hovering mere centimetres from his right eye.

Irela leaned in, her emerald eyes burning with fury as she hissed through gritted teeth. “Next time ye touch me, Richie, I’ll carve me name right across yer feckin’ face. How’s that sound, huh?”

Richie tried to speak, to stammer out some excuse, but no words came. His breath hitched as the blade stayed perfectly still, poised like a viper ready to strike.

Movement above caught Irela’s attention, and her gaze flicked upward. A Black Watch guard stood on the far end of the catwalk, their dark armour blending into the shadows. Their cold, lifeless eyes were fixed on her, their weapon slung low but ready. They didn’t move, didn’t speak. They were simply watching, waiting, deciding whether or not her actions were worth intervention.

Irela held the guard’s gaze for a long, tense moment, her knife still dangerously close to Richie’s eye. Then, with a faint scoff, she turned her attention back to him.

“Lucky day.” she muttered, her voice dripping with contempt. She pulled the knife back and shoved him hard, sending him sprawling onto his back with a groan. She didn’t bother waiting to see if he got up.

The prisoners nearby erupted into laughter, mocking Richie mercilessly as he writhed on the ground, clutching himself.

“Guess she ain’t interested, huh, Richie?” one jeered.

“Thought you were smoother than that!” another howled.

“Should’ve kept your filthy hands to yourself, you dumb bastard!”

Irela ignored them all, tucking her knife back into its hidden sheath as she continued down the stairs without missing a beat. Her sharp, confident strides carried her to the ground floor, leaving Richie’s humiliation in her wake.

The air on the ground floor of the auction was thick with tension, a tangible unease that seemed to pulse with every sound, every glance. Irela moved with purpose, her boots striking the cold metal floor as her sharp eyes took in the scene before her.

At the centre of the room, sitting comfortably at a metal table like he owned not just the prison but the world itself, was The Boss. His casual demeanour, his ever-present, almost smug smile, exuded a confidence that bordered on arrogance. His hands were folded lazily in front of him, his piercing red eyes flicking between the figures gathered around the table as though he were already one step ahead of them all.

Flanking him, like looming shadows, were Buster and Jaws. Buster stood with his arms crossed, his hulking frame radiating quiet menace, while Jaws, ever the enforcer, carried his M240 machine gun strapped across his chest. Jaws’s cold, detached blue eyes scanned the room methodically, his presence a reminder that any defiance could be—and often was—met with brutal force.

Across from The Boss sat Nia, the leader of Unity. Her rare black-and-yellow-striped fur caught the light faintly, a visual reminder of her unique status among zebras. Nia’s expression was calm, her red eyes unwavering as she regarded The Boss with quiet resolve. Behind her, two zebras stood like sentinels, their stances protective. The female’s grey eyes were sharp and watchful, her black mane tied back neatly, while the male, a towering figure with a black Mohawk mane and piercing orange eyes, looked ready to intervene at the first sign of trouble.

To Nia’s right, Alpha sat with barely restrained irritation. The battle-scarred grey wolf’s piercing blue eyes narrowed as he glared at The Boss, a faint growl rumbling in his throat. His body armour hugged his frame tightly, the scratches and dents in the plating telling stories of past conflicts. Beside him, his subordinates stood silently, their presence no less intimidating. The red dragon’s blonde, spiky hair seemed to glow faintly in the harsh light, his yellow eyes gleaming with amusement as his lips curled into a smug grin. The grey-furred earth pony beside him was more subdued, his pink eyes sharp and focused, his stance rigid and prepared for anything.

The tension between the three leaders was a living thing, coiled and ready to strike. Each one exuded authority, their factions waiting on edge for a single misstep. The Boss leaned back slightly, his carefree demeanour unshaken by Alpha’s barely veiled aggression or Nia’s quiet defiance.

As Irela stepped closer to the table, her expression softened, her usual sharp demeanor melting away like snow under the sun. The fire in her eyes dimmed, replaced with something closer to reverence—or perhaps fear. She wouldn’t dare act with the sharp tongue or bold confidence she displayed with others. Around The Boss, she became smaller, quieter, almost meek.

Sensing the presence behind him, The Boss turned slowly, his piercing red eyes locking onto her. His grin spread across his face, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes but carried a weight of authority that demanded submission.

