The Vengeful Spirit, lower-level cell block.
The darkness was like a solid mass, weighing heavily on this forgotten corner.
The cell's only illumination came from an emergency lamp on the ceiling. It gave off a faint red light, casting a dull halo like diluted blood across the metal walls.
That light was not enough to dispel the darkness. It only made it more distinct, more tangible, as though something unseen were writhing in the shadows.
The air was thick with the mingled smells of rust, machine oil, and sweat, with a faint trace of blood.
Those were traces left by the prisoners once held here. Even repeated cleaning had failed to remove them completely.
Abaddon sat in a corner of the cell, his back against the cold wall, his legs stretched out, and his hands folded over his abdomen. His head hung slightly, his unfocused gaze resting on the patch of floor stained dark crimson by the red light.
He had been here for months. He had not bothered counting how many, because time had lost all meaning here.
Every day was exactly like the day before, every meal exactly like the last, and every patrol exactly like the one before it.
From his initial furious roars, pounding on the door, bellowing, and attempts to escape, he had gradually descended into complete apathy.
Months had passed without any word from Kaebo.
He did not know whether Kaebo had been discovered, had failed to find an opportunity, or had already abandoned his plan to rescue him.
No one from the Word Bearers had come either. Those Word Bearers sent to the Sons of Horus for an exchange seemed to have vanished from the world, never appearing before him again.
Only darkness and cold chains kept Abaddon company, day after day, night