TWD - Chapter 549: Exposed (Patreon)

No one dared to speak. Cyrus stood in the crowd, his heart pounding like a drum.

He stole a glance around and saw Mika standing at the edge of the crowd.

Mika was deathly pale, his lips trembling. He stared at Victor’s battered, bloodied face as the man lay pinned to the ground. Mika opened his mouth, but Victor never looked his way.

Not even once.

Victor kept his eyes on Xavier, Dubin, and the men surrounding him. His voice grew steadily weaker. “You don’t believe me, but the Lord will prove it.”

Xavier stamped on him again. “Fuck you! Stop spouting that bullshit and shut the hell up!”

Xavier’s boot crushed Victor’s face against the ground. At last Victor fell silent, though his eyes remained open.

From the crowd, Cyrus desperately wanted to rush forward, shove Xavier aside, haul Victor onto his shoulders, and carry him away.

But he couldn’t. All he could do was stand there, numb, and watch his friend’s face disappear beneath the blood.

One wrong move, and everything would be over.

Still furious, Xavier kicked Victor in the stomach. Victor doubled over with a muffled groan. Only then did Xavier wave a hand. “Take him away. Lock him in the basement!”

Two Reapers fiercely loyal to The Pope hauled Victor upright, but his legs could no longer hold him. He sagged between them as they dragged him away.

As they passed Cyrus, Victor turned his head a fraction. His swollen eyes flicked toward Cyrus for an instant before he looked away and let the men drag him on.

Cyrus stood motionless, watching the bloody trail his friend left behind. The crowd slowly dispersed until he was the only one still standing there.

He crouched without a word. Victor’s blood had soaked into the cinders, leaving a small, dark brown patch. Cyrus touched it with one finger and felt a chill run through him.

He rose and walked away. He had to act as though he knew nothing and get back to his mission.

He kept his composure all the way back to the dormitory. Only after closing the door did cold sweat break out across his back. Shaking, he fumbled for the walkie-talkie on his chest. His voice trembled as he spoke. “They’ve taken Victor!”

Calista didn’t say a word.

“Victor... they beat him. Badly. They kept asking who he’d talked to.” Cyrus spoke faster and faster. “He didn’t say. He didn’t give anyone up.”

He couldn’t go on.

Calista drew several deep breaths and closed her eyes briefly. Then she asked in a steady voice, “Is Victor still alive?”

“He’s alive. They’ve locked him in the basement.”

“Good.”

Cyrus was taken aback. “Good?”

“Yes,” Calista replied. “As long as he’s alive, we can do something.”

Cyrus didn’t know what to say.

Calista continued, “Listen, Cyrus. Don’t do anything right now. Don’t visit him or ask questions. Act as though he’s already dead.”

Cyrus swallowed. “But...”

“No buts!” Calista interrupted. “He can hold out. If you lose your nerve, everything he’s endured will be for nothing, and they’ll kill him.”

Cyrus went quiet. He knew she was right, but the pain remained. It felt as though a hand had closed around his chest and was squeezing until he could barely breathe.

“I’ll find a way to help Victor,” Calista said. “Your job is to stay alive, keep watching, and report anything that happens.”

Cyrus took a deep breath. “...Okay.”

“One more thing.” Calista hesitated. “What about the people Victor spoke to?”

Cyrus remembered Mika at the edge of the crowd, pale and trembling, struggling to say something. He also remembered the young man with acne rushing past in a panic.

“They know what happened,” Cyrus said. “Mika was right there. Victor didn’t look at any of us.”

Calista was silent for a few seconds. “Can Mika handle this?”

Cyrus thought of what Mika had said in the alley the night before. “I... I don’t know.”

“Keep an eye on him,” Calista said. “He might act on impulse.”

Cyrus nodded. “Got it.”

When the call ended, Cyrus felt tears prick at his eyes. He covered his face with one hand and lay back on the bed.

The noise outside slowly faded. An occasional shout broke the quiet, then even those ceased.

Everything seemed normal again. Cyrus knew it was anything but.

His friend was locked in a basement, battered and bleeding, with no telling how much longer he might live. And Cyrus could do nothing but lie there and wait for a rescue whose arrival he could not predict.

...

It was in the evening that Cyrus “happened to pass by” the workshop’s basement.

He knew he shouldn’t be there. Calista had told him not to act, not to visit, not even to ask questions. But he couldn’t help himself.

He made a circuit of the workshop, pretending to inspect the equipment, before edging toward the iron basement door.

The door was shut. A thick bolt had been welded to the rusty iron plate, and a padlock hung from it.

Cyrus listened at the door. At first he heard nothing. His heart sank as he wondered whether he was too late.

Then he heard the sound of someone reciting a prayer.

“...The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want...”

The voice was halting and so hoarse it was almost unrecognizable, but it was definitely Victor’s.

“...He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters...”

Cyrus’s heart lurched. Thank God. That idiot Victor was still alive!

Then Xavier roared, “What the fuck are you chanting?!”

Heavy, muffled blows followed, fists striking flesh again and again. Victor stopped praying.

Cyrus remained outside, hearing Victor struggle for breath beneath the blows. Then Xavier spoke, panting as though the beating had worn him out. “Victor, are you going to talk or not?!”

Silence.

“Who were you talking to?”

Silence.

“Where’s Douglas?!”

Silence.

Another muffled thud.

Cyrus closed his eyes. He couldn’t go in and risk exposing himself. He had no idea how long he stood there. It might have been minutes, or half an hour.

Until that hoarse voice rang out from inside again: “...May… God… have mercy on me...”

Cyrus turned and walked away. He was afraid that if he stayed there any longer, he wouldn’t be able to resist kicking that door open and putting a bullet in Xavier’s forehead.

That night, Cyrus lay awake wondering whether to tell Calista that Victor was still alive. But what could he say? It would change nothing.

Calista had promised to find a way. He had no idea what she was planning, and all he could do was wait.

Then he heard soft, furtive footsteps outside his door.

Cyrus sat bolt upright, his hand flying to the knife at his waist.

The door opened a crack, and a figure squeezed inside.

Cyrus couldn’t make out the visitor’s face, but he could tell the man was trembling. Sensing no hostility, he relaxed a fraction.

“Cyrus?” The man’s voice was barely above a whisper, and it shook. “It’s me. Mika.”