Though unbound, Redael remained still. If his body wasn't dead, his spirit surely was. Maybe it was the broken ribs that kept him from moving. Or the swollen eyes that turned his vision into a murky haze of red. He wasn't sure which was worse—the pain, or the uncertainty. If the captain was unhinged, what did that say about the rest of the crew?

  His chest tightened. His breath came in quick, shallow gasps. Blood trickled from his split brow, mingling with the coarse hair of his beard. His mind reached for something safe, something familiar. His messy room back in New USA. Even broke and unemployed, he had at least been free.

  "Should've never come here."

  The thought barely settled before a voice cut through the silence.

  "New face, eh? Nothing new, so pardon the lack of excitement. How bad are ya hurt?"

  Redael flinched. A head peeked over from the top bunk across the dimly lit room.

  A pause. A tactical one. He swallowed hard, forcing his breath steady. The less weakness he showed, the better.

  "I'm fine." He coughed, flecks of blood dotting his sleeve.

  The stranger chuckled, the sound low and unbothered. "Not bad. Took it better than most—no code browns or yellows."

  Leather scraped against steel as he swung himself down from the bunk, landing with the grace of someone who'd done this a hundred times before. He extended a hand.

  "C'mon, let's get you to the doc." His Irish accent was thick, but his tone was light, almost amused. "Don't worry—I'll clean up your blood this time. Next time, it's all you, friend."

  Redael hesitated. A trick? A setup? Was he just finishing what the captain started?

  But he needed to stay alive. The diamond. If he died now, there'd be no diamond for the captain. And if there was no diamond, there'd be no Redael.

  He grabbed the Irishman's hand. The pain was instant—a sharp twist through his ribs—but he grit his teeth and followed.

  Outside, the red LED lights cast long, unnatural shadows, warping the already narrow hallways into a labyrinth of flickering menace. He barely noticed his guide talking, his thoughts drowned in a storm of fresh worries.

  Then, something caught his eye.

  Crude, hand-painted signs marked the hallways. "Medical Supplies." "Trader." Names were scrawled across some, claiming territory like gangland graffiti—"El Cabello." "Turkeys." "8-Ball."

  Gangs.

  Just another thing to worry about. His mind blurred out the Irishman's talk for a second as his eyes winced at the thought of crossing more people.

  "And make sure you're never late with payments," the Irishman was saying. "El Cabello's got cartel ties. Found a few heads and limbs near the migrant quarters last week—hell of a way to lose your lunch." He smirked. "Anyway, we're here."

  He ducked into a repurposed sleeping pod, now a makeshift clinic. The air reeked of cheap antiseptic and old blood. A single halogen bulb buzzed dimly, barely illuminating the rusted shelves lined with mismatched pill bottles and medical scraps.

  "You're up," the Irishman said, nodding toward the counter.

  A small bell sat on the desk. Redael rang it, the chime weak and tinny against the ship's metal walls.

  A moment later, a weathered old man emerged—his movements stiff, his face creased like worn-out leather stretched over a skull. He looked older than the ship itself.

  The shopkeeper's face lit up as his gaze settled on Redael. His expression held a flicker of recognition.

  "Does he know me? Impossible."

  Still, the moment of warmth was enough to slow Redael's racing heart. Any friendliness in this abyss was worth clinging to.

  The old man muttered something in Arabic.

  "I... I don't speak—", Redael winced, words costing him pain.

  "Ah, my mistake. Thought you were Arab, like me. Where are you from?"

  As he spoke, the shopkeeper was already working, inspecting the painkillers as though diagnosing Redael before he even asked.

  "What's wrong with this one then, Derrick?" he asked the Irishman.

  "Ahh, just a light scuffle. Can't imagine he did anything too bad, right pal?" Derrick smirked, giving Redael a glance.

  A light scuffle?

  Redael swallowed his anger. He wanted to see Derrick get beaten like that and still call it light. But he held his tongue, knowing better. Honor is worth more than life itself... so why didn't he fight back?

