The young prisoner sat with his back against the wall. His legs were crossed in the lotus position, his hands resting on his knees, palms open to the ceiling. His eyes were closed. His breathing was slow — so slow that a stranger might have thought him dead.
Hunger had carved him into something new. His clothes — once a shirt and trousers — now hung from his frame like rags on a scarecrow. The fabric had been eaten by time, torn by his own restless movements in the first months, then left to decay. Holes gaped at the shoulders and knees. The hem of his shirt was a fringe of threads. His trousers were held up by nothing but the sharp bones of his hips.
His body was a map of suffering. You could count every rib, every vertebra, every knob of his spine. His arms were thin as dry branches, the veins visible beneath translucent skin. His belly had swollen in the early days of starvation — the hard, round edema that speaks of a body eating its own flesh — but now even that had begun to sink, leaving loose skin hanging like an empty sack. His collarbones jutted forward, sharp as blades. His face was a skull with eyes — deep sockets, hollow cheeks, lips pulled tight over teeth that seemed too large for his mouth.
And yet, he sat in peace.
Around him, scattered across the stone floor, lay more than seventy bottles — perhaps ninety. He had stopped counting after the first year. They formed a silent army, a testament to time. Some were empty, some still held a few drops of the water that had kept him alive. Dust had settled on them, turning them grey. A few had fallen and rolled into corners, forgotten.
A year and a half had passed. Maybe two. He no longer knew. He no longer cared.
In the darkness, he had found something rare. Not hope — hope was a word for those who still looked outward. He had found acceptance. He had found himself. Through the long months of silence, he had peeled away every layer of wanting, every craving, every fear. What remained was a quiet flame — not bright, not hot, but steady. A peace that asked for nothing.
He could see the universe in the darkness now. Not with his eyes — they had grown weak from lack of light — but with something deeper. He saw the stars in the dust motes. He saw the turning of the earth in the slow crawl of shadows. He had become part of the room, and the room had become part of him.
Then — a sound.
A sound he had not heard in more than two years.
......
It groaned open, metal scraping against stone, and light poured through the gap. A blade of brightness cut across the floor, climbing the opposite wall, reaching into the deepest corner of the room. The light was painful — a white fire that burned his eyes even through closed lids. He had forgotten how bright the world could be.
Footsteps. Heavy. Measured.
One figure entered. Then another. Then a third.
Three old, strong men — the same ones who had dragged him here, he was sure of it. Their bodies were thick with muscle, their faces hidden behind masks or shadows. Each step they took sent a low rumble through the stone floor. The ground trembled beneath their weight.
They approached him slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal that might still bite.
The young prisoner opened his eyes.
He looked at them with a gaze that held no fear, no anger, no hope. Just peace. The kind of peace that comes from having nothing left to lose.
His lips parted. His voice — cracked, dry, unused for years — emerged like a rusted blade from a sheath.
"You're finally here."
A pause. Then, with a faint, mocking smile:
"Where should I go next?"
The words hung in the air. He had meant them as a mockery — a way to show them that their power meant nothing to him. How can you frighten a man who has already lost everything? How can you threaten someone who has already stared into the abyss and found it comfortable?
The three giants exchanged glances. Perhaps they pitied him. Or perhaps they pitied themselves, forced to look upon what they had helped create.
They did not speak. One of them stepped forward and tied a blindfold over his eyes — but not the full head covering this time. Only his eyes. A strip of dark cloth, rough against his skin. He could still breathe. He could still hear. He could still feel the air on his face.
They took his arms and led him forward.
......
He walked.
The light touched his face — warm, almost tender — and he realized how long it had been since he had felt anything but cold stone and his own decaying flesh. They led him through corridors, turning left, then right, then left again. The sounds changed: stone floors gave way to wood, then to metal, then to stone again.
The young prisoner did not struggle. Instead, he memorized the path. Not because he planned to escape — how could he, with a body eaten by time? — but because his mind had become his only remaining weapon. Every turn, every echo, every change in temperature: he stored them all.
