"Why? Why? Why?" Cassian wanted to scream those words over and over, but his throat was too raw, too torn from the endless screaming. Every attempt to open his mouth only brought blood to the surface, choking him with its metallic taste. His body trembled, the pain searing through every nerve, but the question still burned in his mind.
What had he done so wrong to deserve this? What was so terrible in his past that led to this unending torment? Was this punishment for killing that hooded figure who had attacked him? He had killed in self-defense, yes—he had acted out of instinct to survive—but now, in this agonizing moment, doubt crept in. Was this overkill? Had he really deserved all this? He had been defending himself, doing what anyone would do in his place, and yet, the torment continued. Wasn't this punishment too much?
The question lingered in Cassian's mind:
He thought it was because of the monsters he had killed, creatures just minding their own business, but he had fought them to complete his mission. Yet, he knew many others had killed for far more selfish reasons, and it wasn't as though those monsters would've left him alone if they found him first or saw him vulnerable. They were dangerous—he had no choice but to defend himself.
But even so, why was he being punished ? What had he done to deserve this hell? He didn't know. Did he commit some unspeakable sin in a past life, something so heinous that this agony was his penance? He couldn't answer. All he knew was the pain, the unanswered question, and the suffocating weight of it all.
Cassian's thoughts spiraled, each one tumbling over the other in a haze of confusion and pain.
The question clung to him like the blood-soaked chains that bound him. Was it because he was an orphan? Was that why he was suffering —because the world had decided to punish him for something beyond his control?
He remembered the times, back in the capital, when he had begged for scraps, for a moment of mercy, only to be met with curses and mockery.
"You deserve nothing."
But was that true? Did being an orphan mean he deserved this—deserved to be broken down, to suffer in ways that made him wish for death? He had lost his parents young, had been cast into the world with nothing but the clothes on his back and a burning need to survive. Was it his fault? He hadn't asked for this life, for the hand fate had dealt him.
How could an orphan, with no guidance, no foundation, be blamed for the mistakes of the world? How could someone so young, so new to this cruel world, be expected to understand its rules or control his own fate when he was just trying to get by? How could they commit a crime when they barely knew how to control their own survival?
No, it wasn't his fault. But still, here he was, chained and broken, with no one to answer why. The world had judged him before he could even speak his name, and now, in his moment of agony, the same question gnawed at him:
Cassian's mind screamed in rebellion, but in the depths of his pain, another truth rose to the surface—one he had known all along but wasn't ready to face. He didn't want to admit it, but the answer was so clear now. The reason he was here, suffering, being broken, was simple:
A weak, pathetic loser, whose life had always been dictated by forces outside his control. The world didn't care about your morals, your righteousness, your struggles. It didn't matter if you were good or evil. It didn't matter how many times you tried to stand tall. All that mattered was how long you could keep getting back up after the world knocked you down.
And Cassian? He had failed. He hadn't been strong enough. He hadn't played the game well enough.
The world, with all its cruelty, had toyed with him, using his weakness to bend him, break him, and now, it was punishing him for not playing the game right, for breaking too soon. He had been given a set of rules he hadn't understood, hadn't learned how to navigate—and now, the consequences were here.
It didn't matter if you were good or evil. It didn't matter if you fought back with all your might.
was a constant in the world, something you couldn't escape, no matter your intentions. The only thing that mattered was whether you could endure it, whether you could keep taking it, again and again, until the world decided you were done.
He had broken too early. He wasn't strong enough to withstand it. And now, he was paying the price.
The world didn't need a reason to punish you. It didn't need justification or morality. All that mattered was how long you could take the beating before it crushed you completely.
But the question came again.
Cassian's body was a mess, every inch of his skin torn and marred with holes and cuts. His limbs were twisted in unnatural angles, bone protruding from open wounds, each injury a reminder of the torment he had endured. And yet, the same question echoed in his mind, louder than ever.
Was it because he had gotten so close to Lady Katherine? Had she been the cause of all this?
"No," he thought bitterly, a hollow chuckle escaping his cracked lips. 'Why would she be?' Even if she had been, she had warned him—told him this would happen. It was his choice, wasn't it?
It wasn't as if he hadn't had a choice. He had made it clear, even when the consequences loomed large. He had known the risks, yet he had still walked this path. Still, as the pain raked through him, he couldn't stop himself from wishing he had never made that decision.
But no matter how much he screamed in his mind, 'it didn't change anything. I don't want to feel this. I don't want to keep enduring this pain...'
As the thought repeated in his mind, Cassian couldn't help but ask himself another question: 'Why did he have to accept this pain as his reality?'
Even if it was reality, he didn't want it. He didn't want a world where his existence was nothing more than suffering, where every breath felt like a punishment. He wanted to change it. He wanted to take control. He wanted to
this reality, to turn it all around and make those who had caused him this pain feel it in return. He wanted to massacre those who had done this to him—or anyone who didn't deserve to walk free while he suffered.
If this world was the one forcing this torment on him, then so be it. He would challenge it. He would tear it apart. No one, not even the world itself, had the right to make him endure this kind of suffering without cause. No one who had done nothing wrong should ever face this pain.
As he thought, something inside him seemed to snap, shattering the chains that had bound him, and for the first time, he felt truly free. It was more liberating than anything he had experienced before—even more than the moment when that flying ship descended, bringing him the closest feeling of freedom he'd ever known. Now, he felt it in its purest form, as though the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders.