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The air was pregnant with the stench of blood and rot. Somewhere, far off in a city drowned by its own sins, a bell tolled for the dying. But here, in the heart of Babylon’s splintered shadow, there was only the hammer and the nails.
Each crash of iron against flesh screamed louder than any of the jeering crowd. Blood burst from the split skin of her hands, running rivulets down the grain of the wood. The Queen had demanded her silence, but my mother, Magdalene the Witch, had no use for silence. She wielded her suffering like a blade, weaponizing every second she remained unbroken.
I wasn’t there that day. How could I have been? I was only hours old, an infant cradled in the arms of flight and fear. But the memory burns so bright, so jagged, it has carved itself into me. Lucida, my adoptive mother, always said memory was a kind of infection—some toxin that burrowed deep, reshaping you from the inside out. Maybe she was right. Maybe my mind is a fevered wound that never healed.
Still, I see it. The hammer, heavy and cold as justice, splitting the air like a gunshot. The Queen—Asha, First of Her Blood, Monarch of Babylon—loomed over her, bathed in sunlight like some false god. “The sins of the mother,” she’d declared, her voice sharp and cruel as glass, “will be crucified for all to see. Her treason, her heresy—her existence—dies today.”
Magdalene’s head jerked back as the first nail plunged into her flesh, the agony spasming through her body. But she didn’t scream. She wouldn’t scream. Her teeth gnashed, her jaw locked tight enough to crack. The veins in her neck stood out like war banners, trembling with effort. Her defiance was a hymn, each drop of her blood a verse sung for the damned.
And Asha stood there, drinking it in. The Queen didn’t flinch as blood spattered her boots, didn’t blink as Magdalene’s arms sagged, crucified before the unholy cross. Babylon cheered, a symphony of baying wolves. But Magdalene—my mother—stared at her executioner with eyes hollowed by rage and despair. I could almost hear her thoughts, see the words twisting on her blood-slick tongue: You will die choking on the ruin you’ve built.
The memories come unbidden, like shadows writhing in the periphery. I wasn’t there, and yet I was. I hear the second hammer strike, feel the splintering wood bite against her skin, taste the metallic tang of blood in the air. I wasn’t there, but it doesn’t matter. The memory lives in me, carved into the sinew of my soul like a scar I never earned.
Magdalene’s gaze fell skyward as her breath rattled, her body trembling with the weight of the inevitable. Even as her arms went limp, her chest heaving in shallow gasps, she never surrendered to the screams clawing at her throat. Not one goddamned word. She died like a star imploding—a cataclysm in the heavens that takes the light with it.
Queen Asha stood triumphant, her scepter glittering with false promise. The crowd roared its approval. But I know the truth. I know my mother wasn’t beaten. She may have fallen that day, but she didn’t break.
Because she never screamed.
⍫⍫⍫⍫⍫⍫
The room reeked of burnt flesh and bleach, a cruel cocktail that clung to Mystery’s nose even as her senses began to flicker. Pain came in waves, a cruel tide pulling her under, dragging her to the edge of oblivion and back again. The whip struck again, carving fiery lines into her back, each crack ricocheting through her nerves until all she could do was scream.
She hated herself for it. Her mother never screamed. Not once. Magdalene had faced the hammer and the nails, the jeering crowd, the Queen’s cruelty, and still, she had defied them with her silence. But Mystery? She wasn’t her mother. Not yet.
The fire roared to her left, its blistering heat licking at her exposed skin. The water to her right cascaded over her body in relentless torrents, sharp as glass and cold as death. They called it "purification," but Mystery knew better. There was no cleansing here—only breaking. Only shaping.
Her body spasmed again, muscles seizing in a futile attempt to resist the endless cycle of torment. Her vision narrowed, blackened, tunneled. The edges of the room dissolved into formless shadows, and the faces of her tormentors blurred into specters. She was losing her grip on reality, her mind retreating to some dark recess where the pain might not find her.
Then he appeared.
A man loomed in her fading vision, crouching close, his pale face framed by the sterile white of a lab coat. His gloved hands hovered over her wounds, precise and impersonal, like a butcher inspecting meat. His mouth moved, forming words she couldn’t hear over the rush of blood in her ears and the crackling of fire.
Her vision tunneled, the edges of the room blurring into nothingness. The faces of her tormentors dissolved into formless shadows, their voices a cacophony of jeers and orders she could no longer decipher. Pain consumed everything, swallowing her whole. Then a new figure emerged from the dark—a man.
He moved with purpose, his steps deliberate and unhurried. The sterile white of his lab coat seemed out of place against the grime of the room, but the way he carried himself—aloof, detached, and maddeningly calm—made it clear he belonged here.
Mystery’s head lolled to the side as her vision flickered. His face came into view, blurred but unmistakably sharp. He crouched beside her, gloved hands hovering over her wounds, and spoke in a low, measured tone.
“You’re holding up better than most,” he said, his voice clinical yet threaded with an almost lazy curiosity. He tilted his head, as if studying her like a specimen under glass. “Though I suppose that’s not saying much, is it?”
His words were muffled, her blood-filled ears drowning out most of the sound, but she caught enough. Better than most. Not saying much.
Her lips parted, the words scraping against her raw throat. “Who…”
He didn’t answer, at least not directly. Instead, he leaned closer, his sharp eyes scanning her wounds with detached precision. “I’ve seen worse,” he muttered, half to himself. “Much worse. And yet…” He paused, as if considering something that only made sense in his own head, before adding with a faint, sardonic smile, “You don’t know when to quit, do you?”
His gloved fingers pressed lightly against a burn on her arm, sending a jolt of agony through her already broken nerves. Mystery jerked, a strangled cry escaping her lips. He didn’t flinch.
“Pain’s a good sign,” he continued, his tone almost conversational, as though they weren’t in a room of fire and torment. “It means you’re still alive. And if you’re alive, you’re useful.”
Useful. Not human. Not a person. Just a tool. Her teeth ground together as anger flared somewhere deep within her, burning hotter than the fire around her.
“No…”
The word escaped her lips in a broken whisper, her head lolling against the cold surface. Her vision swam, the edges of the man’s face darkening. Still, something in her fought through every burning ache running through the sinews of her muscle, like venom to the heart. Her trembling hand reached out, catching his wrist, nails digging deep. A golden gleam burned beneath her melted flesh, giving the man pause. For but a moment, her gaze met his, eyes full of defiance.
“You won’t…”
The man's expression remained frozen, unreadable, though the way her torturers' eyes snapped wide, paired with a single instinctive, flinching step back, painted a picture worth more than a thousand words. The doctor let out a hum and then, as though amused by her defiance, he chuckled—a low, humorless sound that felt more like a knife against her skin.
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension. “But don’t worry. I’m not here to break you. Not entirely, at least.”
The last thing she saw before the darkness claimed her was his hand reaching for a syringe, the needle glinting under the flickering fluorescent light.
“You’ll understand,” he murmured, his voice the last tether to reality.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Anya is LIVE right now
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