The young prisoner meditated for a long time. No words were spoken. The girl watched him from across the room — her eyes moving between curiosity and fear, and something else. Disgust. You could see it in the way her lip curled, the way her gaze flickered away and then back, as if she could not decide whether to pity him or loathe him. Perhaps she was disgusted by all men. Who could blame her?
The darkness of night came. The small window at the top of the wall let in only a faint grey glow, then nothing. The room became a tomb.
The fear in the girl's eyes deepened. The disgust remained. She stood and walked directly to her bed in the corner — the one farthest from him — and sat down. She pulled her knees to her chest, wrapped her arms around them, and curled into a tight ball. Her long dark hair fell over her face like a curtain, hiding her from the world.
The young prisoner looked at her. A sad smile touched his cracked lips. His voice, when he spoke, was crushed — dry and soft, like leaves crumbling underfoot.
"Poor thing. How much hardship have you gone through? I wish I could do something for you. But sadly, I cannot. I am in the same boat as you."
He did not wait for an answer. He turned, walked to his own bed, lay down, and closed his eyes. Sleep was already pulling at him, heavy and dark.
Then her voice came — small at first, trembling. Then louder.
"You think you can survive?"
He opened his eyes but did not move.
"You are not the only one who has tried to be a strong man." Her voice cracked. "All of those who came before you — they showed strength. Way more than you. Look at you. So weak. And you think you can survive this?"
He watched her in the darkness. Her face was wet. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she did not wipe them away. She was fighting between speaking and swallowing — the words choking in her throat, mixed with the salt water flowing from her eyes. Her chest heaved. Her small hands clenched into fists, then opened, then clenched again.
"I have been here since I was fifteen," she shouted, her voice rising with fear and scream. "I was captured after the war. Six years ago. They destroyed my country — Wuren. They captured me. Made me a sex slave."
Her voice broke. A sob tore from her throat.
"I have seen so many men. Old. Young. All of them. Those who succeeded — I could count them on one hand. But most of them failed. They fell to desire. They became animals. You will not survive. I know it."
She buried her face in her knees, her shoulders shaking. The room was silent except for her weeping.
The young prisoner did not answer. He did not need to answer. Why would he? His eyes were growing heavier and heavier. The sound of her crying became a distant river, then a whisper, then nothing.
He fell asleep.
Boom.
The sound cracked the silence of the night. The door opened — harsh, violent, slamming against the stone wall. Three large men entered. The same three giants. Their shadows stretched across the floor, long and dark, reaching for him like hands.
The young prisoner woke. He did not move. He simply opened his eyes and waited.
The giants approached.
....
I was taken by force. They raised me, grabbing my arms, and clamped two chains — one on each wrist. Then they pulled me. This time, they did not let me stand. They dragged me across the floor, my body scraping the stone like a sack of bones.
In that final moment before the door, I turned my head. I caught a tiny glimmer of the girl — Wing — her eyes wide, watching. I knew she had seen this before. Many times. Too many times. Then the door swallowed me.
It was the first time I had crossed this threshold without something covering my eyes. But I could not see much. I was being dragged, my legs useless, my skin grinding against the floor. The friction tore at my flesh. I began to bleed — warm rivers down my back, my hips, my heels. But I felt no pain. Not yet. Not in the way you expect. I was not afraid. I was at peace.
I wanted to look up, but my head was forced down by the angle of my arms. I could see only the ground — the stone floor passing beneath me, then changing to wood. Old wood, dark with age. The feet of the two giants marched in front of me, their boots heavy, each step a small earthquake.
Then they stopped. They raised me. My arms were pulled high, and I hung between them like a chicken strung up for market. I looked around for a moment. A wooden room. Square. Empty. Nothing else. They pushed me against a wall and pinned my chains to it. I was facing the wall now — my forehead touching the cold wood, my arms stretched above me, my back exposed.
Then I heard a sound. A whip. Or a leash. Something cutting through the air.
*Strike.*
Something touched my back. Pain. Not the dull ache of hunger or the slow rot of wounds. This was sharp, white, unbearable. It exploded across my shoulders like fire. I could not control myself. A scream tore from my throat — raw, animal, a sound I had not made in two years.
I could not even catch my breath. Then the second strike came. This time, I had gained my composure. My jaw clenched. My teeth ground together. I bore the pain in silence. Only the sound of the whip and the soft grunt of my breath.
