Whether he liked to admit it or not, seeing Hyunjin again stirred something deep within him. He had no idea what that something was; he only knew it existed, pulsing in his belly like a second heart—or a monster that had sunk its claws into his guts and wouldn’t let go until it devoured every shred of sanity left in him.

Lying on the cold, bare floor, Felix stared at the ceiling. The plaster was peeling in several places, revealing the gray asphalt behind the thin layer of paint. The cell was the same as always, just barer, and yet now it felt completely different. It was more bearable. Knowing what was beyond the stairs made him feel like the box he was trapped in had suddenly grown larger. If he closed his eyes and concentrated hard enough, he could imagine the corridor: the white, sterile lights, bare feet slipping against the smooth floor slick with blood. The doors were gravestones, Felix realized. White slabs with names and numbers burying people who no longer knew what to hope for, what to beg for. Atonement. Felix laughed bitterly. Was this some kind of cult of religious fanatics who believed that imprisonment, humiliation, and rape were the only ways to pay for one’s sins? And which sin, out of all the countless ones, was Felix paying for?

Another one had been added to the list.

Hyunjin had looked so worried, so furious. Surely Ivan’s murder was something no one higher up had anticipated. That place was supposed to be an impregnable fortress—Felix was sure that’s what all the lunatics working there believed. A mere illusion, shattered into a thousand pieces like a mirror struck by a stone, and all it had taken was a chicken bone to escape.

If only he could do it again...

No.

Felix knew he’d lost his chance. They’d never let their guard down again. He squinted, trying to locate the cameras, but they were so well hidden it was impossible to determine their position. Still, Felix remembered where they had been. Positioned to leave only a few corners of the room uncovered, though he was certain they had already fixed even that problem.

What options did he have?
Attempting suicide again, perhaps.
He could smash his skull against the bars again, but...

But now he wasn’t alone anymore.

Felix dragged himself toward the wall, pressing his palm against it.

On the other side, someone else was surely enduring the same fears, the same paranoia. Another beating heart, another soul searching for hope, for answers. Felix knew now. He clenched his hand into a fist and slammed it hard against the wall, but the sound was dull, barely audible. He wished he had an object to strike the wall more forcefully, but aside from his hands, he had nothing. He balled both hands into fists and struck the wall again, harder this time. Once, twice, three times. He tried to create a rhythm, making it clear it couldn’t be artificial. Thump-thump. Thump. Thump-thump. Thump. He kept hitting the wall, over and over. Then he heard a faint sound from the other side of the wall. The rhythm was the same. Thump-thump. Thump.

Felix’s heart began to race wildly.

He had known there were other people, in the same way, he knew it rained diamonds on Saturn or Venus or wherever. Knowing and seeing diamonds fall from the sky were two entirely different things—just as knowing there were people in that prison and being able to communicate with them were worlds apart.

It was terrifying.

Felix froze. He was certain the person on the other side of the wall had the same reaction upon realizing that the sound was made by someone. His heart pounded violently, slowing only after several seconds. Felix forced himself to calm down. To be sure, he knocked on the wall again. Thump-thump. Thump.

Moments later, the same sound came in response.

It would be impossible to truly communicate, he knew. But at the same time, it comforted him to know that now there was... something. He suddenly felt less alone. Misery loves company, he thought. Maybe his company was far less than half, but it was something nonetheless. A pile of somethings Felix could cling to now, and he hoped all those somethings might make whatever awaited him less unbearable.

Hyunjin had said it.

"Will it be worse than Ivan?"
"Yes."

And Felix struggled to imagine it.

He struggled to conjure images of something even worse than what had happened under Ivan's rule—being his prisoner had been even more horrific than being Hyunjin’s. And he wasn’t even sure why. Was Hyunjin less horrible than Ivan?

Maybe.

The truth was, imprisonment had wrecked his brain so thoroughly that Felix could no longer clearly distinguish between good and evil people. And Hyunjin was simply someone he had learned to get used to. In some sick, twisted way, he thought he was almost in love with him—not in a romantic sense, but in a fascination born of his need to feel protected by someone.

Hyunjin didn’t want to hurt him.

It was a feeling Felix had, deeply rooted, a plant that had grown from a seed and flourished in his heart, now impossible to uproot. Hyunjin wanted to help him. He would help him. Maybe he’d have to do terrible things to him, but his goal was to help. To do what? Felix had no idea. To escape? He doubted it.

"I need you to keep trusting me."

Felix pulled his knees to his chest, resting his forehead against them. Trust Hyunjin. But could he really? Maybe. Maybe not. Felix honestly didn’t know who Hyunjin was. He could be his angel or his personal devil. What was certain was that Felix depended on him far less than he thought—Hyunjin was really just a pawn for someone else. The things he could do or say were limited, especially with all that surveillance.

And yet Felix was sure there were no microphones in that cell, or he would never have spoken, never said those things.

But there was no way to be absolutely certain.

These were just musings, baseless fantasies.

The lock clicked. Felix sat up, his head hanging low, hair falling over his face.

He heard footsteps descending the stairs. It was impossible not to think about the moment he’d climbed them. If he concentrated hard enough, he could imagine the rough cement of the steps under his feet.

Hyunjin stood in front of the cell. Felix heard noises, so he lifted his head. Hyunjin was setting up a tripod, the camera pointed directly at him. Felix understood that something horrible was about to happen, something he didn’t want, yet the usual panic, the usual blind fear, didn’t surface.

He didn’t know why, but he felt as if he and Hyunjin were just two actors forced to play roles in someone else’s script. Their eyes met.

Hyunjin was nervous.
No, he was furious.
Felix realized this by watching the way he moved.
Every movement was sharp, abrupt. His eyes were black pits into which Felix felt he could sink.

Neither of them said a word.
Hyunjin brought his hands to his wrist, hooked his index finger around an elastic, and tied his hair into a low ponytail, two black strands slipping loose and brushing against his cheekbones.

He wore a white shirt, dark pants, shiny leather shoes with squared tips.

As usual, he was too beautiful to be real.
Next to him, Felix was convinced he looked like Gollum standing next to an elf.
Too thin, too pale, with far too little access to soap and water.
Perhaps the real torture was for Hyunjin, forced to touch such a nightmare.

Felix smiled at the thought.
Finding irony in his fate was truly the only thing he could do now.

Hyunjin pulled the cell keys from his pocket. The metal door creaked open, but Felix didn’t move, remaining seated on the floor.

“Gentlemen,” Hyunjin said. His voice was steady but stiff, as though he were extremely annoyed, as if he’d just finished arguing with someone and the anger still simmered inside him. He said nothing else. Gentlemen, that was all, as if he were merely addressing an invisible audience. Then Hyunjin’s hand plunged into Felix’s hair, forcing him to lift his face so their eyes could meet again.

I’m already broken, Felix thought.
You can’t destroy me any further.