“Well, well, well.” he drawled, his deep voice dripping with amusement. He let out a slow, confident laugh, leaning back slightly in his chair as if the whole situation was a private joke meant only for him. “If it isn’t my little helper. Just in time, too.”

His gaze flicked back toward Nia, who was watching the exchange with a calm, unreadable expression, her sharp red eyes unwavering. “You see, I’ve been having the most delightful conversation with Nia here. Really, just the best.” He gestured toward the zebra leader, his voice taking on a mockingly sincere tone. “But, you know… I realised something. She doesn’t have a damn clue what I’m saying. Isn’t that right, Nia?”

Nia didn’t respond, her expression unchanging, but her silence seemed to amuse The Boss even more.

“That’s why you’re here.” he continued, turning his attention fully to Irela. His grin widened as he leaned forward slightly, his hands resting on the table. “My translator. My bridge. So Nia and I can really… bond. Isn’t that nice?”

Irela nodded quickly, her posture stiff and formal. “Of course, Boss.” she said, her voice steady but lacking its usual edge. She stepped closer, standing at his side, ready to do whatever he asked without hesitation.

The Boss chuckled again, his tone light but laced with an undercurrent of control. “Good. Let’s make sure she understands every… single… word.”

The Boss leaned back in his chair, one hand resting lazily on the table while the other gestured broadly toward Nia with a mock flourish, his grin widening into something toothy and dangerous. His piercing red eyes gleamed with mischief as he tilted his head slightly, as though appraising her.

“Well, Nia.” he began, his tone smooth but unpredictable, shifting between exaggerated friendliness and something darker. “I gotta say, you’re lookin’ sharp today. Black and yellow really do make quite the statement. Makes me think of… I dunno, a caution sign, maybe? ‘Danger: Do Not Approach’? Or, wait—how about a wasp? All dressed up, buzzin’ around, but get too close, and bam, stinger in the ass. Fitting, don’t you think?” He laughed, a low, gravelly chuckle that dragged out uncomfortably.

Nia’s face remained impassive, her red eyes narrowing only slightly as she exchanged a glance with her two bodyguards. She responded in Zebrican, her voice calm, authoritative, and laced with subtle warning.

Irela, standing at The Boss’s side, hesitated for a fraction of a second before stepping forward. “She says… she appreciates your words but prefers actions over talk.” she translated carefully, her tone subdued and respectful.

The Boss let out a bark of laughter, slapping his palm against the table with a loud clang that made Irela flinch. “Prefers actions! Oh, I like her. I really like her.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his grin sharpening into something cruel. “But actions… well, actions are messy, aren’t they? You do something stupid—like, say, try to sting the wrong somepony—and suddenly you’re not buzzing around anymore. You’re just another splatter on the wall. Kinda like that asshole Green Riot last week, right, Jaws?”

Jaws, standing behind him, let out a low grunt of acknowledgment, his expression unreadable as he adjusted the heavy machine gun across his chest.

Nia responded again, her tone steady, dismissive even, as if she were unfazed by The Boss’s theatrics. Irela stepped in once more, her voice hesitant. “She says Unity does not sting unless provoked. She only seeks balance, not blood.”

The Boss’s grin vanished in an instant, replaced by a sudden, exaggerated frown. He sat up straight, spreading his arms wide. “Balance? Oh, sweetheart, you’re in the wrong place for that. Balance doesn’t exist here.” He leaned back again, his tone dropping to a sinister, almost whisper-like growl. “This place… it’s a meat grinder. You either come out on top, or you get chewed up and spat out. And trust me, sugar, I’ve seen a lot of ponies thinking they could play nice, keep the peace, and walk away clean.”

He paused, then smirked again, his voice suddenly playful. “Spoiler alert: they didn’t.”

Before Nia could respond, Alpha growled loudly, slamming a paw on the table. His piercing blue eyes glared at The Boss with raw intensity. “Why don’t you cut the bullshit, Boss?” he snarled, his voice deep and gravelly. “All this yappin’, all this posturing—it’s pathetic. You want to talk about the meat grinder? I am the meat grinder. You think you scare me? You think your little act does anything but piss me off?”

Alpha leaned forward, his claws digging into the metal table, his teeth bared. “You sit there, running your mouth like you’re untouchable, but we both know the truth. If it wasn’t for your lapdogs—” he flicked his eyes toward Buster and Jaws “—you’d be just another carcass on the floor.”

