A sudden jolt ripped through Orlando's awareness. His eyes snapped open. Blinding white. A sterile hum vibrated against his eardrums, a relentless drone that grated on his nerves. He lay sprawled on a cold, unforgiving surface, his limbs heavy, his head throbbing. Pushing himself up, he found himself in a confined space. Walls of transparent, impossibly thick glass surrounded him on all sides, stretching from the floor to a ceiling of diffused, oppressive light. No seams. No visible doors. Just a seamless, crystalline enclosure. Silence pressed in, broken only by the incessant hum. He was utterly alone. Remembering Kane, a surge of adrenaline sharpened his senses. Where was his brother? What had happened after the Source? The last thing he recalled was the blinding flash, the absorption of the Echoes, and Kane’s limp weight in his arms. He slammed a fist against the glass. It didn't even vibrate. The impact echoed internally, a dull thud against his own bones. His reflection stared back, haggard, eyes wide with dawning panic. His mind raced, piecing together fragments. The Alpha. This had to be the Alpha's doing. A trap. Not a physical prison, but something designed for another purpose. Suddenly, the glass walls around him shimmered. Images flickered into existence, ghost-like projections on the smooth surface. They weren’t static. They moved, shifted, played like a cruel, silent film reel. His mother. Her face, tear-streaked, as she argued with his father. His own face, younger, guilt-ridden, after breaking his arm in a stupid dare. Kane, frail and coughing in a hospital bed, a child’s terror in his eyes. Every mistake. Every failure. Every moment of helplessness. The images cycled relentlessly, picking at the scabs of his past. A montage of his deepest regrets, amplified, distorted. The hum intensified, a low growl now, burrowing into his skull. He covered his ears, squeezing his eyes shut, but the phantom sounds of his past failures still echoed. His mother’s whispered disappointment. Kane’s pained whimpers. The chilling sound of a breaking bone. “Stop!” he roared, his voice hoarse, but no sound escaped the glass. It was as if the air itself absorbed the vibrations, leaving him trapped in a bubble of silent torment. Hours bled into a timeless, agonizing blur. The psychological assault didn't cease. It evolved. Now, the projections showed not just his past, but his potential futures. Futures where Kane was lost, where his family crumbled, where he stood alone, broken. His breath hitched. The Alpha wasn't just imprisoning him. It was trying to break him from the inside out. To dismantle his resolve. To make him believe he was inherently, irrevocably a failure. A new image solidified on the largest glass panel before him, cutting through the swirling montage of torment. This wasn't a memory or a projection of failure. This was live. The image was grainy, yet undeniably real. An arena. A massive, brutalist structure of pitted concrete and rusted metal, bathed in harsh, flickering industrial lights. A crowd, a shadowy mass of figures, roared from unseen stands. His heart seized. Kane. His brother stood in the center of the arena, his usually vibrant eyes dull, his face bruised and pale. He wore tattered fighting gear, ill-fitting and stained. He swayed slightly, barely conscious. Beside him, two hulking figures in dark, armored suits stood, their faces obscured by helmets. They pushed Kane forward, roughly, into the center circle. Kane stumbled, catching himself before falling. Orlando pressed his palms against the glass, his knuckles white. A guttural growl tore from his throat, soundless in his prison. He felt a primal, destructive rage ignite within him, hotter than any fire. Kane. They had Kane. Another figure entered the arena. This one was a beast. Massive, muscled, a fighter of prodigious size and terrifying agility, judging by the way he moved. His face was a mask of scar tissue, his eyes glinting with predatory malice. He carried a heavy, spiked club, dragging it casually across the ground. This wasn't a fair match. This was an execution. Kane, battered and barely standing, against a monster armed with a lethal weapon. The crowd’s roar intensified, a bloodthirsty wave of sound that seemed to bypass the silence of Orlando’s chamber, echoing directly in his skull. He could feel it, the vibration of their excitement, their anticipation of violence. Orlando slammed his body against the glass, again and again, a desperate, futile attempt to shatter the barrier. Every impact sent a jarring shockwave through his bones, but the glass remained unyielding, indifferent.

The Glass Prison