Captured by the Yandere Space Pirates

The dream tightened its grip, plunging Syn deeper into the alleys of his past, where shadows loomed long and cruel over a child's fleeting joy.

The sleek convoy rolled to a halt, its central vehicle—a towering, obsidian beast of polished steel—gleaming under the starlight that pierced the Backdrop's eternal night. The door hissed open, and the King emerged, a figure of grand menace cloaked in opulence.

His attire was a spectacle: a flowing robe of deep crimson, its hem embroidered with gold threads that shimmered like captured suns, draped over a tunic of midnight blue, studded with gemstones that caught the lamplight in fiery glints.

A broad collar of silver fur framed his shoulders, accentuating his towering frame—six and a half feet of sinew and authority, his broad chest swelling with every breath, his presence a thunderclap in the cramped alley.

His hair, a cascade of iron gray streaked with black, swept back from a stern brow, and his piercing eyes, cold as the void above, scanned the crowd with a predator's disdain.

Soldiers spilled from the flanking vehicles, their black armor clanking as they formed a tight ring around him, a wall of steel that pressed the onlookers back yet left the King a two-meter circle of freedom—a kingly orbit none dared breach.

Boots thudded against the dirt as he strode forward, his cape billowing like a storm cloud, his destination clear: Syn's room, a squat hovel nestled among the uniform squalor.

Syn's heart leapt, a child's instinct kicking in as he saw the King's path. Rules were iron here—stray beyond your room during a royal visit, and you'd taste the lash or worse.

He darted from the alley, his small feet kicking up dust as he wove through the crowd, Vera and Pako's worried gazes burning into his back.

They stood frozen, their dice game abandoned, their eyes wide with dread—different rooms, different fates, powerless to know what awaited their friend. In the Backdrop, a king's visit heralded no good, only the shadow of judgment.

Two soldiers reached Syn's room first, their armored forms looming in the doorway as they barked, "Inside—now!" The thirty souls within—babies whimpering, elders trembling, adults hollow-eyed—shuffled back, pressed tight against the far wall, a human tide parting to make space.

Syn slipped in just as the King entered, his grand silhouette filling the threshold, his silver-furred collar brushing the low frame.

The room's dim lamps flickered, casting jagged shadows across his crimson robe as he surveyed them, his lips curving into a smile that held no warmth, only prideful disdain.

"So, how are my people faring?" he asked, his voice booming with a chilling cheer, echoing off the bare walls.

Silence answered—a thick, suffocating hush as thirty pairs of eyes stared back, nerves taut, fear a palpable shroud. No one dared speak, their breaths shallow, their hands clenched white.

"That's splendid—I'm thriving too," he continued, undeterred, his tone a mockery of their mute terror. "Now, my dear subjects, do you know why we're gathered here today?" His question hung like a guillotine's blade, met only by faint shakes of heads, a ripple of dread passing through the crowd.

The King inhaled deeply, his chest swelling beneath the gem-studded tunic, and snapped his fingers with a crisp, resounding snap. The room tensed, a collective flinch as two soldiers stepped forward, dragging four figures—bruised, bloodied, chained like beasts.

They hurled them to the floor with a sickening thud, the chains clanking as the captives sprawled, their gasps ragged against the dirt. Rifles rose, barrels glinting as the other soldiers trained them on the trembling heap, a silent threat mirrored in the King's cold gaze.

"Now," he said, his voice dropping to a velvet menace, "tell me—who here are friends with these pirates?" The question sliced through the room, and silence fell again, a pin-drop void where terror choked every throat.

He chuckled, a low, hollow sound that chilled the air. "Hmm… I suppose no one will confess. After all, who doesn't cling to their precious life?" He turned to the pirates, his smile sharpening as he crouched slightly, his towering frame casting a shadow over their battered forms. "So, here's a deal—name your allies, and I'll spare you."

The pirates' eyes darted, wild and desperate, scanning the room—yet no names spilled, their lips sealed tight, their chains rattling as they cowered.

The King straightened, his patience fraying, his grand attire rustling as he pivoted to a soldier at his side. "Are you certain this is the room?" he asked, his voice a growl of irritation.

