I've been listening to my own scream for what seems like hours. I try to put a stop to it—I really do. But the fear racking my heart takes away even the slightest possibility of that. I'm ashamed; but pride doesn't seem to be a relevant factor just now. Everything is going wrong. This isn't what we planned for at all.

When a figure comes diving through the cell wall, everything becomes a blur. I give one last scream, and it merges with another.

Then it happens. The shot rings out. It's the sound I hoped I'd never had to hear in my life. Doesn't everyone have that hope? And yet somehow, here I am.

My knees give way beneath me, and I sink to the floor with my face and heart buried in my hands. Sometime over the course of 30 seconds, I vaguely hear the sound of the metal door slamming.

Despite the silence, I don't dare to look up for a full two minutes. I refuse to face what must be in front of and around me. A picture of dead bodies lying in a pool of blood flashes through my mind. I whimper, wishing with all my heart that Lucinda had come back to check on us before it got to this point. She must've gotten so immersed in being reunited with her boyfriend that she just...forgot about us.

Finally summoning the courage, I look up. As soon as I do, I'm puzzled. Only one guy lays on the floor, unmoving. I get a little closer. It's clear that this is Oriel, but there's no blood anywhere like I expected.

Kneeling down for further investigation, I note that his wound can barely be referred to that anymore. The center of his t-shirt displays a bullet-hole, outlined in black. There's a hint of blood around it, but it has already turned an ugly brown. Through the hole in the shirt, I see his skin. And it doesn't take a liscenced surgeon to figure out that it's perfectly healthy skin.

I lean back a little, biting my lip. How could he heal this fast? I wonder. Shouldn't a bullet wound take at least several weeks to heal? I check his pulse. At least he's still alive. Thank goodness.

"Oriel?" I whisper, tapping his shoulder lightly, just in case he's in pain. Logically, he would be. But after everything I've seen so far, it seems like he's in spit-spot condition.

Surprisingly, his arm twitches under my hand. A groan escapes his lips.

"You're alive," I mutter, fresh tears welling up in my eyes.

He suddenly sits up, glancing around the room. "What in the world?"

I try to settle him down. Assuming it's always this way, like in the movies, I go on to explain to him where he is, who I am, what happened, and details like those. But he doesn't seem to hear a word I say.

"But what happened to me? I feel...different," he says.

"That's no big surprise, considering you've just been shot."

"No—no. Not different like that. I'm not delirious. I don't even feel hurt." He pauses, running his hand over his chest, where the wound should be. "I feel like something altered my...my soul, or something. I don't know how to explain it."

And I, for one, don't have the slightest clue what he's talking about. But I nod anyway. Surely he is delirious. I just need to play along.

Oriel jumps to his feet so suddenly that I don't have a chance to protest. His eyes are fixated on the wall. I twist myself to face the same direction. My mouth opens wide in shock, but no sound comes out.

There's Lucinda, half-stuck inside the heavy metal wall.

Determined not to let another minute go by, we rush to her side and start pulling. All the while, Oriel mumbles under his breath. "I remember doing this," he says. "I was doing this just now. I was trying to get her free..."

Minutes of pushing and pulling results in minutes completely wasted. She hasn't budged a millimetre. Tears start flowing again, even though they never really stopped in the first place.

"Is she still breathing?" I ask, though petrified as to what Oriel's response will be.

"It's impossible to tell from her," he says with a shake of his head. "We'll just have to hope..."

I have to marvel at how optimistic he can be in such life-shaking situations. He's just been shot by his father, severely wounded—sort of, and now may be losing this girl whom he still loves. I envy him. Because all I've gone through is the trauma, watching from the sidelines—and even so, every last spark of hope has departed for me.