The Boss’s grin widened, his eyes glittering with amusement. He clapped his hands slowly, mockingly. “Oh, bravo, Alpha. Real scary. You must’ve spent all morning practicing that speech in the mirror.” His tone turned cold, razor-sharp. “But let me tell you something, dog. You’re not the biggest wolf in this pack. Not even close. And if you ever talk to me like that again, I’ll make sure you learn just how small you really are.”

The room fell silent, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air. Even Jaws and Buster shifted slightly, their eyes trained on Alpha as if daring him to make a move.

Nia broke the silence, speaking once more in Zebrican. Her tone was calm but firm, her words precise and deliberate. Irela stepped forward to translate, though her voice trembled slightly. “She says… she doesn’t care for your theatrics or your threats. Unity seeks unity, not destruction. But if you force her hand, she will respond in kind.”

The Boss tilted his head, his grin softening into something almost sincere. “Fair enough, sweetheart.” he said, his tone low and dangerous. “Fair enough. Just remember—when the dust settles, and this place comes crashing down, you won’t find unity. You’ll find ashes.”

His words hung in the air like a loaded gun, the tension between the three leaders crackling like static electricity. The Boss leaned back again, flashing his grin once more. “Now, who’s ready to start this goddamn auction?”

As if the boss willed it so, the room plunged into perfect darkness, a suffocating void where even the faintest sound felt like a scream. Then, with an audible click, a single spotlight blazed to life, stabbing through the blackness and illuminating the octagonal platform like a stage waiting for its star. The light cast long, jagged shadows on the ground, dancing eerily as the unseen audience waited.

The tension built, a palpable hum filling the air as the silence stretched to its breaking point. And then, like thunder rolling through the heavens, a voice boomed from unseen speakers, rich and dripping with charisma.

“Ladiesss and gentlecolt!” the voice rang out, smooth, theatrical, and undeniably commanding. “The moment you’ve been waiting for—the spectacle you’ve craved—is upon us!”

The heavy creak of a door echoed across the chamber, and from the shadows, The Host emerged. He strode with purpose, every step echoing with the sharp, deliberate clack of his polished shoes.

His crimson coat seemed to glow under the faint light, the deep red catching the eye like blood spilled on velvet. His charcoal mane, slicked back with meticulous precision, shone faintly, as though even his hair bent to his will.

And his eyes—piercing yellow orbs that seemed to burn with intensity—scanned the room as if he were daring anypony to look away. They didn’t.

He wore his pinstripe suit like it was armour, the dark fabric tailored perfectly to his lean, athletic frame. A blood-red tie hung neatly at his neck, matched by a pocket square that peeked from his jacket like a splash of violence waiting to happen. A single gold earring gleamed in his left ear, catching the light with every calculated movement.

He reached the centre of the platform, turning on his heel with the flair of a seasoned showman, his arms spreading wide in a grand, almost regal gesture. His voice exploded into the room, carrying with it the kind of gravitas that made you forget to breathe.

“Welcome, welcome—to the greatest show this prison, nay, this world has ever seen!” His grin widened, sharp and wolfish, as if he were savouring the moment. “You’ve waited, you’ve speculated, you’ve clawed and bled just to be here tonight. And let me tell you—” he leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “—you will not be disappointed.”

He straightened abruptly, spinning on the spot to face every corner of the room, his movements fluid and theatrical, as if he were dancing with the shadows.

“For those of you who are new—fresh meat, as it were—allow me to introduce myself!” His voice rose with dramatic flair, each word punctuated with a snap of his fingers. “I am The Host, your ringmaster, your maestro, your humble guide through this orchestra of chaos and carnage!” He bowed deeply, one arm sweeping across his chest, the other outstretched toward the crowd, before snapping upright again with a flourish.

“But!” he continued, his voice shifting to a darker, more sardonic tone, “for those of you who already know me—don’t worry, darlings. I haven’t forgotten you.” He winked at one of the screens displaying the comments from the anonymous viewers, his grin widening as the flood of reactions scrolled faster.

He turned his attention to the leaders seated below the platform, his grin turning razor-sharp as he addressed them directly. “Ah, our esteemed leaders! Nia, Alpha, and of course, our dear Boss.” His voice dripped with mock reverence. “So good of you to join us. It wouldn’t be a party without the three of you glaring at each other like rabid dogs fighting over scraps.”

