"What will you do if you discovered you held the power of time in your hands?"
The voice echoed in the darkness, deep and resonant, like a whisper carried on a storm.
Hugh… Hugh…
The sound of slow, heavy breathing reverberated through the void.
Clink! Clink!
Chains rattled, their metallic cry slicing through the silence.
"Will you use it to free yourself from the chains of your own greed—for power and control?"
The voice returned, curling through the air as the wind howled in answer.
Hugh… Hugh…
Clink… Clink…
The breathing and rattling continued, relentless, like a rhythm of despair.
"To be the controller of your own destiny… and also of others."
The words slithered through the dark, accompanied by the mournful wail of the wind.
A flicker of light flashed—brief, sharp—revealing two chained legs clad in orange trousers, white sneakers scuffed and worn. Then the light vanished, plunging the space back into suffocating blackness.
"To master the game that lets you rule it all—in both space and time."
The voice thundered again, as the chains scraped against the floor and the breathing grew heavier.
"Will you take that gamble and emerge as the top mastermind of the game."
The voice continued as another flicker of light—this time illuminating trembling hands bound in iron cuffs, the chain stretching down to the prisoner's legs. The figure struggled to move, each step a battle against the weight of restraint.
"As for me… I learned the game… too late, and in the most painful and harshest way."
Silence fell. A silence so thick it pressed against the ears.
Until—
Beep!!
A piercing sound shattered the stillness. The grinding roar of a gate opening echoed through the darkness, heavy and final.
Just then, loud shouts erupted—chanting, whistling, the banging of metal against metal—all echoing through the darkness like a storm of unrest.
Suddenly, light flooded the void, revealing a vast stretch of a fortified prison complex. Rows of cells lined the interior, their iron bars glinting under harsh fluorescent lights. A towering durawall encircled the compound, crowned with coils of electric barbed wire that hummed faintly in the cold air.
The prison stood isolated in the middle of a barren plateau, snow stretching endlessly in every direction, the jagged silhouette of the mountain looming behind it like a silent sentinel.
The shouting, chanting, and clamor of prisoners reverberated through the corridors, a cacophony of rage and despair.
"Open the second gate!" an officer barked, his voice cutting through the chaos.
Beep!
The shrill tone signaled the gate's release. With a grinding roar, the heavy doors slid open.
From the shadows emerged a man in an orange uniform, the tag across his chest reading: Prisoner S-00001. His wrists were bound in steel cuffs, chains dragging from his ankles with each step.
Two guards flanked him, gripping his arms tightly. One leaned close, sneering.
"Tsk… welcome to your new home, Phillips."
The words dripped with mockery, echoing against the cold stone walls as the prisoner was yanked forward.
At the guard's snicker, the man slowly lifted his head. Golden-brown hair fell across his forehead, framing a sharp nose and pale, bruised lips. His sapphire-blue eyes stared forward—soulless, hollow, like two bottomless pools that swallowed all light.
That emptiness was exactly what he felt. A shell of a man. Broken. Void of spirit. The life he once had was gone—stolen without mercy, with no promise of ever being restored. At least, that was how it felt in this moment.
"Move!" the guard barked, yanking the chains as they dragged him deeper into the prison's cold hallway.
The cacophony of shouts, chants, whistles, and the violent banging of objects grew louder, echoing off the concrete walls. The sound pressed against him like a storm, each step pulling him further into the heart of despair.
Voices erupted from the cells as the prisoner was dragged down the hallway.
"Oh look, it's Agent Phillips!"
"Welcome home, Agent!"
"What's up, pretty boy?"
"Welcome to your hell, sucker!"
"Where's your macho ego now, Phillips? You still ended up in the same place you threw us!"
"Don't worry, Agent—we're going to dance together soon. Count on it!"
"Curse you, WFAB scum!"
"We'll see each other soon—and you'll kiss my ass, you son of a bitch!"
"Yeah!"
"Yeah!"
"Pwee!" A mocking whistle cut through the air.
The insults and curses rained down from every direction, echoing off the concrete walls, bouncing like venomous arrows around him. Hands gripped the bars, fists slammed against iron, and faces twisted with rage and glee leered at him from the shadows of their cells.
Dragged forward, the man kept his head low, the chains scraping against the floor. His mind churned, wondering—how had it all come to this?
...
Bang!
The crack of a judge's gavel reverberated inside his mind, drowning out the noise of the prison.
"Agent Isaac Phillips. You have been found guilty as charged—for the murders of Agent Jason Ary and Agent Christopher Thomas, also known as Agents A-3 and A-4, and Agent Roy Simmons. You are also charged with the brutal murder of a convict by the name of Angel Perez, alias Viper. But the most unforgivable crime you have committed is the attempted assassination of the World's Supreme President—the President of Aphilis. Due to these heinous crimes, you are hereby handed down the death penalty. You are sentenced to spend six months in the world's most secure maximum prison until the day of your execution. May God have mercy on your soul."
BANG!
The gavel struck again, final and merciless.