  "Was running and bumped into the Captain," he muttered, eyes dropping to the floor. "Didn't know that was a crime."

  The moment the words left his mouth, shame curled in his gut like a knife. Should I have fought? Could I have? His mind gnawed at itself. A walking contradiction. Fear of death, fear of pain—was that all he was?

  Derrick's voice pulled him out of his spiral.

  "Ahhh, got off lightly then. Captain doesn't mind much, except for disrespect and losing cattle. From what I hear, he thinks of himself as some God-appointed sea emperor. Count yourself lucky you still have your ears."

  The shopkeeper sighed, rubbing his jaw. "It's okay. You're still alive. Be grateful to Allah." He handed Redael the medicine. "Take a few of these, and you'll forget the pain. And try not to poison the Captain's food, eh?"

  A thin smile, an attempt to lighten the mood.

  Redael grabbed the bag greedily. "Thanks."

  "Where are you from?" the old man asked again.

  Redael hesitated. The answer sat on his tongue, but it wasn't one he ever liked to say out loud.

  "Truth be told, I don't know. Asia, maybe. Never met my parents."

  A pause.

  AbdulKadir's face softened. "Ahhhh... may Allah have mercy on the orphan." His yellowed teeth flashed in a grin. "After you see the doctor, come back. I have mint tea in a big pot."

  Redael blinked. A kindness he hadn't expected.

  "My name is AbdulKadir," the shopkeeper said in Arabic.

  Redael straightened, pain shooting through his ribs. "My name is Redael." He answered in Arabic.

  AbdulKadir's eyes widened.

  That trust—Redael could almost feel it settle between them. He had a gift for this. For breaking barriers, learning the tongue of whoever stood before him. It always worked.

  "Gaffa, we've got to get going—don't drink all the tea, yeah?" Derrick called as he headed for the door.

  They clasped hands once more, then left.

  The next stop was just a few hallways down—past a checkpoint.

  As they approached, Redael stole glances into the open pods around him.

  To the right: A group of men forcing another to play five-finger fillet. The trembling knife hovering over his splayed hand.

  To the left: A single flickering bulb, swinging back and forth, illuminating the unconscious forms of five men sprawled on the floor.

  A blur brushed his arm—something soft, thin.

  Redael stiffened. A woman. Midnight-dark skin. One of the migrants.

  Being led into a room.

  In her hands: an opaque bag of food.

  The Latino man beside her muttered something low, laughing.

  Redael stopped.

  A chill slid down his spine.

  Derrick's hand landed on his shoulder.

  "Don't play hero. Doctor's this way."

  Redael swallowed.

  Ahead, the checkpoint loomed. A bottleneck between one boiling keg and another.

  Two Hispanic men stood at the entrance. Unarmed. Or at least, when their shirts were down.

  Redael spotted it—a blade flashed at one's hip as he gestured to the other.

  GULP.

  The only law on this ship was gang law. And right now, Redael was walking blind into its hands.

  Unfamiliar hands brushed against him. Latin tattoos glinted under harsh, artificial light. A quick pat-down. The two then passed through to the next section.

  The next section of Hope was markedly different. Though the corridor still reeked of grime and was lit by the same ominous, robotic lights, the patrons had changed. Here, Africans—some from America—mingled, their voices low and animated. Personal effects, from vibrant rasta stickers to bold red jerseys, adorned the cramped pods like defiant splashes of culture amid decay.

  "Doc's just through here. These guys aren't a problem—friendly. Just stay out of their way," Derrick whispered, his tone low and conspiratorial. Redael mentally noted the change. The halls here felt unexpectedly upbeat; cassette players pumped reggae beats that vibrated off the metal walls.

  Suddenly, Derrick's tone shifted. "Wait up!" he hissed as he pivoted around a corner. Redael watched the hairs on Derrick's back stand on end—a silent alarm of impending trouble.

  "What's going on?" Redael croaked, his voice barely above a whisper.