The tension between the leaders simmered, but The Host didn’t stop. He thrived on it. He spun on his heel again, addressing the catwalks above, the prisoners watching in rapt silence, and the unseen audience beyond the screens.

“Now, let’s not waste any more time, my lovely degenerates. Tonight is a night of opportunity! Of power! Of survival! And for some of you… well, let’s just say tonight might be your last.” His voice dropped to a whisper, conspiratorial and chilling.

“But isn’t that what makes it exciting?” he continued, his grin widening into something almost feral. “The stakes, the risk, the thrill of knowing that every second could be your last?” He let the silence hang for just a moment before clapping his hands together with a resounding crack.

“So, without further ado.” he said, throwing his arms wide as if inviting the universe itself onto the stage, “let the games… begin!”

The auction room, once heavy with tension, now buzzed with a frenzied energy as The Host stood tall in the centre of it all, his grin promising chaos and carnage to come.

The Host turned sharply, his polished shoes clicking against the platform as he gestured grandly toward the ceiling. His voice boomed with theatrical flourish, rich and commanding.

“And now, dear friends, the first offering of the evening! A prize to heal, to save, or perhaps… to end it all. From the depths of suffering, I give you—medical supplies!”

Above him, a loud, metallic creak echoed through the room as a wooden crate descended from the darkness, suspended by thick chains. The spotlight followed its slow descent, casting long shadows across the platform. The crate landed with a heavy thud, the sound reverberating through the chamber. Dust scattered from its surface as it settled, every eye locked on it.

The Host approached the crate, his movements deliberate and exaggerated, drawing out the moment. He ran his hands over the rough wood as if it were a priceless treasure. “Oh, what secrets lie within?” he murmured, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper before exploding back into full volume. “Let’s find out!”

With a dramatic flourish, he flipped open the lid, revealing the contents inside. His piercing yellow eyes gleamed as he began pulling out items, one by one, holding them up for all to see.

“First, we have Morphine injectors!” He held up a slim injector, twirling it between his fingers. “For those pesky little wounds—or, if you’re feeling generous, for somepony else’s. Who says kindness is dead?”

He tossed it back into the crate with a smirk, pulling out the next item. “First Aid Kits! Bandages, antiseptics, gauze—everything you need to patch up your sorry selves. Because let’s face it, you’ll need it.”

Reaching deeper, he pulled out a clear bag of crimson liquid, holding it up to the light. “Ah, Blood Bags. Multiple types, fresh as the day they were drained. Universal donor included, of course.” He chuckled darkly. “Let’s hope you’re not squeamish.”

Next came a vial of Fentanyl, which he spun delicately in his fingers. “A little pain relief, a little death, all depending on the dosage. Now that’s versatility.”

He continued without missing a beat, pulling out a vial of Epinephrine. “Need a pick-me-up? Feeling a little dead inside? This’ll get your heart racing—literally.”

Then, with a flourish, he lifted a small, unmarked vial from the crate, its contents clear and unassuming. “And for the discerning collector, cyanide.” He grinned wickedly, his tone playful yet chilling. “Perfect for a quick escape… or a quiet little murder.”

Finally, he reached into the crate one last time, pausing dramatically as his hand lingered on something inside. “And of course.” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper that carried through the room, “a mystery item. Oh, what could it be? Something to save you? Something to damn you? Only one way to find out…”

He stepped back, spreading his arms wide as the crowd murmured in anticipation. “This crate.” he declared, his voice rising again, “is not just a box of supplies. It’s life, death, and everything in between. The question is… what are you willing to give for it?”

He turned toward the leaders, his grin razor-sharp, his yellow eyes gleaming with predatory delight. “The rules are simple, my dear leaders. To bid, you must sacrifice. Weapons, armour, food, drinks, medical supplies of your own—or, if you’re feeling particularly generous, one of your own prisoners.” His tone turned dark, his grin widening. “The price you pay is up to you. But remember: hesitate, and somepony else takes it all.”

The room fell silent, the weight of his words settling over the crowd. The Host took a step back, gesturing toward the crate with an inviting flourish. “So, who’s ready to play?”

The Host had barely finished his proclamation when The Boss leaned back in his chair, his signature grin widening as he clapped his hands once, slowly, mockingly.