His fate was sealed. The words echoed in his skull like iron chains, each syllable branding him with the weight of inevitability.
.....
"Name." The guard's voice was sharp, clipped.
Click! Click!
Cameras flashed, their blinding light cutting through the sterile room where prisoners were processed.
"Isaac Phillips." His voice was low, hollow.
Click!
"Age."
"Thirty-one years."
Click!
"Turn to your right."
Isaac shifted stiffly, chains scraping against the floor.
Click!
"Turn to your left."
He obeyed, his sapphire eyes dull beneath the glare.
Click!
"Now face the front."
Isaac raised his head, staring into the lens as though it were staring back into his soul.
Click!
The camera captured him—an image frozen in time, a record of a man stripped of freedom, identity, and hope.
...
"We're done scanning your fingerprints now," an officer said as Isaac sat stiffly in a chair, pressing his fingers against the cold glass surface of the scanner.
The machine hummed softly, its light flickering across his bruised knuckles.
"Now just wait while I fetch the papers," the officer added, before leaving the room—her footsteps fading into the corridor. Isaac was left in the silent custody of two prison guards, their eyes fixed on him like hawks.
He rubbed his aching wrists, the steel of the handcuffs biting into his skin, before his gaze drifted toward the television mounted in the corner of the room.
"Ms. Patricia Milton has once again triumphed in the Derby Race with spectacular skill. She defeated Windrider to claim the title of Western Region Champion. With this victory, she now holds six regional championships. Only two remain before she becomes eligible to challenge the Golden Horse for the World's Throne."
The announcer's voice rang with excitement as the screen showed Patricia, radiant with joy, receiving her golden medal and trophy. Her smile was wide, her triumph undeniable.
For the first time in days, Isaac's lips curved faintly. A smile—small, weary, but real—ghosted across his face as he watched her bask in glory.
"But right now… the world is anticipating her grand wedding to none other than the White Knight of the Derby, Mr. Bernard Crisby. The two announced their engagement just two weeks ago, and already countless wishes and blessings have poured in from adoring fans. Many say they are truly a match made in Heaven—destined to be together."
The broadcast continued, its cheerful tone clashing with the heaviness in Isaac's chest. His sapphire eyes burned as he watched, each word cutting deeper.
"Damn, Crisby is one lucky guy. Imagine marrying that goddess. Woo! That's hitting the jackpot in the lottery!" one of the guards chuckled, shaking his head in admiration.
Isaac's fists curled tight, the chains biting into his skin. His mind drifted back—back to the moment when everything shattered.
"You are a liar! A filthy bastard and a murderer!"
"How could you do this to me?!"
"Get away from me!"
"I don't ever want to see you again in my life!!"
Her broken, tearful voice echoed in his memory, slicing through him like a blade. Each word replayed endlessly, carving into his soul, leaving him hollow.
...
RUMBLE! RUMBLE!
Thunder roared across the sky, its fury mingling with the chants and the pounding of objects, jolting Isaac out of his spiraling thoughts.
He was back in reality.
Bang!
Beep!
The cold iron bars slammed shut behind him, the sound echoing like a final verdict.
Isaac turned, watching as the prison guard bent to unlock his handcuffs and chains. The steel fell away with a clatter, leaving his wrists raw and aching.
The guard snickered, gathering the restraints.
"Rest easy now, Agent. Your hell has just begun."
He smirked as he walked away, boots echoing against the concrete floor.
Isaac's gaze lingered on him, his sapphire eyes narrowing before drifting across the cell. The walls were bare, the air heavy with damp cold, and the silence of isolation pressed in from every side. Beyond the bars, other prisoners watched from their cages, shadows of menace flickering in their eyes.
The guard was right—his hell had begun.
But Isaac knew one truth: he was the one who would unleash it.
Isaac's eyes glowed with an ethereal blue as he fixed his gaze on the retreating guards. His lips parted, whispering in the strange, eerie tongue:
"Veyrith xal'drun mor'kai ven'dral."
"Don't worry. Your nightmare has just begun. The time has come for you to pay."
"Thyrren ek'thal veyr'kai."
"My Race is now One."
"Ulthros ven'kai, myr behal'dor."
"I am coming."
"Kren'thal vos."
Thunder roared, lightning split the sky, and his eyes blazed brighter, reflecting the storm's fury. A sinister smile stretched across his lips as his gaze locked onto the graffiti scrawled on the prison wall opposite him.
"Viva la El Diablo Enmascarado de Plata."
Beneath the words was a painted image: a man in a gleaming silver mask astride a massive black stallion, its front legs rearing high in defiance. Lightning flashed again, illuminating the mural in stark brilliance, while thunder rolled like a war drum.
The storm seemed to breathe life into the image, shadows dancing across the wall as if the masked rider himself were watching.
*****
"So… want to know how I ended up here?"
"And what's in store for me?"
"Yeah. Me too."
The voice echoed in the darkness, fading into silence.
**********************************************
The Race – Volume Two: The Battle for Time, Love, Justice, and Revenge.
Coming soon...