  "8-Ball. Let him do his thing. He's not normally in these halls... must be serious," Derrick replied.

  Redael edged around the corner, desperate to gather information. His heart pounded, that familiar fear tightening him in its grip. Control it, hold it—remember Allah. In mere seconds, he braced himself.

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  A tall, lean shadow appeared—a man reminiscent of the Captain, yet slimmer, like a withered tree branch swaying in a toxic wind. The figure moved from one pod into another, and then, horror struck. From a nearby room emerged 8-Ball's de facto undertaker—a grim, silent enforcer dragging a body. Redael's eyes locked onto the sight of a knife embedded in the victim's heart, the wound sealed off to curb a spray of blood. It was as if the man had no time for cleanup.

  "Did he just kill that guy?!" Redael whispered urgently, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and disbelief. "What kind of place is this, Derrick?!" A sinking sensation ran from his sternum to his core—a reminder of the violence that defined this ship. He fought the rising panic. Calm down. Survive.

  The body was hauled into another pod, the door crudely marked "Recycling." Redael's gaze darted from the sign to Derrick, then back to the claustrophobic, unyielding hallway.

  "Now," Derrick said coldly, his eyes scanning the passage. "Stay sharp. This is still his territory. Let's make it quick—he doesn't seem in a jolly good mood."

  They moved cautiously. The slimy residue of bodily fluids made each step a battle against slipping. Redael's stomach churned as he navigated the narrow corridors, his mind still reeling from what he had witnessed. After a few more twists and turns, their destination came into view—a small room with a peculiar door. No handle, just a heavy, resonant KNOCK that thundered through the passage. A glint of metal at eye level revealed dark, haunted eyes—eyes that had seen too much.

  "Derrick...back so soon?" asked a deep, unfamiliar voice, thick with an African accent touched by French.

  "Aye, it's an emergency. Otherwise, you know I can't stand the way your shop smells," Derrick quipped, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

  The unknown man chuckled softly. "Come in," he said.

  The door creaked open with a chorus of moans and metallic squeaks, flooding the space with a sickly yellow light. Inside, the miniature pharmacy was a study in organized chaos—bent, hand-crafted wooden shelves lined with neatly labeled bottles. This place was a far cry from AbdulKadir's disheveled stall; here, order reigned amid the decay. This was the Doctor's domain.

  "This way, please. Lie down here," the Doctor commanded. His voice was firm yet professional. Redael obeyed, wincing as his ribs protested and his torso bent painfully. His face scrunched up in discomfort.

  "Hmm... doesn't look like you tripped over or fell from a container. Derrick, what happened with this one?" the Doctor inquired, his layered eyebrows knitting in concern.

  "I'll let him fill you in, Doc. I've gotta get going," Derrick replied as he slung himself over the doorway, half-hanging from the frame. "Redael, I'll see you back at the pod. Don't forget the way now—I'm not coming for you!" With a quick grin, he vanished down the hall.

  Left alone, Redael felt a cautious relief. The overhead lamp cast a pure, blinding white—a stark contrast to the ship's usual murk—and it gave him a fleeting sense of safety. Small talk began, a necessary ritual to ease the tension. The Doctor was all business but managed a wry smile.

  "Not every day a cook shows up on my bed with broken ribs. Usually, it's cut fingertips," the Doctor remarked, his tone teasing yet probing.

  Should I reveal what happened? Could he be a snake for the Captain? Redael played it safe.

  "Just ran into trouble," he replied with a tentative smile and a cough. In this den of brutality, caution was survival. That smile, however, struck a chord in the Doctor. There was something uncommonly genuine in Redael—a rarity among the usual rough types who darkened his door. And Redael noticed.

  "Oh? Trouble must be ship-wide then. Lately, I've seen a spike in new patients—stab wounds, beatings. Is there... a war going on?" the Doctor asked, his tone softening with genuine concern.