“Well, well.” he began, his tone dripping with playful malice. “A crate full of medical miracles, huh? Morphine, blood bags, maybe even a little cyanide cocktail for those special occasions. Quite the prize, wouldn’t you say?” His red eyes flicked toward Nia, and his grin sharpened. “Tell me, Nia, does Unity patch up their wounded with discipline and honor, or do you actually use medicine like the rest of us degenerates?”

Nia’s disciplined composure remained unshaken, her red eyes cool and unreadable as she gave no response.

The Boss chuckled darkly, shaking his head. “Ah, the silent treatment. Love it. But we all know actions speak louder, don’t they? Jaws!” He snapped his fingers without looking back. “Bring me the bag of goodies.”

The towering Rottweiler didn’t hesitate. From a satchel slung across his shoulder, he pulled out a clear plastic bag filled with water, the contents inside unmistakable: a fresh, glistening heart, its red flesh almost pulsating under the harsh spotlight.

The Boss held the bag up with exaggerated flair, the heart catching the light like some grotesque jewel. “What do we have here?” he mused theatrically. “An offering straight from the, ah… heart of my operations. Freshly harvested. Still juicy. A gift for the ages!” He slammed it onto the table with a wet slap, his grin unwavering as he gestured toward The Host. “There’s my bid.”

The Host’s eyes gleamed with delight, his voice booming, “A bold start from The Boss! Who will match?”

Without missing a beat, Nia reached into a bag carried by one of her bodyguards, her movements precise and deliberate. She withdrew a glass jar filled with deep crimson liquid, so thick and dark it seemed almost black under the light. She placed it gently on the table, her expression calm as ever.

Her words were firm and steady in Zebrican. Irela translated quickly, her voice low. “A jar of blood. Enough to save many lives.”

The Boss raised a brow, leaning forward slightly. “Blood, huh? Practical. A little boring, though. What’s next? A jar of tears? Maybe a bag of hopes and dreams?” He laughed, the sound sharp and cutting. “Come on, Nia, don’t tell me that’s all you’ve got.”

Before The Host could interject, Alpha growled, the sound deep and rumbling as he reached beneath the table. With a single sharp motion, he slammed something heavy onto its surface—a severed stallion’s head, blood still dripping from the neck, pooling on the table.

The crowd above gasped faintly as the wolf leaned back, his voice low and guttural. “Caught him trying to steal from me. Figured his head was more useful than his hands.”

The Boss’s grin didn’t waver, but his red eyes flickered with a sharper edge. “Ooh, brutal. Very on-brand, Alpha. But let’s not get too ahead of ourselves. You can only throw so many heads before you run out of idiots willing to follow you.”

Alpha bared his teeth, his claws flexing against the table. “At least my idiots don’t crawl around begging to be noticed.”

The tension between them was palpable, a live wire threatening to snap. The Host, sensing the rising stakes, raised his hands dramatically. “We have quite the contest brewing! Will anypony top Alpha’s gruesome contribution?”

The Boss leaned back, tapping his chin with mock thoughtfulness. Then, with a wicked grin, he snapped his fingers. “Alright, alright. You want to play rough? Let’s up the stakes.”

He turned, his eyes scanning the catwalk above. “Buster, grab me Fang. You know the one—the gay little bloodsucker. Useless as tits on a bull.”

The room shifted as Buster moved without hesitation, his massive frame weaving through the prisoners until he found Fang, the brown-eyed Thestral. Fang’s eyes widened in terror, and he began to struggle.

“No! No, please!” Fang begged, his voice breaking as Buster grabbed him by the collar. “Don’t do this! I’ll do anything! Please, Boss, don’t—”

Buster responded with a heavy punch to the gut, silencing Fang’s protests as he doubled over, wheezing. The hulking bodyguard dragged him forward, his boots scraping against the metal floor as he struggled weakly.

By the time they reached the platform, Fang was barely conscious, his face bruised, his breaths ragged. Buster hauled him onto the stage, shoving him forward to stand beneath the harsh spotlight.

The crowd murmured above, the tension unbearable as Fang swayed on his feet, his terror written across his battered face. The Host’s voice rang out, rich with anticipation. “A prisoner, ladies and gentlemen! Flesh and blood, a life for the crate. Do we have a counteroffer?”

The Pitbull Black Watch guard stationed nearby stepped forward, his movements slow and deliberate, pistol in hand. Raised to his head.