His body was a ruin. His skin was rotten in places — dark spots where the flesh had died, open wounds that wept pus and blood. Insects had fed on him during the long months. You could see the muscle beneath the cracks in his skin, pink and raw. You could see the yellow of old fat, the white of bone. The smell of infection followed him like a shadow. But no one cared. Why would they? They were the ones who had put him in that situation.
He stumbled once. A giant's hand gripped his arm, lifted him, pushed him forward.
"Move ahead," a harsh voice said from behind.
He moved.
......
I did not know where I was going. But I knew one thing for certain.
I was going to meet one of the four people I had craved for so long. The smiling man. My mother. Jeffrey. The child.
One of them. After two years.
But here is the strange thing: I did not care much anymore.
Why would I? Two years in darkness had taught me that craving is a chain. Hope is a chain. Fear is a chain. I had broken them all, one by one, in the silence of that room. I had become something else — something that could not be threatened, could not be tempted, could not be broken.
I walked toward the light, my rotting feet leaving faint prints on the cold floor, and I smiled.
Not Gu's smile. Not a smile of cruelty or joy.
The smile of a man who has nothing left to lose — and has finally learned that this is not a weakness, but a kind of freedom.
......
I moved through the darkness that still clung to my eyes — the blindfold had not been removed, only loosened. Light and shadow traded places behind the cloth, a flickering dance of grey and black. I was entering another room again.
I have grown used to this — going from one room to another, never knowing what waits inside. And strangely, I have started to like it. How very strange. How can anyone like something so terrible? But perhaps it was not terrible at all. Even though I had broken most of my chains, two or three still remained. I could not name them, but I felt them — deep in my chest, slow as old poison. They pulled at me, held me back. I could not walk faster. I was tired. I had not seen light for more than two years.
Ten steps. Maybe twelve. Then — full darkness again. No light at all.
I reached up and pulled the blindfold from my eyes.
The first thing I saw was the eyes of a girl.
She was perhaps twenty years old, Asian, with long dark hair that fell past her shoulders. Her face was not too thin, not too full — a quiet symmetry, the kind that artists try to paint and fail. She was shorter than me by a head and a quarter. I would not lie: she was gorgeous. But beauty was not what held my gaze.
It was her eyes.
Sadness lived there. Deep, old sorrow — the kind that does not cry because it has forgotten how. Her eyes were wide, fixed on me, and I saw fear in them. Not the sharp fear of a cornered animal, but the dull, heavy fear of someone who has been waiting for a long time and does not know what comes next.
What a pitiful girl, I thought.
I did not say the words aloud. I had grown used to silence. The room had taught me that.
---
The room itself was the same size as before. Stone walls. A small window high at the top, letting in a sliver of grey light. But this time, there were four beds — rusty old frames with thin covers, one in each corner. Two of them lay in the darker half of the room, two closer to the door. Near the door, a bag hung from a hook, dripping water — drop by drop, slow as a dying heartbeat — into a small basin. Not much. But more than the single bottle I had received each week. More than enough.
The girl sat in the middle of the floor, alone. Her legs were folded beneath her, her hands resting on her knees. She watched me approach.
I walked toward her, my bare feet scraping the stone. The sound was loud in the silence. Each step felt like a small death. When I reached the center of the room, I stopped. I stood before her. I looked down at her clothes — simple, worn, clean enough — and I thought: *She is one of the most beautiful girls I have ever seen. And one of the saddest.*
A beautiful and pitiful situation. For both of us.
She spoke first. Her voice was soft, trembling at the edges.
"Hello. My name is Wing."
I did not answer immediately. I had forgotten how to speak to another human. My tongue felt thick, foreign. I simply nodded — a small, slow movement of my head — and then turned away.
I could walk no more. My legs were trembling. The wounds on my skin ached, the pus still seeping through the cracks in my flesh. I needed rest.
I crossed the room to the far corner, chose a bed at random, and lay down on it. The blanket was rough, rust-stained, smelling of old metal and older sweat. It scraped against my wounds, and I winced. But I did not cry out. I had forgotten how to do that too.
I pulled the blanket over my shoulders, curled my body into a tight ball, and closed my eyes.
The water dripped. The girl did not move. And I slept.