Zodyl Typhon

The fall hadn't been quick—it had been endless. The girl tore through layers of polluted air, smoke, and debris before hitting the landfill with a dry impact that ripped the air from her lungs. The world spun. Twisted iron, machine carcasses, broken concrete. The acidic smell of rust and decay invaded her senses even before the pain.

The landfill was not empty.

Footsteps emerged from among the mountains of rubble. Slow. Unhurried. Low voices exchanged a few words—none of them curious. This was nothing new. Just another body falling.

"You're still breathing," one of them said, crouching down beside her.

Rough hands turned her onto her side. A kick tested if her body would react. It barely reacted. A weak moan escaped her throat.

"Let's take her," the other replied. "The boss will know what to do."

They didn't ask who she was. It didn't matter. They dragged her by the arm, ignoring the trail her body left among the trash and broken metal. The path seemed to descend further and further, as if the world insisted on pushing her beyond any limit.

When they threw her to the ground, the silence changed.

Zodyl Typhon stood in front, motionless, observing her as if evaluating a defective object. He didn't approach immediately. He merely studied her, his eyes half-closed, attentive to the irregular rhythm of her breathing.

"She fell from the surface," said one of the henchmen.

Zodyl nodded once. Then he stepped forward, kneeling down to her level. The girl forced her eyes open. She didn't beg; she just tried to understand where she was.

It was a mistake.

Zodyl rose slowly. Death was a decision already made—until he simply reconsidered.

"Arrest her!" he ordered, his voice low and unwavering.

The henchmen exchanged a quick glance, but obeyed. Makeshift handcuffs snapped shut with a dry click. As they led her away, the girl remained unaware of what had changed. But Zodyl was determined: from that moment on, keeping her alive would be even more cruel.