  "I don't know about war. I just cook the food, mostly. But yes... I ran into the Captain. Literally. He's built like a nuclear bunker," Redael offered sheepishly, careful not to reveal too much.

  The Doctor nodded, preparing a gel and pulling out a heat pad. "Most come to me because of him," he murmured, voice dropping to a whisper. "Best steer clear of a man like that." His eyes darted to the entrance, a subtle signal of caution.

  Redael sensed a small measure of safety—a chance to insert himself, even if only to forge another unlikely alliance on this hopeless voyage. "Yeah, he'd be that one. What's his problem?" he asked quietly.

  "Ah, well—don't let him hear you," the Doctor replied, glancing toward the doorway. He turned his head fully, an instinctive gesture of paranoia. "Let's just say there are better men in the world. I know him. I knew him."

  "Seems like the two of you had some trouble in the past?" Redael asked, probing for information. Maybe this Doctor could be trusted. Just one friendly face on this ship would be enough.

  The Doctor paused, a tub of gel resting in his palm. "In old country. I was Doctor there too."

  "He was one of your patients then?"

  "No." The Doctor sighed. His eyes flicked toward a framed photo on his desk. A younger version of himself stood there in a crisp white coat, surrounded by fellow graduates. His posture was proud—before life had broken it down.

  "You know my country?" he asked.

  "Mali?" Redael guessed.

  "Sierra. Sierra Leone—you know?"

  "West Africa, right?"

  "Yes, very poor country, brother." The Doctor's voice grew distant, his gaze still locked on the photo. "Not many Leonian doctors. They come from everywhere—Morocco, England—but I wanted to help my own people, so I became Doctor." He gestured at the frame.

  Redael followed his eyes. The young man in the photo had hope. The one before him now had seen too much.

  "But my family was poor. My father couldn't send me to university abroad. I took loan from a man—a foreign company. But in Sierra, you can't just get a loan. You must be introduced."

  Redael frowned. "The Captain introduced you?"

  Silence. The Doctor's fingers tightened around the gel, his knuckles turning pale. He stared at the floor, lost in thought.

  The treatment had stopped, but Redael didn't dare interrupt. His ribs ached, screaming for relief, but something in the Doctor's stillness told him to wait.

  Then, a sharp inhale. A shake of the head. The moment passed. "Yes," the Doctor said finally. "He did. Many years ago."

  Redael stayed quiet, sensing that patience would yield more than pushing.

  "After I graduated, there was no work. No money to start my own surgery. No experience." The Doctor's voice had flattened. Detached. "I told them I would pay when I got a job. But they said I must pay now. With interest."

  A bitter chuckle. "I was shocked. I said, 'Brother, Sierra is a Muslim country—no interest. Interest is haraam.' Then he hit me. In front of my family."

  The Doctor turned, pulling his cheek back to reveal a missing molar.

  Redael swallowed.

  "They beat me. Over and over. And still, I could not pay." The Doctor's fingers trailed over another frame. A different photo. Four children, bright smiles frozen in time. Three girls, one boy. His siblings.

  "Then, finally, they offered me a job here. On this ship. To pay back the debt."

  A weighted pause. Redael measured his response, careful not to tread too heavily. He studied the Doctor's body language—stiff shoulders, slack arms, a weariness in his bones. He recognized that weight. A slow decay. The kind that made you neglect yourself. The kind that pulled you into the dark.

  "Disgusting people," Redael muttered. "May Allah make it easy for you. At least the debt will be paid soon."

  The Doctor's lips curled into something between a smile and a grimace. "Money debts can and will be paid." He exhaled slowly. "But my honor? My dignity?" He shook his head. "That is lost."

  His voice had softened. Warmer now. Redael sensed the shift—trust, however small, beginning to take root.

  "I knew his family. Same village. His family supported government. Government no good, brother. Just selling country for money." The Doctor lifted the gel again, finally returning to his work. The cooling sensation spread over Redael's ribs. "And your country? What about your family?"

