“Sounds great, boss,” Jonas rolled his eyes, “Could I at least get a beer?” and this comment was so rude that even Brow’s men shouted in protest. However, Brow shushed them.

“Get him a beer,” and these words shocked everyone in the room, especially all the other slaves who had been eavesdropping, “Think of it as a signing bonus.”

“Thank you, Brow,” Jonas began to think that the pony-tailed gangster looked much more pleasing to the eyes than before.

“Don’t thank me yet, Slave,” Brow said, “I’ll give you a break for the rest of the night, but tomorrow you're going to the fight pits with Ahmed and this loser,” and he gestured towards Simon who looked like he swallowed a fly.

“Got it,” said Jonas, “What about Garth?”

“What about him?” asked Brow testily, “That fucking brute isn’t entitled to touch a slave that isn’t his, so you won’t have to worry about him,” he added, “That’s as long as you show me you have value,” and Jonas could tell that he wasn’t joking.

“If I impress you, will you teach me about Sin?” Jonas took a glance at Brow’s hands, but they were covered in gloves, “What’s your Cardinal Sin?” and although it was dark in the room, Jonas could have sworn he saw Brow blush, or at least his face looked a bit more colored.

“I won’t be teaching you anything about Sin,” Brow averted his gaze onto the iron bars next to Jonas, “Sin is… it’s something you need to experience for yourself,” and Jonas started to piece together all the clues. Brow was a Sinner, but he sucked at it. He tried his best to fight off a grin as he finally found a weakness in his captor.

Brow’s goon came back right at that moment and he was carrying a very large mug of what Jonas assumed to be some shitty Swamp Ale. The guard walked over to the cage and went to pass Jonas the beer, but it was pulled away when Brow took the mug and gave it a long gulp that was exaggeratingly loud, “Ah,” he sighed in satisfaction as he handed it back to his goon, “Rest up, Slave, Ahmed isn’t going to go as easy on you as you think,” and then Brow strolled out of the room, probably before Jonas could ask any more questions about Sin.

Jonas took the mug of beer from the lackey and sipped it modestly, in his opinion, free beer was still free beer, even if it had a large gulp missing. Besides, why the hell would he get that angry over some shitty Swamp Ale anyways? However, if it had been Blood Light, Jonas would have fought him to the death.

“Have some,” said Jonas as he stretched his arm through his prison bars and held the mug towards Simon.

“I can’t,” said the greasy man, “It’s yours, you earned it,” though he looked rather pleased that he had been offered.

“Go on,” Jonas said happily, “I only managed to get out of this cause of your pep-talking, you deserve some too,” and seeing as Jonas wasn’t going to take no for an answer, Simon stretched his hand out and just managed to reach the mug and he pulled it back into his cage where he took a very small sip.

“Tastes like shit,” he said quietly but there was a slight smile on his face, “I haven’t had a beer in a very long time,” and he passed it back through the bars to Jonas.

“All beer tastes like shit,” said Jonas, “That’s why mankind loves it so much. Because we spend our whole life eating shit that was force-fed to us, we’d rather just drink it at our own pace.”

“Well said,” said Simon who didn’t find a single hint of wisdom in that nonsensical quote, “So, how did you survive? Is it like you said, you unlocked your powers?”

“Yes,” and although Jonas didn’t understand the rules of Sin, his instincts told him to keep anything about Pride a secret, even from his new friend, “I could see myself healing in a dream, and I think I must have been Sinning unintentionally, as I don’t know how to in the first place. Do you?”

“That’s amazing, and no I don't, sorry. I understand that there is such a thing as Sin and that some people with the glowing marks on their hands can do amazing things, but I don’t know anything past that.”

“They’re called Sin Scars. Ahmed never taught you anything?”

“I only asked one time,” Simon chuckled, “He told me I didn’t need to know because I didn’t have any talent for Sinning whatsoever.”

“What a dick,” Jonas felt bad for Simon, “Once I figure it out, I promise I’ll teach you.”

“I doubt I’ll be able to learn, but that’s very kind of you.”

“So what’s Ahmed like?” asked Jonas who began sipping away his prize.

“Hard to say,” said Simon, “I feel like he’s been in Hell for a very long time,” and he added, “If I had to guess, I think he may be a Turkish warrior who fought for Saladin back in the medieval times.”

“That’s oddly specific,” Jonas felt like laughing but his chest was extremely sore, so he refrained from doing it.

