I suppose trapped is how I felt as they approached—and truthfully, it’s how I’ve felt more often than I care to admit. Not the physical kind, not the choking darkness that swallows whole cities and leaves you gasping for light. No, this was older. Deeper. The cages started early, when I was young and still believed people meant what they said. Back then, the bars were made of expectation, of roles I was told to play. Later, I began to notice the chains—the ones we all wear without knowing. Relationships, obligations, the invisible contracts we sign with our hearts and never read the fine print. They bind us, choke us, twist us into shapes we don’t recognize. And we call it love. We call it loyalty. But it’s damage. It’s slow, quiet damage that eats at the mind until you forget what freedom ever felt like.

  Maybe I’m a coward. Maybe I’m just tired. But I chose never to love again. And in some ways, that choice became my ruin. A place I haunt more than live in. Because deep down, no matter how many walls I build, no matter how many exits I memorize, we all want to be wanted. That ache never leaves. It just changes shape. I don’t think I could ever be wanted—not truly. Not without someone trying to fix me, reshape me, bind me again. So I stay alone. I drink. I write. I walk through the ruins of my own making and pretend they’re sacred. But the truth is, I’m still trapped. Just in a quieter kind of cage....never again right?. - martin gravesend

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  I felt a sudden weight slump against the car I was clinging to, the undercarriage vibrating as metal groaned under pressure. Sheets scraped against each other with a dry, mechanical hiss, and then came the sigh—long, weary, human.

  “Ahhh,” the man exhaled, his voice gravelled by fatigue. He leaned back, boots grinding against the pavement, and muttered, “Irvine, my back is killing me. Moving’s easy enough, but they never tell you what it feels like after a day shift. It’s murder on the spine. All that extra weight piling down on you…”

  Martin’s fingers trembled as he adjusted his grip, the sweat on his palms making the metal slick. He dared not shift too much. The drone had lost sight of him, but the laser sights were still sweeping the area, slow and deliberate, like predators sniffing for heat.

  “I think the rhino’s broken,” the man continued. “I don’t see anything.”

  Irvine moved to the opposite side of the car, his boots thudding softly as he leaned in to converse. Martin felt the tremors through the frame—each movement a threat to his fragile concealment.

  “I really don’t know,” Irvine said. “We should ask at these houses. See if anyone saw anything.”

  Martin’s breath came shallow now, his chest pressed tight against the undercarriage. The metal was cold, unforgiving, and his muscles screamed for relief. But he couldn’t let go. Not yet. Not until the car moved. Not until the tremors faded and the voices drifted away.