  "I don't know, to be honest." Redael hesitated, then admitted, "I don't even know where I'm from. I'm an orphan. Yateem."

  The Doctor muttered a prayer in Arabic. Then, a small smirk. "So if I look after an orphan, I get double the reward, yes?"

  Redael laughed, wincing through the pain. "May Allah make it more than that."

  "Ameen, ameen." The Doctor grinned, the first genuine one Redael had seen. The weight in the room lightened just a little.

  "And your family, Doctor?" Redael asked. "They weren't pro-government?"

  "No." The warmth in the Doctor's face faded. "My family was simple. No politics. No secular ones, anyway. My father taught Qur'an at a small madrassa. My uncle, a mufti. We only wanted Allah's law."

  Redael nodded.

  "But once, after mosque, the Captain spoke about his father. Said his father was rich now. Took money from big foreign company. Same age as my father. Same village. But his father..." The Doctor's jaw tensed. "His father did politics. Minister of Agriculture. On farmland, nobody could dig for diamonds. But his father gave permission. In return for money."

  "So he traded food security for his own wealth?" Redael asked, showing he was following.

  The Doctor's eyes gleamed with something dark. "Exaaactly... exactly."

  The gel application slowed, the Doctor's fingers pressing absently into Redael's side. "I told him it was wrong. That his father should fear Allah. And then we fought." His voice was quieter now. "After that... he was very bad to me. To my family."

  The pause was longer this time.

  "When they took my sisters and my brother..." The Doctor's throat bobbed as he swallowed. "When he kicked my teeth out... I think he took personal pleasure."

  Cold silence filled the room.

  Redael's fingers curled against the makeshift bed. His stomach twisted. The Doctor's family. Vanished. For a mere loan.

  Just for speaking out.

  What kind of men were running this operation?

  Just how deep did this operation go?

  The Doctor took a deep breath. Straightened his shoulders. The heaviness didn't leave his face, but he forced himself to move past it.

  "I do patience," he said finally. "And I will see them again."

  Then, turning back to Redael, he asked, "And you, young one? What's your story?"

  Redael stared at the light above, letting it blur into soft shapes. Not even the cold steel against his arms could interrupt the current pulling him deep into thought.

  The silence dragged. The Doctor broke it.

  "Seems like you're still writing your story. You don't have to share, brother. Wounds are almost healed."

  "No, it's fine," Redael replied, eyes still fixed upward. "There's not much to tell. Grew up alone. Shy, kept to myself. Had a few friends. Trained in tech—it was supposed to open doors, create jobs. But things haven't been easy in New USA since the breakup."

  "Serves them right," the Doctor said sharply. Bitterness in every syllable.

  Redael nodded. "No arguments there. Just saying—after that and with AI killing off half the work, the job market's a feeding frenzy."

  "So things are that bad, you ended up on this ship?"

  "Yup. That's about the size of it."

  The Doctor looked at him for a beat. "I hope you find what you're looking for."

  "What I'm looking for?" Redael asked, brow creasing.

  "I don't think you're here just for money. I recognise you. But I don't know from where."

  Without waiting for a reply, the Doctor bundled up his tools and placed them neatly on a shelf.

  "Come," he said. "I need to show you something."

  Redael sat up slowly. His boots touched the cold, tiled floor like anchors. He followed the Doctor to a shadowed corner of the room, hidden behind a large bookshelf.

  The Doctor pointed to a rusted door. "Turn the dog," he commanded.

  "The... dog?"

  "The handle."

  Redael squinted, then gave the stiff latch a push. It groaned open. Beyond it: a dark passage, poorly lit and steeped in a musty chill.

  He stepped inside.

  Footsteps echoed, soft clunks of leather on steel. The further they went, the dimmer it became. Whispers drifted down the hall—no, not whispers—voices. Many. Moans. Groans.

  Redael's pace slowed.

  Then, the passage opened into a vast chamber. And there they were.

  People.

  Caged. Like animals.

