"Hey, you okay?" a mechanic asked Steve as he walked past him, concerned about the way he moved. His movements were strained and uneven, his hair matted with something indistinguishable—whether sweat, spit, or something else—and his body emitted a pungent odor that even made him wince.
"I'm fine, Roger, thanks," Steve replied with a mock salute, his hand snapping up in an exaggerated, almost theatrical motion. His grin stretched wide, radiating humor despite his disheveled state, as he limped his way into the public bathhouse shower.
Roger wasn't the only one concerned about his appearance, though. Others threw him curious glances as he passed, though most weren't surprised anymore—it wasn't exactly the first time. "Working hard, eh?" one of them greeted with a knowing smirk.
Steve responded with a casual shrug, paired with a playful roll of his eyes and a sheepish grin, as if to say, Yeah, it was my own foolishness, but without saying a word. The gesture left his friend chuckling, already imagining what absurdity might have led to his current state. "Be careful next time, Sis!"
They called him "Sis" ever since that one wild party where Steve—drunk, dramatic, and dangerously confident—threw on a dress, climbed onto the table, and lip-synced like his life depended on it. Looking drop-dead gorgeous, he struck a pose and declared, "Who's Steve? I'm Sis, 'cause I got that sissiness you wanna worship, baby!" The crowd lost it, and from that night on, Steve was gone. Sis had entered the chat—and he wasn't leaving anytime soon. Although, when sober, Steve had been mortified when shown the footage and demanded it be deleted, the nickname stuck.
Steve couldn't return to his unit like this. He was too used to the 18-year-old Rod, someone he instinctively avoided discussing things like this with—things that would obviously make him concerned. Knowing Rod, once his curiosity was piqued, he wouldn't stop asking questions until he got the answers he was looking for.
Another shower was necessary, no matter how much Steve wanted to crash onto his bed already.
Several men were already in the bathhouse, washing and talking amongst themselves. Steve straightened his posture, forcing himself to appear unbothered. He knew better than to show fear or vulnerability—men were like dogs; if you acted like prey, they'd pounce.
The low population of women in the bunker had created an uneasy tension among the men. To address this, Cezar had separated the women from the men entirely, stationing them in a heavily guarded section of the bunker where they could raise their children safely. If people wanted to mate, there was a monthly event—a carefully monitored party designed for that purpose.
Until then, pretty boys like Steve had to watch their backs, maintaining a tough exterior and confident demeanor to exude the vibe of a predator who would bite back if provoked—even though violence was never his style.
As Steve turned the shower valve, he caught an older man—the "uncle" type—eyeing him from the side. Definitely one of those into younger, pretty boys. Immediately, Steve straightened up, rolling his shoulders back before turning to face him. With a deep, gruff voice he barely managed to muster, he offered a casual, "Sup?"
The man squinted, his curiosity unmistakable. "What's gotten into you?" he asked.
Steve let out a short laugh, keeping his tone light yet convincingly masculine. "Got unlucky. Fell into the sewer while cleaning out the water tank." He chuckled, running a hand through his matted hair, as if the gesture could somehow downplay the stench clinging to him.
The uncle nodded, accepting the explanation without further question, and soon finished his shower, gathering his things before leaving the room.
Now alone, Steve stood under the warm cascade of water. The sound of the shower filled the silence, but it couldn't drown out the thoughts rushing back into his mind. Flashbacks began to flood his consciousness, replaying the events he was desperate to forget.
He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as the memories surged—the way he had been manhandled, his wrists bruised from the handcuffs as Cezar bound him to the chair, the strikes that left his body aching. He shook his head, willing the images to go away.
"God, someone .. please walk in and talk to me," he muttered under his breath, wishing for the distraction of another presence. Anything to pull him out of his own mind.
But the room remained empty, leaving him alone with his vulnerability—a sensation he despised. For a fleeting moment, he felt it: the weight of helplessness pressing against his chest, heavy and suffocating. He hated this feeling—hated it more than anything. Then, with practiced resilience, he shook it off, forcing himself to rewrite the narrative.
"It's just a mind game," Steve whispered to himself, letting the water cascade over him. "It's all about how you frame it. You're not a victim—you're doing the right thing. He may took everything from you, but he can't take your sky. Yeah, it's just like the daily grind—doing things you hate because you're stuck with them anyway."
But then, the memory returned—the sensation of Cezar's hand on the back of his head, grabbing his hair as though he were something less than human, less than a dog.