The Pitbull Black Watch guard is a towering, intimidating figure with a sleek black coat and piercing, calculating eyes. Clad in reinforced tactical armour, his gear is packed with weapons and supplies, designed for combat and control. His posture is rigid and alert, exuding silent authority and lethal precision, a true enforcer of the prison’s brutal order.

The room held its collective breath as the tension mounted, the silence broken only by Fang’s desperate, muffled whimpers. The Thestral trembled violently, his wings twitching uselessly at his sides as he was forced to his knees in the centre of the platform. Blood from his earlier beating dripped steadily onto the metal floor, joining the dark, glistening stain beneath him.

“Please.” Fang rasped, his voice hoarse and cracking, barely audible. “Please… don’t… I’ll do anything…”

The Pitbull ignored him, his cold, unfeeling eyes scanning the room. He didn’t pull the trigger immediately—no, he waited, lingering like a predator toying with its prey. His gaze flicked between Nia and Alpha, his message clear without a word: Do you want to save him? Or will you let this happen?

Nia remained still, her red eyes unwavering, her composer masking whatever thoughts churned beneath the surface. Beside her, her bodyguards tensed slightly, their fingers twitching, but Nia raised a hand, a silent order to stay put.

Alpha, on the other hand, growled low, his claws tapping rhythmically against the table. His icy blue eyes locked onto The Boss, his lips curling into a sneer. “That’s your big play? A useless coward?”

The Boss leaned back in his chair, his grin sharp and unbothered. “Oh, don’t be jealous, Alpha. Not everypony can be as practical as you, chopping heads like some barbarian.” He gestured lazily toward Fang with a wave of his hand. “This guy? He’s got flair. And I love a good send-off.”

Fang’s breathing turned frantic, his chest heaving as the Pitbull’s gun pressed harder against the back of his skull. The weapon’s suppressor dug into the flesh, forcing his head forward slightly, his bloodshot eyes darting around in blind panic.

“Going once.” The Host intoned, his voice smooth and deliberate, drawing out the words.

Fang sobbed, his voice breaking as tears streamed down his bruised face. “Please… I don’t want to die…”

“Going twice…”

Fang tried to struggle, his arms flailing weakly, but the Pitbull shoved him down, his knee driving into Fang’s spine with a sickening crack. Fang’s scream echoed through the room, a desperate, guttural sound that made some prisoners on the catwalks flinch.

“Sold!” The Host’s voice boomed, triumphant and final. “To The Boss!”

The Pitbull pulled the trigger.

The sound was muffled—a sharp pop—but the aftermath was anything but subtle. Fang’s head jerked violently as the bullet tore through the back of his skull, exiting with a spray of blood, bone fragments, and grey matter. The force slammed his face into the platform, his nose shattering on impact with a grotesque crunch. Blood poured from the wound, pooling rapidly around his limp body, mixing with the earlier smears on the floor.

His wings twitched once, twice, then stilled entirely, their once-delicate membranes now spattered with blood and brain matter. His mouth hung open, slack, a final, silent plea frozen on his lifeless face.

The Pitbull stood, wiping a stray speck of blood from his weapon with a practiced motion, as though none of it had phased him. Two more Black Watch guards emerged from the shadows, their boots clanging against the metal as they approached Fang’s corpse. They grabbed him without ceremony, one by the arms and the other by the legs, dragging him off the platform like dead weight. His broken face scraped against the surface, leaving behind a smear of crimson and shattered bone.

The Host clapped his hands together, the sound echoing through the room like a punctuation mark. “And there you have it!” he declared, his voice brimming with theatrical delight. “Shall move on to the next supplies we offer!?”

Brown pressed his back against the cold steel wall, his ribs aching and his swollen eye throbbing with every slight shift. Around him, the catwalks buzzed with tension, whispers from the prisoners rising and falling like an unholy hymn. It was always like this—the slow build of unease as the auction dragged on, each moment more suffocating than the last.

The Host commanded the room like he always did, his booming voice slicing through the murmurs, rich with theatrics and dripping with cruelty. The crates descended one after another, their heavy thuds echoing through the cavernous space as if the prison itself exhaled in anticipation. Each box, a new treasure trove of survival or misery, depending on what it contained and how it would be used.

For the leaders, this was routine, a game they’d mastered long ago. For the prisoners, it was hell—an endless display of violence and greed, their lives traded away like bits at a marketplace. Brown didn’t need to look to know how it would go; he’d seen it all before.

