Captured by the Yandere Space Pirates

Syn stood trembling, his body battered, his face a bloodied mask of cuts and bruises, his hazel eyes haunted, flickering with a mix of relief and dread.

Ila lay dead at his feet, her once-vibrant teal eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, her black hair fanned out in a pool of her own blood, her muscular frame still, lifeless, a fallen tyrant.

The transparent wall before him revealed the shapeshifter chamber, a sterile prison where green-skinned figures shuffled aimlessly, their white eyes vacant, their tattered uniforms hanging off emaciated frames—a living proof of Syn's mission, but one he could barely process in his shattered state.

He turned to Mia, her white hair disheveled, her pale eyes steady despite the blood trickling from her split lip, her olive Kingdom uniform torn at the shoulder.

Questions burned in his mind—how had she found him, deep in the Kingdom's heart, without being caught? How had she breached this fortress, this sealed chamber coded to Ila's biometrics?

Mia was a mystery, a woman with secrets he couldn't unravel, her presence both a lifeline and a puzzle.

But he didn't ask.

There was no time, no space in his fractured mind for questions, only survival.

"Thanks, Mia," he said, his voice hoarse, barely above a whisper, his throat raw from Ila's crushing grip.

Mia nodded, her expression unreadable, her pale eyes flickering to the shapeshifter chamber, then back to him, a silent acknowledgment of the hell they'd just escaped.

Syn's gaze drifted to the shapeshifters, the evidence he'd risked everything to find. But how could he capture it?

He had no camera, no tools, and his own battered body.

Should he try to access the control room for video recordings, or take a shapeshifter with him as proof? The transparent wall mocked him, a seamless barrier with no visible door, no way to reach them.

His mind raced, grasping for options, finding none.

"Mia, what do I do?" he asked, his voice breaking, his hands trembling, his eyes pleading for guidance, out of choices, out of strength.

Mia's gaze softened, her voice calm but firm. "Wait here. I'll be back." She didn't elaborate, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Syn nodded, his shoulders slumping, his body aching with every breath.

He watched her slip through the door, its hiss echoing in the empty chamber, leaving him alone with Ila's corpse and the shapeshifters' silent suffering.

He looked around, the room stark, barren—nothing but the throne where he'd been bound, its serpentine carvings stained with his blood, and Ila's lifeless body, her blood pooling like a dark mirror on the obsidian floor.

Fear gnawed at him, irrational but unshakable, that she'd spring back to life, her teal eyes blazing, her hands reaching for him, her voice whispering his name.

He couldn't look at her, his gaze darting away, his heart pounding, his breath shallow, his body recoiling from the memory of her touch, her cruelty, her obsession.

The door hissed open again, and Syn flinched, his eyes snapping to the entrance, half-expecting Ila's ghost.

But it was Mia, her white hair catching the screen's glow, her arms carrying a bundle of olive fabric—a Kingdom soldier's uniform, its crisp lines and insignia stark against her battered frame.

It was close to his size, the sleeves slightly long, the shoulders a touch broad, but wearable.

He wanted to ask where she'd gotten it, how she'd slipped through the Kingdom's halls to retrieve it, but the questions died on his lips.

No questions, not now, not in this state.

He took the uniform, his fingers brushing the fabric, catching a faint whiff of sweat and cologne—someone else's scent, recent, clinging to the cloth.

Mia had stolen it, hadn't she?

From a soldier, a guard, someone who'd worn it.

Right?

He didn't ask, didn't need to.

He stripped off his tattered clothes, wincing as the fabric peeled from his bloodied skin, and pulled on the uniform, its weight grounding him, its unfamiliar fit a reminder of his precarious disguise.

The olive fabric clung to his bruises, the collar chafing his raw neck, but it was armor, a chance to blend in, to escape.

"Mia, do you know where the control room is?" he asked, his voice steadier, his mind latching onto the need for evidence, for proof of the shapeshifters' existence. "The place with the video recordings of this room?"

Mia nodded, her pale eyes narrowing slightly, her voice low and cautious. "I do. But it's heavily guarded, Syn. An unfamiliar face like yours will be caught in seconds. It's too risky."

Syn's mind churned, desperation fueling his thoughts.

He glanced at Ila's body, his stomach twisting, but an idea sparked. He knelt beside her, his hands shaking as he reached into her pocket, his fingers brushing her cold skin, bile rising in his throat.

He pulled out her phone, its sleek surface glinting in the screen's glow, and pressed her limp thumb to the fingerprint lock, the screen flickering to life.

With a few quick taps, he changed the lock to his own fingerprint, his heart pounding, his eyes avoiding her lifeless face. He stood, turning to the transparent wall, and activated the phone's camera, recording the shapeshifter chamber in meticulous detail—zooming in on their green skin, their vacant white eyes, their listless movements, panning out to capture the drones, the monitors, the sheer scale of their captivity.

The video was raw, undeniable, a digital proof to the Kingdom's atrocities.

Finally, Syn had the evidence he'd bled for, fought for, nearly died for. He slipped the phone into his pocket, its weight a lifeline, a purpose.

"Mia, let's go," he said, his voice firm, his hazel eyes meeting her pale ones, a spark of resolve breaking through his exhaustion.

Mia nodded, her expression unreadable, and moved to the door, her boots silent on the obsidian floor.

Syn followed, his heart racing, the uniform's fabric chafing his wounds. The door hissed open, revealing a corridor lit by harsh fluorescent lights, the sound of boots echoing—soldiers, their olive uniforms identical to his, passing through, their voices low, clipped.