"Yes, Your Honor," the soldier replied, his tone clipped and sure as he tapped a device on his wrist. "I've crosschecked their stamps—it's this one." The stamps—etched into every resident's hand, a crude brand of identity—tied them to this hovel, a mark of belonging Syn bore on his own small fist.

"Then what's the holdup?" the King snapped, his frustration boiling over, his gray-streaked hair glinting as he turned back to the pirates. "I'm losing patience." His voice hardened, a steel edge cutting through his earlier cheer. "You have ten seconds. Give me something—or you all die."

The pirates shrank, their chains clinking louder, a frantic symphony of fear as they huddled together. "There's no one," one rasped, his voice cracked and pleading. "It's just us."

"I don't trust you," the King said, his tone icy, his eyes narrowing as he loomed over them. "Anyway—ten seconds are up. You've given me nothing useful. I'm done here."

He turned, his crimson cape swirling as he strode toward the door, his boots a dull thud against the floor. Pausing at the threshold, he leaned to the soldier by the gate, his whisper a hiss too low to catch, his grand figure a silhouette of doom against the lamplight.

The soldier stepped forward, his hand rising in a swift signal—a flick of fingers that unleashed hell. In an instant, rifles barked, a deafening chorus as bullets tore into the pirates, their bodies jerking, crumpling in a spray of blood and dust.

The room erupted in gasps and muffled cries, the crowd surging back, pressing harder against the wall. Syn stumbled, squeezed tight among them, his small frame suffocating under the weight of bodies, the air thick with panic and the copper tang of death.

The soldiers pivoted, their rifles swinging toward the huddled mass, barrels glinting in the dim light. "We're sorry," one whispered, his voice a broken thread as he met Syn's wide eyes, a flicker of regret in his gaze. "The King really hates pirates."

The words hung, a quiet epitaph, and then the gunfire resumed—a relentless storm shredding through the room. Screams pierced the chaos, bodies falling like wheat before a scythe, blood pooling on the dirt floor.

A man shielding Syn took a bullet, his bulk collapsing with a wet plop, and Syn staggered, the sudden gap a lifeline in the slaughter. His eyes darted—a crying baby wailed in a corner, abandoned amid the carnage.

He lunged, scooping the infant into his arms, its sobs a piercing ache as he bolted for the small window high on the wall, a sliver of escape in the madness. His heart hammered, his legs pumping as he wove through the crush, the baby's weight a desperate anchor against his chest.

A soldier's gaze locked onto him, tracking his flight—Syn's breath seized, his eyes widening as the rifle rose, its barrel a black maw promising oblivion. But then the man hesitated, his finger hovering, and with a flick of his wrist, he fired skyward, the shot ringing hollow in the air. Syn froze, stunned, the memory searing into his mind—a fleeting mercy amid the storm, a soldier's silent dissent burned into his soul.

He didn't pause—leaping, he hauled himself and the baby through the window, the jagged edge scraping his arms as he tumbled into the alley beyond. Dust stung his eyes as he landed, his bare feet pounding the dirt as he ran, the baby's cries muffled against his chest.

The Backdrop was a ghost town—doors slammed shut, windows sealed, the colony huddling in fear beneath the King's wrath. He darted deep into the maze, weaving through alleys until he reached a far corner, a shadowed nook by a crumbling wall where he sank down, his back sliding against the rough surface.

Tears streamed down his face, unnoticed until they blurred his vision, salt streaking his dirt-smudged cheeks. The baby, exhausted, quieted in his arms, its small chest rising and falling in fitful sleep. Then—a hand on his shoulder, firm yet gentle.

He flinched, looking up through tear-streaked eyes to see a tall blonde girl in royal attire—her gown a cascade of silver and blue, her face a mask of quiet sorrow.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice a soft tremor as she pressed a wad of cash into his trembling hand, then turned, her figure retreating into the gloom.

Syn stared after her, dazed, the baby's warmth a faint tether as tears carved tracks across his face. The soldier's words looped in his mind, a relentless echo branding itself into his fractured memory: "The King really hates pirates."

"The King really hates pirates."

"The King really hates the pirates…"