studio or a cell. They threw him into a concrete pit. The heavy metal door slammed shut, p

sn' t

justed slowly, and he saw them. Dozens of them. Rats. Their beady eyes reflected the sliver of lig

th bared. He kicked out, a raw cry tearing from his throat. The night was a blur of motion and terror. He fought with his feet, his one good hand, his teeth. He screamed until his voice was raw, but

us space, the floor stained with paint, clay, and God knows what else

aid, his voice a low growl. "So you will learn

ror. Two guards grabbed h

he cho

im hard in the ribs. The a

the direct

ent the entire day on his belly, crawling from one end of the massive studio to the other, his tongue scraping against the rough surface until it was a raw, swollen piece of meat in his mouth. H

d night

They were other "inmates," their faces hard and desperate. They didn' t s

ase," he whispered, his swollen tongue makin

halls of The Gauntlet that nigh

g at a guard the wrong way. They practiced bloodletting on him, claiming it was an "archaic art form" he needed to appreciate. They call

to be ready for whatever was coming. If he failed, the punishment was three days of solitary darkness with no food or water. They told him it was to cure his "add

ut his past, about Olivia. He learned to survive moment by moment. The vibrant, passionate artist named Alex was buried unde