Punishment Halls

From that day onwards, Koral could never bring herself to wear an eye patch again. The world had made so much effort to tear her apart, inside and out; why deny them the satisfaction of witnessing the disfigurement they’d wrought?

One change amongst many, as four years came and went under Apollo’s tutelage, transforming the once-scrawny street urchin into something else entirely.

At fifteen, Koral was no longer a child, but a carefully honed instrument of death. Her body had undergone a stark metamorphosis, shedding its youthful softness for the lean, deceptive muscles of a predator, refined in their conception so as to appear unassuming enough to her targets.

Her mismatched eyes told her story to anyone daring to look her way, vibrant aquamarine standing in fierce contrast to its sightless twin, both set in a face that had lost its roundness, sharpened by experiences no teenager should endure. Yet her paradoxical beauty remained intact —as if the blood she’d spilled had tempered her skin to unnatural perfection.

Life as a cartel lackey had normalized levels of violence that would shatter most minds. Her days were spent in constant motion, never allowing roots or attachments to take hold. What others called hotel rooms were but temporary sanctuaries to her, and abandoned warehouses transformed into classrooms where Apollo drilled them a perfect control over their spectral companions.

The jobs, varied as they were, began to blend together in Koral’s memory. One day might see her hunting rival gang members or silencing police informants. The next could pit her against fellow Medula members who’d strayed from the fold, or desperate fools trying to futilely escape their vicious circle of hell.

Some targets were other Accursed themselves, forcing Koral and Kyros to confront the terrifying breadth of abilities that existed in such twisted world. The encounters taught her a valuable lesson, a rule in survival of sorts —she was now capable of recognizing those who were much stronger than herself.

Yet the core of their work remained unchanged. To execute each mission with a chilling efficiency that belied their youth.

With every completed task, Koral could feel her grasp on humanity slipping —her sanity etched away with every mortal wound miraculously undone, bringing her back without fail from the abyssal beyond. The fine divide between life and death blurred until she wasn’t even sure which state she truly inhabited anymore.

Yet, for all his flaws, Apollo still seemed determined to preserve some semblance of childhood for Koral and Kyros. He kept them away from the Cartel’s more insidious vices, forbidding drugs, alcohol, and any sampling of the illicit merchandise that flowed through Punta Luzbel’s veins. Instead, there were awkward movie nights in dingy motel rooms, and hearty meals shared over discussions that veered between the mundane and the macabre.

The juxtaposition was jarring, a constant whiplash of two irreconcilable worlds. To find herself elbow-deep in viscera, with Hush’s blades singing a symphony of carnage; to then be warning Kyros not to dare touch the last slice of pizza, their squabbles set to the soundtrack of Apollo’s exasperated sighs.

But no matter how hard Apollo tried to shield them, the rot of their world had already sunk its corrosive fangs deep into their flesh. Violence wasn’t something merely accepted —it was a norm. Mutilation was a part of the job, and blood just another currency to pay debts with.

In this warped environment, Koral watched Kyros transform. The once blank slate of an aimless, mute kid evolved into a cold, duty-oriented killer marked by unwavering obedience and chilling professionalism. It was clear to her that he modeled himself after the silver-haired geezer, a fact that made him a prime target for her mockery. Yet she couldn’t deny that this seriousness had earned him an earlier graduation and its resulting autonomy —not like she cared much about such things.

To Koral, pretty much nothing mattered beyond the gigs themselves. She never confused her actions for loyalty; whether the targets were guilty, innocent, or even Cartel comrades. They were all just jobs. Nothing to think too deeply about, lest the weight of it all came crashing down on her.

Saving money seemed pointless, as did entertaining hopes of escape. Enemies lurked everywhere, both inside and out the Cartel, and the threat they posed went far beyond physical scars.

For safety reasons, hitmen rarely ventured out unless it was strictly necessary. Everything they needed came through the Cartel’s supply chain branch. An irony not lost on Koral, since there were the very same people responsible for her abduction in the first place.

Yet such was her life —to wake alone in the blackness, to sleep wherever she fell. It was natural that she seized any opportunity for rebellion, no matter how small, lest she became one more lifeless husk in the Cartel’s machine.

These lavish upscale hotel rooms, for all their surface luxuries, were little more than transitional prisons. Gilded cages to momentarily muffle the unending chaos beyond their walls, but never truly accomplishing it. Any attempt at normalcy —be it studying, watching TV, or sharing a meal with Apollo; was forever tainted by the looming specter of something even worse than death awaiting her fate.