"Soon, you'll learn how to be a good, obedient boy."
The words echoed in his mind, sharp and searing. It was upsetting—deeply so. But what could be done now that it had already happened? Nothing. Just deal with it. It'll fade away with time.
Unwanted memories were the worst. They came unbidden, haunting him at random, never feeling any less painful no matter how many times they replayed. Even if there were a tool to erase them, would it be a good idea? Probably not—it might lead him to make the same mistakes again. But keeping the memories felt just as torturous, like an ever-present shadow waiting to consume him at the worst possible moments.
All he needed was to leave this damned place! But...
If he left, it would mean never seeing Rod again. Rod wouldn't follow him—he was too naive to see the truth. Too blind to realize that the man he respected so deeply was nothing more than a vengeful killer and abuser. Rod even believed Charles was his true love, despite the fact that all Charles ever did was ignore him.
And yet, when Steve thought about it, that became the very reason why he couldn't leave the bunker. A part of him wanted to protect Rod from the cruel people who would inevitably exploit him for their own benefit. Rod had power, sure—but he didn't know how to protect himself. He trusted the wrong people, chased after something that was never reciprocated...
Rod had promised Steve that he would be there, even when he was with Cezar, so Steve wouldn't have to face it all alone. But the moment Cezar threatened to reassign him to someone else, Rod left.
How cute...
But now... wasn't it just the same with him? Trying to protect someone who didn't even care about him? Wasn't it the same as Rod chasing after Charles's attention while Charles's attention was on Archie? Or similar to Rod's admiration for Cezar, blinded by his charisma? Steve wanted to know—once Rod discovered what Cezar had been hiding deep underground, would he still see Cezar as the hero?
Maybe, Steve thought, Rod was meant to mirror him—meant to show him what was weighing him down: clinging to someone who didn't care about him.
That's right. Maybe he should leave Rod behind and choose his own freedom instead.
What would life be like outside this damned island? Would he find a new world? A better life? Maybe even a new love? Would he be happier? Or would life become even more complicated? Would he miss the things he left behind here?
Without realizing it, Steve had squeezed out half a bottle of shampoo. "Okay, this needs to stop. Too much shampoo, and my gorgeous hair will suffer," he muttered with a dramatic shrug, setting the bottle aside. Quickly, he rinsed off, stepped out of the shower, and grabbed a towel to dry himself.
In the locker room, as Steve started pulling on his clothes, his eyes caught his reflection in the mirror. The damp edges of his black hair clung to his face, trembling slightly as the memory of Cezar's fists resurfaced. His stomach churned, a wave of anger washing over him at the thought of his inability to fight back.
But then, with a defiant flick of his hand, he grabbed a comb and slicked his hair back, carefully styling it. He paused, looking at his reflection, and a smirk spread across his face. "No wonder he's obsessed," he said, striking a dramatic pose. "I'm absolutely gorgeous. Who could resist this? But sorry, Cezar—my heart belongs to the most stunning person in the universe: me! Huahahaha! AHAHAHAHA!!"
His maniacal laughter filled the locker room—until it abruptly stopped. A janitor stood frozen in the doorway, clutching his mop and staring at Steve with wide, confused eyes.
Steve clear his throat and continued dressing, but his mind refused to let go of escape plans. Should he take the underwater sewer path this time? Or fake his death? Both ideas swirled in his mind, but neither felt quite right.
And then, the thought of leaving Rod behind struck him again, a heavy weight pressing on his chest. He wished, more than anything, that he could take Rod with him. That boy... beneath his tough, macho exterior, Rod was genuine and empathetic—too pure for a place like this. He would be easy prey for the heartless maniacs in this hellhole of a bunker.
But what could he do if Rod insisted on believing the wrong side? Steve clenched his fists, frustration bubbling inside him. He had tried—time and time again—to make Rod see the truth, to peel back the layers of manipulation. But Rod just couldn't see it. How could he? He was still 18, too young to grasp the depths of this twisted reality.
And yet, wasn't that exactly why Rod needed him the most? Someone had to shield that untainted soul from the wolves circling this hellish bunker. Somebody had to protect his purity.
"Whatever," he huffs. "I'm not a saint. I won't sacrifice my own happiness for someone else. If he doesn't follow, I'll leave him behind—even if it means I'll regret it one day!"
With that, Steve locked his locker and left.