“I was a bit of a medieval history buff in my past life,” said Simon, “Also, he’s the only person I’ve ever met to use the word Sultan in casual conversation so many times.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Jonas, “He must have been in Hell for a thousand years.”

“Does that surprise you?” asked Simon rhetorically, “This place has been around since time immemorial, it’s full of people from all periods,” he added, “Though I’ll admit, it’s not often you come across people from ancient periods here in the first floor.”

“Why?” Jonas shot him a curious expression over his mug.

“Well,” said Simon, “You have to remember that people were much more casual about sinning and brutality before the modern era, which means that most of them were sent to lower floors, even the common man.”

“Makes sense,” Jonas considered that it might be hard to find even a medieval peasant that hadn’t stoned someone to death in their short lifetime.

“Also,” said Simon, “Most people who arrive in Hell are either killed or enslaved by their first year. Considering this, even the cavemen have probably already died and reincarnated as normal modern-day citizens of Hell.”

“Fucking Hell,” spat Jonas, but this was because he had accidentally sipped a floaty left by Brow.

“Exactly,” Simon shook his head, “The bible made it sound as if Hell was a bunch of demons torturing you for all of eternity, but the nasty truth is that the demons mind their own business, and it’s the fucking humans who will cause you misery.”

“Poetic really,” said Jonas who had already begun to realize that simple truth, “Our greatest hell is being enslaved, raped, and tortured by people who share the same fate as us.”

“Truly,” agreed Simon, “It’s a fucked up system, but we can cry about it all we want, or we can adapt,” and Jonas quite agreed.

Dinner wasn’t too much to write home about, rat stew and hard bread, but Jonas was quite ravenous from all the excitement, so he ate rather quickly and even felt a bit disappointed that there wasn’t much left. Soon, nightfall came and he was finishing a conversation with Simon. He stared fruitlessly at the empty mug beside him that had long since been drained.

“If I beat Ahmed, do you think I can have another beer?”

“Beat Ahmed?” scoffed Simon, “He’s a top-five, and only a bit weaker than Garth, the guy who just nearly beat you to death,” he added, “Do you think a guy with a thousand years of experience under his belt is going to lose to a kid like you?”

“A little defensive, are we?” teased Jonas, “You must like him.”

“He’s one of the only people who treated me relatively decently,” said Simon, “Though I admit he had a habit of beating me and screaming ‘Infidel!’ when we first met.”

“Pleasant,” said Jonas, “I can’t wait,” and it wasn’t long before the single lamp in the slave room had dimmed and the slaves were beginning to fall asleep, Jonas included. He slept rather peacefully that night, with no disturbing dreams and no communications from Pride at all, and he woke the next morning feeling relatively refreshed.

Breakfast and buckets were served and it wasn’t long before guards came to unlock his and Simon’s cages. Jonas gingerly stretched his sore body, but he found that he felt pretty good, and even the bruising around his face had begun fading while leaving nothing but dried blood and dirt on his tan skin.

He looked at the back of his hands and found that he could just make out his Sin Scars, and they seemed to have dimmed after sleeping off the previous day's excitement. Perhaps if someone stared at his hands they would have thought he had nothing but a rash.

“Ahmed’s waiting,” said Brow who had since allowed both Simon and Jonas to be in their cages unshackled. He led them through the main door, through a sewer-like tunnel, and back through the door which Jonas knew to be the arena room. Sure enough, as they entered, Jonas caught sight of the familiar sandy fight pits, as well as the various fighters who were getting ready to beat the shit out of their respective slave dummies.

Jonas immediately caught sight of a very large bald man who sported a muscular chest and a big black beard. It wasn’t rage that overtook Jonas’ heart at that moment, but instead, he felt a yearning, and this yearning as Jonas understood it, made him feel like dominating Garth and making him submit.

Garth’s jaw dropped for a moment, and the red flames on the back of his hands began to glow as a murderous rage overtook his heart. He took a step towards Jonas, but changed his mind, he still didn’t dare go directly against Brow. It wasn’t because of fear, he could easily kill nearly every single person in that room, nearly everyone. The only thing that kept him from snapping Brow’s neck and raping Jonas’ pretty ass was the fact that Howard Hurts would probably punish him very harshly. Garth enjoyed the privileges that came with being the strongest fighting slave in Little Wrath City, he didn’t want to throw it all away for nothing. How did Jonas survive though? His heart had grown uneasy, and he wasn’t in the mood to bash slaves’ skulls in. Garth turned around and casually walked back to his private room. No one tried to stop him.