With the sun having already climbed high in the sky, Koral finally stirred awake, the heavy curtains doing little to mask the oppressive heat of the afternoon. Grudgingly, she dragged herself from the tangle of sheets, bared feed padding across the plush carpet. As she emerged from her room, the rich aromas of spices and simmering meat assaulted her senses with an odd but comforting sense of nostalgia.

In the suite’s kitchenette, Apollo’s broad back was turned to her as he tended a large pot on the stove. The pop and sizzle of cooking oil blurred with the low hum of his phone, playing some old homesick blues tune —not quite to her taste, but she was already used to the odd taste for foreign music that the geezer had.

“Why, why…” Koral drawled, leaning against the door frame with practiced nonchalance. “Embracing your inner abuelita again?”

“I’ve always wondered if I should be calling you ‘Nanapollo’. How would you like that?”

“Say one more word and you’ll be skipping the birria.” He turned to her, brandishing a wooden spoon like a weapon. His tone was gruff as always, challenging Koral to continue her taunts.

But for all her enjoyment in needling the old man, her stomach vehemently objected to the mere suggestion of missing Apollo’s handcrafted lunch. It was a truth the teenager would never voice aloud, but these meals meant more to her than any fancy restaurant fare.

“Fiiine, if you’re so sensitive about it.” Koral ‘conceded’ with a mischievous smile on her lips, sliding onto one of the bar stools at the counter. “But seriously, aren’t you getting a bit long in the tooth for all this domestic goddess routine?”

Though mock him as she may, she didn’t ignore how little Apollo had changed over the years. Even as she was sure he was pushing his seventies, he remained a towering, imposing presence. The same steely glint resided in those golden eyes of him, the same strength coiled in his frame. It was almost eerie, as if time itself dared not touch him.

Yet here he was, fussing over in the kitchen like some doting grandfather.

Hard to admit as it might be, she found herself captured by Apollo’s dexterous maneuvering through utensils and around the stove. The way he compensated for his missing arm was always this graceful, each movement precise and purposeful. It was a different kind of strength —one that fascinated her.

To think that this play-acting was fated to end was a hard pill to swallow, but she didn’t deceive herself either. Koral knew that sooner or later she’d have to fend entirely for herself in the cruel world that lay beyond this momentary sanctuary.

“Can you wipe that grin off your face? It’s revolting.” Apollo’s voice cut through her daydreams as he ladled the rich, fragrant stew into a bowl and slid it towards her, the familiar admonishment stirring a strange ache in her chest. Was it that for all her bravado, for all the blood on her hands… A part of her still clung to these moments? No, it surely couldn’t be that. “Just like that hair of yours, I swear…”

“Huuuh? What’s so wrong about it?” She chided back, her tone a perfect blend of indignation and playfulness, a tone she’d perfected over the years. “I reckon I did a mighty fine job with it myself.”

>> “You just have poor sense, if you ask me.”

Of course, it hadn’t only been the passage of time that had altered her once-childish appearance. Koral’s transformation was a deliberate act of insurrection, a visual cacophony that screamed how incomplete she still felt, how much weight she carried from the half she had lost.

Green aquamarine and pitch-dark black cascaded down her head in layered, segmented strands of full color, drowning any minute hint of her natural blond. To Koral, it seemed funnily like an instruction manual, lines drawn to show where to cut —especially when paired with her mismatched eyes. It was a sad thing that Hush didn’t really allow any more tangible damage to be done on her skin.

“I’ll just say that’s an ill-fit for a sicaria.” Apollo continued his scolding, though she had already moved past talking to gorge herself on the stew. “You want to blend into the background, Koral, not highlight yourself!”

Still shoveling spoonfuls into her mouth, she just shrugged her shoulders without a care in the world. They’d had this discussion before, and Apollo’s opinions held little sway over her choices anyhow. Not that he did an exemplary job of masking his own presence, what with his towering height, his silvery glowing hair, and the whole thing of wearing coats while in the sweltering summer heat.

But as she chewed, Koral did wonder if she was truly doing this to ‘highlight’ herself, as Apollo had suggested.

Maybe it was shame.

Shame for surviving when Kirana hadn't. Shame for the lives she'd taken, for the crimson stains that would linger on her hands no matter how much she cleaned them.

Every glance in the mirror was reciprocated with a fractured reflection of Kirana staring back. Her sister had been so beautiful, so radiant… That Koral couldn’t help but ask how she would have looked like if fate had been different.

Would Kirana condone this blood-soaked path? Or would she condemn the monster that she had become? It was a question that would forever haunt her —unanswered, unanswerable.

While she would give anything in the world to have Kirana be the one to have survived instead of her, she liked to think that Hush was her parting gift, a spectral guardian sent to protect her from beyond the grave. But the silent creature could never fill the void left inside her chest. She was doomed to incompleteness, forever reaching for a piece of herself that no longer existed.