And then another. Each one stronger than the last. The fire spread — down my back, around my ribs, into my legs. The pain was a language I had forgotten, and now it was speaking to me in screams and whispers. But I did not scream again. I stood still. My body shook, but my voice was silent. I had no fear. Only pain. Only the quiet acceptance of a man who has already died a thousand times in his mind.
I do not know which strike took my consciousness. The world faded — not to black, but to a deep, warm grey. Like sinking into a soft bed after years of stone.
---
Then I woke.
I was facing the stone wall of the old room. The familiar grey light from the small window. The smell of dust and rust. And a voice, soft and trembling.
"You are awake," Wing said.
I turned my head slowly. She was sitting on her bed, watching me. Her eyes were red, but no tears fell. She had been crying, or perhaps she had stopped long ago.
I did not speak. I simply closed my eyes again and listened to the drip of water from the bag near the door.
The pain was still there, a dull roar beneath my skin. But I was alive. And for now, that was enough.
....
She was behind me, treating my wounds. I could not see her hands, but I felt them — soft, trembling, careful. She cleaned the gashes on my back where the whip had split my skin. The medicine stung at first, then cooled. She wrapped clean cloth around my ribs, my shoulders, my arms. She gave me water to drink — small sips, her hand cupping the back of my head, lifting it gently so I would not choke. She did not speak while she worked. Only the sound of her breathing, the rustle of cloth, the drip of water from the bag near the door.
When she finished, I turned my head to look at her.
"Thank you," I said. My voice was dry, cracked, but sincere.
She did not look at me. Her eyes were fixed on the floor, on her hands, on anything but my face. "No need to thank," she said. Her voice was cold — not angry, not sad. Empty. Like a robot reciting a line it had spoken a thousand times. "This is my job. I have to please all the men who come here."
She paused. Her lips pressed together.
"This is who I am now. I have nothing left. No hope. Nothing. I do not care anymore."
---
I looked at her for a long moment. Her face was still, but her hands — resting on her knees — were not. They trembled, just slightly, like leaves in a wind only she could feel.
"Do you really not care?" I said. "Or are you just lying to yourself?"
The words came out of me, and I realized I sounded more like the old man than like myself. Jeffrey. The general. The one who had looked at suffering and asked *why*.
"Tell me," I continued, my voice soft but steady. "Why did you cry? Why did you fear me touching you? Why did you run to the corner and grab yourself like a small animal trying to hide? Did you really lose all will to live?"
She did not answer. Her jaw tightened. A muscle near her eye twitched.
"You still have the will," I said. "The will to live. If you did not care, you would not have cried when I was about to sleep. You cried. You tried to keep your dignity. You held onto it with both hands. That is not the act of someone who has lost everything. That is the act of someone who still hopes — even if she does not know it."
Her lower lip began to tremble.
"I see it in your eyes," I said. "You still want to leave this place. You still want to be free. Someone who has truly lost all will does not cry for themselves. Does not pity themselves. Does not even try to gain anything. They simply lie down and wait for death. But you — you are still here. You are still fighting. Even if you do not call it that."
---
Her face crumbled.
Not slowly, like a wall falling brick by brick. All at once, like a dam breaking after years of holding back a flood. Tears poured from her eyes — not the silent tears of sorrow, but the loud, ugly, gasping sobs of someone who had been holding everything inside for too long. Her shoulders shook. Her hands covered her face, but the sounds escaped through her fingers. She cried like a child who had finally been found after being lost in the dark for years.
It was not sadness, not exactly. It was relief. The relief of being seen. The relief of someone finally understanding that beneath the cold mask, beneath the robot voice, beneath the empty words — there was still a fire. Small, maybe dying, but still burning.
I did not touch her. I did not speak. I simply sat on the floor, my back against the wall, and let her cry. The water dripped from the bag. The grey light from the small window did not change.
After a long time, her sobs quieted. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, sniffled, and looked at me with red, swollen eyes.
"How do you know?" she whispered. "How do you know I still have will?"
I looked at my own hands — thin, scarred, but still capable of holding.
"Because you are still here," I said.
She did not answer. But something in her eyes changed. A tiny light, deep down, that had been hidden for six years.
She looked away, toward the small window.
"Three months," she said quietly. "He gave you three months."
"Yes," I said.
"Will you survive?"
I did not answer. I simply closed my eyes and began to breathe — slowly, deeply, the way I had learned in the darkness.
"I will try."
She said nothing more. But when I opened my eyes again, she was still watching me. Not with fear. Not with disgust. Something else.