The Boss leaned back in his chair, his black coat catching the faint glow of the spotlight. He was as predictable as ever—treating the auction like his personal playground. He wasn’t picky after the first crate, bidding on anything that caught his interest, not because he needed it but because he could. His voice carried above the crowd, filled with mockery and dark humor, each comment a carefully placed barb. He relished the game, taunting Alpha until the wolf’s claws scraped against the metal table, or throwing exaggerated compliments toward Nia, each one laced with flirtation and innuendo. To The Boss, this wasn’t survival; it was entertainment.

Nia, by contrast, was a figure of unwavering control. She sat still, her sharp red eyes locked onto the crates as they were opened, calculating every move. She bid only on what Unity needed—food, water, and general supplies—ignoring The Boss’s attempts to fluster her. Her sacrifices were methodical: six jars of blood, collected from her tribe with solemn reverence. Some of it, Brown overheard, was drawn from the dead, their final offering to the living.

And then there was Alpha. The wolf was nothing if not brutal, and his bids reflected that. He began with the severed head he’d brought, then added the rest of the body’s limbs when the stakes rose. But when the crate of weapons was lowered, he pushed further, offering three females from his gang—a zebra, a unicorn, and a pegasus.

Brown hadn’t needed to look to know what would happen. The women were dragged forward, their bodies broken and hollow, their eyes devoid of hope. The gunshot that followed was inevitable, just like the others. The sound echoed through the room, the thud of their bodies hitting the platform quickly drowned out by The Host’s booming voice as he moved on to the next crate.

Then the second phase of the auction had begun, a grim shift from supplies to prisoners. Over the course of this phase, prisoners had been traded and claimed by the factions: five now wore the navy and white jumpsuits of The Revenants, three zebras had joined Unity, clad in orange, and two prisoners were swallowed into the ranks of The Blood Pact, their plain blue jumpsuits a grim uniform of allegiance.

Pup pressed herself closer to Brown with every execution of prisoners that wasn’t wanted, her soft breaths shaky and uneven. She couldn’t bring herself to look, couldn’t stomach the sight. Instead, she stayed by Brown’s side, her attention fixed on him. She whispered to him now and then, her voice low and trembling, trying to pull him out of whatever dark place his mind had retreated to.

Z, as always, remained calm, his eyes following every movement on the stage. He watched the executions without flinching, his expression neutral. He never spoke during the auctions, never reacted. It was as if he were studying the process, committing every detail to memory.

Geek, on the other hand, couldn’t keep still. His gaze darted from the stage to his sister, Irela, who stood on the auction floor with the leaders. His hands fidgeted nervously, his orange eyes wide with worry. He tried to focus on the bids, on the crates, on anything but the gnawing fear for his sister’s safety.

And Brown? Brown stayed where he always did, leaning against the wall, his head tilted back as he stared blankly at the ceiling. He didn’t watch the stage. He didn’t listen to The Host’s voice or the bidding wars that followed. He tried to tune it all out, to drown himself in the rhythm of his own shallow breaths. This was just another auction, like all the others.

For Brown, the only way to survive it was to think of nothing. No sound, no light, no life. Just the silence inside his head.

Until…

It was the final group of prisoners that brought an unnatural stillness to Brown’s world, a family The Host referred to mockingly as “a bundle.”

A mare and her two daughters stepped forward under the spotlight, their white prison jumpsuits stark against the crimson-stained platform.

The mother, with long, flowing purple hair, held her daughters close, her arms protectively shielding them as she stood tall despite the terror etched into her face. Her deep orange eyes scanned the room frantically, searching for some sign of hope, some escape that wasn’t there. Her expression, though full of fear, was determined—a silent plea for mercy as she tried to stand between the crowd and her foals.

The younger daughter, small and fragile, clung to her mother’s leg, her wide, shimmering violet eyes darting around the room. Her short, silver-grey hair was messy, and her tiny bat wings twitched against her back as if ready to fly away at any moment. Despite her fear, she remained silent, tears welling up in her enormous eyes but refusing to fall.

The older daughter stood just behind her mother, her face a mirror of the mother’s terror but with more vulnerability. Her violet eyes were glassy, glistening with unshed tears that trembled on the brink. Her long, disheveled black hair cascaded down her back, framing her face. Her petite frame shook as she clutched at her mother’s arm, her leathery wings folded tightly against her trembling form.