That’s why she drowned her face in makeup, why she obsessed over looking every tiny bit as different as possible from the girl she once was. No parallels could be drawn, no comparisons were there to be made. It was easier to face a stranger in the mirror than to confront the consequences of her mistakes every single morning.

The spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl one final time, making her realize that she had finished her meal without even tasting the last few bites. It was just like the training wanted her to be during missions… Mechanical and devoid of feeling. She pushed the empty dish away, suddenly aware of the weight settling in her stomach. It sat heavy like the repressed anger that wouldn’t leave her guts, inescapable as all the strings she couldn’t yet see —the ones that had forced her into becoming a killer.

For a moment, silence stretched between them, thick with both tension and a quiet understanding. Koral could sense Apollo’s gaze on her, yet for a brief period, neither moved.

Then, with a gentleness that startled her, his hand reached out. His calloused fingers brushed aside a strand of green hair that had fallen across her face, the unexpected tenderness catching her in a rare moment of vulnerability.

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, searching for some hidden meaning behind the action, yet the old man’s expression remained unreadable, a mask of contemplation she couldn’t decipher. Koral noticed then that he hadn’t served himself any food, but was instead standing there with a weary air of resignation.

“Despite all you’ve been through, and all you’ve grown…” Apollo began softly. “I can’t help but think you’re not yet ready.”

>> “But it can’t be helped now. It’s not my choice to make.”

With the spell broken, Koral recoiled from his touch brazenly, her body tensing as if preparing for a fight. She arched an eyebrow, forcing a sardonic smirk onto her lips.

“Don’t you dare go senile on me now.” She snapped, though her forced bravado rang hollow. “We’re not about to get all sentimental, are we?”

Despite her words, Koral knew exactly what Apollo was talking about. She had already seen this happen with Kyros six months ago, but her stomach still coiled with anxiousness at the thought. La Medula had invested four years in her development —it was inevitable that La Flor would start demanding more tangible results.

Without speaking, Apollo reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek new phone, its significance crystal clear. From now on, she would receive her own instructions directly. No more intermediaries, no more safety nets.

As her fingers closed around the device, a fleeting, passing thought echoed in her mind —a sudden, wild impulse of sorts.

If Apollo had instructed right then and there to rebel against the Cartel alongside him, she wouldn’t have hesitated. To slay everyone that dared cross their paths to freedom, or to bring an end to the Medula Empire by themselves, no matter how unlikely —she would have done it, no questions or doubts.

But the old man said nothing of the sort.

Instead, he settled back, massaging his chin with a distant look in his melancholic eyes.

“No need to make a big fuss if we ever see each other again.” He said, his voice low and measured. “Just make of me an old acquaintance, nothing else.”

>> “There’s no need to be worried, I’ve taught you all that you need to know.”

Koral’s mind screamed at her to scoff, to deny the possibility of any sentiment towards this pathetic old geezer… But the words caught in her throat, refusing to come out.

“In this line of work, it’s not the enemies that are the hardest to face, but the ones that we once cared about.” Apollo continued, his gaze fixed on some point beyond her. “Sometimes, the toughest choices come when we least expect them, and they often involve the people we trust the most.”

He paused, his eyes finally meeting hers with an intensity that made Koral want to look away

“Never forget that more than skill with a weapon or control over a Punisher…”

>> “The most important ability of them all is to push through and survive, no matter the cost. Trust your instincts, Koral, and whatever comes your way, face it with courage.”

Though she wanted to dismiss his cheap advice, to make some biting remark about how she didn’t need his concern, the teenager forced herself to retain an impassive facade.

“This path thrust upon us often demands sacrifices we can’t yet imagine.”

>> “But I believe you have it in you to remain true to yourself no matter the circumstances. Try to reach for happiness, as impossible and futile as it might seem at times.”

With her heart constricted by an emotion she refused to name, Koral nodded by instinct a couple of times. The weight of the old man’s parting remarks settled around them like a shroud, as she clutched the phone in her hands —her brand-new lifeline and leash rolled into one.

This moment marked the end of something she hadn’t even known she valued… But the relative safety of Apollo’s guidance was over. From now on, she was on her own in the blood-soaked world they inhabited.

Part of her wanted to rage against it, to demand more time and preparation, but the larger one, the side of her that had been numbed by violence and loss, simply moved on. Without much reaction on her face, Koral dismissed Apollo’s gaze as she returned to her room for some final arrangements.

Whatever came next, she would indeed face it. Not for the Cartel, not for Apollo, but only for herself.

Because in the end, that was all she truly had left.