  Cages stacked six high. Thirty columns ringed the walls. Maybe more. Men, women, children—even newborns, their cries barely stronger than a breath.

  Were they born en voyage?

  Redael turned slowly. The Doctor met his gaze. Under the flickering red lights, Redael saw the pain in the man's eyes mirrored his own horror.

  "Sierra Leone, Mali, Nigeria, Sudan," the Doctor said quietly. "My people come to escape war and hunger. Poverty eats them alive back home. And now they endure this."

  He pointed to a boy who looked barely alive—skin stretched over bone, eyes hollow.

  "They are the true cargo of this ship."

  Redael didn't speak. Couldn't.

  The groans filled him more than the sight. They told stories of suffering words couldn't capture. His heart strained under the weight of it all.

  What if they get hungry? Do they fight for scraps? Could I survive this?

  Cages with no ladders. Six high. A death sentence if there's a fire.

  The Doctor placed a hand on Redael's shoulder. "I need something from you, young one."

  Redael barely heard him. His mind reeled. His knees shook. Hands trembled.

  I could run. I should run.

  But his feet didn't move. Something held him firm.

  Hope?

  He hadn't been the best Muslim lately. Months had passed since he'd prayed regularly. But now, his lips moved instinctively.

  All power is from You. Glory be to You. I need Your help.

  He whispered the words over and over, a shield against the horror.

  "If they don't eat, they die," the Doctor said flatly. "Some have less than a week. The last cook told me how much food gets wasted. Captain Idiot works hard, but parties harder. Lavish meals, every night. Food to spare."

  Then:

  "Can you bring some to us?"

  Food for hundreds?

  The thought struck him like a wall.

  Impossible.

  The old voice returned—skeptical, acidic, always doubting: You can't do this. You'll mess it up. You'll die here.

  Redael swallowed.

  He didn't know how to fight this. Not yet.

  But he knew he couldn't run either. Not now.

  Not when they couldn't.

  CRASH.

  The sound split the air like bone snapping under pressure. Redael flinched, heart kicking inside his chest. The noise came from behind—the tunnel. The same tunnel that had swallowed hundreds of nameless souls.

  The Doctor spun on his heel. "New patient," he said, tone clipped. "I must go. But you—please, son, don't forget us. It's hard to find a good heart in a place like this."

  Redael nodded, jaw clenched. "I won't let you down, uncle."

  His voice sounded stronger than he felt. Beneath his calm surface, his fingers twitched with the quiet tremble of disbelief.

  They marched back toward the infirmary.

  Inside, chaos bloomed like smoke. A group of Hispanic men argued in quick, clipped Spanish, frantic movements circling a blood-slicked bed. The body on it wasn't moving. His chest—still. His face—pale.

  "?Doc! ?Doc!" one of them shouted. "We lost him two minutes ago—is he dead?"

  All eyes turned toward a wiry man, arms crossed, expression unreadable. The leader. Not just by rank, but by respect. His men didn't shrink under him like the Captain's dogs—they hovered closer, tethered by something like trust.

  The Doctor didn't speak. He acted. He moved with the speed of someone who'd done this dance too many times. Two fingers to the neck, an order barked. "Clamps. Adrenaline. Oxygen."

  Hands scrambled to obey.

  Then a voice rang out from the intercom. Cold. Mechanised.

  "All shipmates to dorms now. Lockdown commencing in T minus five minutes. Patrol drones launching shortly."

  Shipmates, Redael scoffed silently. More like walking liabilities. Refuse to comply and the ship would chew you up and spit you out—into the sea, or something worse.

  He didn't wait to be asked twice. He turned and walked. The screams, the beeping machines, the iron stench of blood—they all faded as he retreated through the underbelly of L'Espoir.

  His boots echoed against the cold grates. One step, then another. Each one heavier than the last.

  Tonight would not bring rest. Not truly.

  Something had shifted. Inside the hull. Inside him.

  And though the lights still hummed above, Redael felt something darker begin to stir behind his eyes.