Watching Garth’s receding shadow, Jonas now understood why Old Louie had warned him about his personality getting warped by Sin, for he felt an insane desire to impose his will on another person for the first time in his life. He wanted to beat Garth, torture him, murder him, and make him pay for the suffering he had caused.

“Brow,” said a soft, unfamiliar voice.

“Ahmed,” said Brow as he led the two slaves to a long-haired man who stood shirtless in a sandy pit.

Ahmed was just as Jonas had pictured him; Middle eastern, long-haired, dark-skinned, with a short beard, and very thick brows that cast shadows over his black eyes.

For a moment, Ahmed and Jonas sized each other up, both semi-curious about the other. Jonas could tell that Ahmed was something special, and every gaze felt edged like it could slice. The back of his hands was covered with glowing flame tattoos. There was a strange sensation that filled Jonas as he stared at the old warrior, it felt like there was some sort of bloodthirsty scent that floated up and off his dark skin. The only word that Jonas could use to describe this feeling was, ‘Aura’ and he wasn’t even sure that aura was a real thing. If it was, Ahmed had a very strong one, and Jonas could sense it.

He knew without a doubt in his mind that Ahmed had killed many people in his lifetime, though he couldn’t be sure why these instincts had been so quiet with Garth. Perhaps his newly awakened Sin Scars had also given him the ability to sense things.

“Very well,” he didn’t have much of an accent, though Jonas expected that he must have lost it over all the years of speaking English to his captors. Before Jonas could approach the arena, Brow grabbed his shoulder tightly and an intense pain shot through Jonas’ body.

“Don’t forget what I said,” Brow threatened, “I swear to God I’ll make your life miserable if you think you can benefit off me without returning the favor.”

“No worries,” said Jonas, “I’ll live up to expectations,” but it came out rather aggressively and Simon couldn’t help but look nervously between the two.

“Good,” said Brow and he released Jonas' shoulder.

“Just make sure you have some more beer waiting for me when I’m done,” and Jonas jumped into the arena and faced Ahmed who had been quietly watching the encounter. Brow’s face was like venom as he walked away to fulfill the rest of his duties as slave manager.

“Morning, Ahmed,” said Simon timidly, and he approached rather cautiously.

“Who’s first?” he asked, his dark eyes looking murderously between the two.

“I’ll go,” said Jonas, but he was cut off by Simon who insisted that he go first.

“Watch his movements,” whispered Simon, “I’ll walk so you can learn to run,” and he put his fists up and began slowly pacing himself towards Ahmed who hadn’t yet moved.

Jonas stared curiously at Simon who he had begun appreciating more by the day. It wasn’t often you would find someone in Hell that was willing to make sacrifices for another person.

He could tell just from looking at the two which one was the fighter, and which one was the lowly dummy slave. Ahmed was shredded and had actual bulk that reflected his positioning as one of the Hurts gang’s top-five fighters, while Simon was malnourished and looked as if he might’ve blown away with a strong gust of wind.

Surprisingly, Simon attacked first, and he swung careful punches at his opponent who lazily parried them away as if it took no energy at all to do so.

‘He is quite good,’ Jonas had to give Ahmed props for at least having extremely fluid motions. He also had great body control and it seemed as if each time he dodged or blocked, it would be carefully considered, and each move was made with the mindset that he should make as little waste as possible.

Simon tried his best, but Jonas could see that it would take a million tries before the skinny man ever beat Ahmed, accidentally or on purpose. Ahmed reached out quickly, grabbed Simon by the neck, kneed him harshly in the stomach, and threw him aside like a rag doll.

“Still too weak,” Ahmed said, “I’m embarrassed that you’ve been fighting me this long and haven’t gotten any stronger,” Simon was laying in the sand trying to catch his breath, he didn’t react to the insult.

“I’ll go,” said Jonas, who strode towards Simon and helped him to his feet. He stepped into the arena and lifted off his prison top, as well as kicked off his shoes so that he was barechested and barefooted just like his opponent.

The cold sand wasn’t very pleasant for Jonas who could feel lots of chunks beneath his feet, but he stood with his shoulders firm, and Simon had to admit that including the young man’s bruised panda-like eye and all the yellow bruising that still covered his body, Jonas looked slightly pathetic, like a beat-up peacock that was strutting broken tail feathers.

“Ahmed is it?” Jonas asked, careful not to break eye contact with the warrior.

“Don’t waste so many words,” said Ahmed, “Half-dead men should focus on healing.”

“Nice to meet you too,” he added, rather sarcastically, “My name is Jonas.”