Seeing them, Brown froze, the familiar faces cutting through the mental fog he had been trying to maintain. His body reacted before his mind caught up, shoving Pup gently to the side as he pushed through the crowd. He reached the edge of the catwalk, gripping the cold iron bars so tightly that his knuckles turned white. His breath hitched, and his glazed eyes locked onto the family below.

It was them. He knew them.

The mare glanced up for a brief moment, as though sensing the weight of his gaze, but her attention quickly snapped back to her daughters. She adjusted her stance, shielding them even more as the spotlight bore down on them like a predator stalking its prey.

Brown’s grip on the bars tightened as his heart pounded, his chest constricting with a mix of emotions he couldn’t place. Anger, fear, despair—they all blended together into a churning storm that left him frozen. He didn’t realise how hard he was gripping the bars, his hands trembling slightly, or how much his breathing had quickened.

Behind him, Pup watched silently, her brow furrowed in confusion and concern. She had never seen Brown react this way before—not to anything. But she didn’t say a word, her instinct telling her that whatever this was, it ran deeper than she could imagine.

The Host stepped forward, his arms spread wide as his voice rang out, dripping with false warmth.“So, my esteemed guests, shall we begin? Who among you desires this… lovely little collection of misfortune?”

The spotlight swung to The Boss, who leaned back in his chair, tilting his head thoughtfully as if genuinely considering the offer. His black coat gleamed faintly under the harsh light, and his red eyes glinted with amusement.

“Hmm.” he hummed, dragging the sound out theatrically, his grin widening. “As much as I’d love to play house, I gotta watch my food supply. Can’t afford to overstock, you know? And besides…” He gestured lazily toward the mother and her daughters. “They don’t look like much fun.”

His words sent a cold spike through Brown’s chest. His breath hitched, his fingers digging into the bars. For a moment, the world tilted as the weight of what had just been said settled over him like a shroud.

“No.” Brown whispered to himself, his voice trembling with disbelief. Then louder—desperate, raw—he shouted, “BOSS!”

The sudden outburst cut through the hum of the room, the word echoing like a gunshot. The Boss turned his head slightly, his red eyes flicking up to the catwalk. His gaze lingered on Brown for the briefest of moments—long enough to register the panic etched on his battered face—but then he turned back to the platform, completely dismissive.

Nia, seated with her ever-composed demeanour, shook her head slowly. Her calm voice carried just enough to reach The Host. “Unity passes.” she said.

The Host’s gaze slid to Alpha, whose claws tapped rhythmically against the table, his blue eyes gleaming with derision. “I’m not touching that.” Alpha growled, leaning back in his chair. He gestured lazily toward the family on the stage. “They look like they’ve got rabies—or worse. Not worth the trouble.”

The Host clapped his hands together, a sharp, almost mocking sound that echoed through the room. “Well, well, well! No takers, then? A pity. I suppose we’ll have to—”

The sound of metal clicking silenced the room. The Pitbull Black Watch guard, stationed beside the family, raised his suppressed pistol, his expression cold and mechanical. He pointed the weapon at the mother first, his finger tightening on the trigger.

Brown’s body moved on its own, driven by instinct, fear, desperation. “Red Eye!” he shouted, his voice cracking as the name tore from his throat.

The room froze.

The words echoed through the room, slicing through the tension like a blade. Every head snapped toward the catwalk, prisoners and leaders alike. Even The Host faltered, his sharp grin fading for a split second as the name hung in the air.

The Boss moved before anypony else could react. In a single fluid motion, he stood, his chair scraping back as he grabbed the revolver holstered at his side. His piercing red eyes locked onto Brown, and without hesitation, he raised the weapon.

The room seemed to hold its breath as The Boss aimed, his movements smooth, practiced, and terrifyingly precise.

Then—

He pulled the trigger.

Bang…

Footnote: No Level Up!

Welcome back to The Sacrifice Games, Brown.

You have earned 0 EXP, remaining at Level 2.

Level Up Progress: 99/150 EXP.

Keep sacrificing, keep surviving… well, if your alive that is.

Companion Check:

Pup has earned 0EXP!

She stays at Level 6!

Level Up Progress: 4/350 EXP

No further skills or passives unlocked.