Syn froze, his breath catching, and Mia grabbed his arm, pulling him back into the chamber just as the soldiers rounded the corner, their shadows flickering across the doorway.

"It's too dangerous to go out there," Mia whispered, her voice urgent, her pale eyes scanning the room, her hand still gripping his arm, her touch steadying him.

Syn glanced at her, his mind snagging on details he'd ignored—her olive uniform, perfectly fitted, hugging her frame as if tailored, unlike his slightly oversized one.

How had she gotten it? And how had she known exactly where to find him, in this sealed chamber with Ila, deep in the Kingdom's heart?

The questions gnawed at him, suspicion and gratitude warring in his chest, but he shut his mouth, swallowing the urge to ask, his trust in her fragile but necessary.

"Let's use the vents," Mia said, her gaze flicking to the ceiling, where a metal grate gleamed faintly in the screen's glow. "You have experience with them, don't you?" Her tone carried a teasing lilt, a fleeting attempt to lighten the mood, her lips twitching in a half-smile.

Syn's face remained grim, his mood too heavy, too raw for humor, his eyes haunted by Ila's blood, the shapeshifters' suffering, his own violation.

He nodded, looking up at the vent, its narrow opening a daunting escape route. "Help me up," he said, his voice flat, his hands still trembling.

Mia stepped close, her movements fluid, and climbed onto his shoulders, her boots pressing into his bruised muscles, pain flaring but bearable.

Syn steadied her, his hands gripping her calves, ignoring the ache in his ribs, his focus on escape. Mia reached up, her fingers—nails longer than he remembered, sharp and precise—prying at the vent's screws, loosening them with a faint scrape of metal.

Syn didn't notice, his eyes fixed on the door, his ears straining for the sound of approaching boots. The grate popped free, clattering softly, and Mia pulled herself into the vent, her white hair disappearing into the dark.

She leaned down, her pale eyes glinting, and extended a hand.

Syn grabbed it, her grip strong, and hauled himself up, his arms burning, his wounds screaming as he squeezed into the narrow duct, the metal cold against his skin, the air stale and hot.

They crawled, Mia leading, her movements silent, Syn following, his elbows scraping the duct's walls, his breath loud in the confined space.

"Do you know the way out?" he whispered, his voice echoing faintly, his heart pounding with the fear of being trapped.

Mia nodded, her white hair bobbing in the dim light filtering through vent slats.

"Trust me," she whispered, her voice steady, guiding him through the labyrinth of ducts.

They crawled for what felt like an eternity, the heat oppressive, sweat beading on Syn's brow, mingling with the blood on his face, his uniform sticking to his skin.

Doubt crept in, his mind whispering that Mia had lost her way, that they were circling endlessly in the Kingdom's bowels.

But then Mia pushed open a vent, daylight spilling through, blinding after the chamber's gloom. Syn squinted, his heart leaping—they weren't in the basement anymore, the light natural, warm, a promise of freedom.

Mia crawled out, landing silently in a room bathed in sunlight, its opulent decor gleaming—silk drapes, gilded furniture, a massive four-poster bed draped in crimson.

Syn followed, his boots hitting the polished wood floor, his eyes scanning the space, recognition hitting like a punch.

Princess Elara's room, its familiar elegance unchanged, though dust motes danced in the light, a testament to its abandonment since her death.

Mia had brought him here, knowing it would be empty, a safe haven in the heart of the Palace.

Syn moved to the door, his hand on the handle, but Mia's voice stopped him.

"Wait," she said, her tone sharp. He turned, his brow furrowing, and she pointed to his face, her pale eyes serious.

"You need to hide your face. You're supposed to be dead, Syn. The execution was public."

His stomach twisted, the memory of the shapeshifter's sacrifice flooding back, the crowd's cheers echoing in his mind.

He nodded, scanning the room, and spotted a white napkin beneath a fruit basket on a mahogany table, its edges frayed but clean.

He grabbed it, tying it across his face, covering his nose and mouth, the fabric smelling faintly of citrus, his hazel eyes peering over it, his bloodied features partially obscured. It wasn't perfect, but it would do.

They stepped into the corridor, Syn's heart pounding, his uniform's insignia gleaming under the fluorescent lights.

Soldiers passed, their boots clicking, their eyes sliding over him and Mia, her bow deferential, Syn mimicking their crisp salute, his movements stiff but passable.

No one stopped them, their disguises holding, the napkin concealing his identity.

They moved through the Palace, its marble halls a maze of opulence and danger, until they reached the space metro station, its platform bustling with midday travelers, the hum of shuttles a welcome sound.

Syn breathed a sigh of relief as they boarded an empty metro car, its sleek interior cool, the seats plush, the noon hour leaving it nearly deserted.

He sank into a seat, his body aching, his mind reeling, Ila's phone heavy in his pocket, its video evidence a fragile victory.

Mia sat across from him, her pale eyes scanning the car, her posture alert, her white hair tucked beneath her uniform's cap.

The doors slid open at the next station, and a woman stepped in, her boots clicking on the metal floor.

Syn glanced up casually, his heart stopping, his breath freezing in his chest.

Black hair, teal eyes, a cruel smile curling her lips— Ila. Alive, impossibly alive, her presence a nightmare reborn.

"Hello, Syn," she said, her voice a melodic taunt, her eyes locking on his, her smile widening. "We meet again."