As far as I know, the doctor hasn't been able to pry another word out of Ashur. I'm still the only one he'll speak to.
Rumor has it in the admin wing that the doctor worked him over again—infuriated that Ashur answers only to me.
Now I understand the real reason for his rage: he's learned that the order to sell and transfer Ashur came down directly from the apex.
For the doctor, that command is worse than death.
Years of research—his pride, his very identity—are turning to smoke.
Today I was ordered back to interrogation.
Only a few days remain before the transfer, and the doctor is clawing for any scrap of intel that might delay the sale.
So here I stand in the observation hall, facing him.
The chamber is cold.
They've just dragged Ashur from the torture room—his hair still wet.
Dried blood at his brow and lip makes his face look even harsher … and, somehow, disturbingly magnetic.
I draw a breath, step toward the glass cube.
"Today," I say, "we're going to play a game."
He meets my eyes in a long, heavy silence—as though rummaging through my mind.
"F-fi… fine," he rasps at last.
Good. As long as he's talking, I'm buying time—and I need every hour to map a way out.
"I call it **the** Sentence Game."
He tilts his head. Inside that cube he's less a fish in a tank than a predator ruling his own kingdom.
For a moment, I'm the one who feels caged—merely allowed to watch.
A thin smile curls his mouth. "W-what k-kind of g-game?"
Arms folded, I move closer—only a single breath now between us and the glass.
"We take turns. One of us throws out a word; the other must shoot back a full sentence, instantly—no thinking. If you hesitate, you lose. Got it?"
His stare is flat, yet his eyes swirl with black, unreadable energies.
"H-hmm. D-deal."
I flash a bright grin. "What's the prize if you win?"
Unhurried, he rises from the steel chair.
Chains ring his wrists; standing, I realize how tall he truly is—easily **one metre ninety-eight**.
Broad shoulders, long neck, tattoos covering most of his skin.
Every finger is bandaged—no doubt **were** cracked during the last session.
The top of my head barely reaches his chest; for once I'm glad the glass is thick.
He leans forward until his breath fogs the glass wall and murmurs,
"I-I l-love pr-izes."
Blink. A shiver runs through him—he actually likes this.
"What prize would you want?"
His slow grin needles my nerves.
"C-can I ask— a-any-thing?"
I glance at the camera in the corner. The only sound is the low metallic whoosh of the vent.
"Depends on what you ask."
He presses his forehead to the glass and closes his eyes.
When he opens them they're fathomless.
"Hm… C-could I see y-you up c-close? W-without the g-glass?"
I blink, startled; hardly the request I expected.
I pause, lock onto that dark, endless gaze, and answer,
"If the doctor signs off, I don't have a problem with it."
His smile cut deep—wide, wicked, almost surgical.
"And if I'm the one who wins?" he asked.
He waited, eyes drilling into me. I slid my hands into the pockets of my white admin coverall.
"Then you owe me a story—a bad one."
Ashur drifted back, dropped into the chair, and let the chains settle.
The magnetic cuffs, the bullet-proof cube that only Security can unlock…
Every time I study that cage, I remind myself: getting out of the tower is step two; step one is prying the Piranha out of his glass bowl.
"F-fine," he said at once.
I tilted my head. "Accepting my terms that fast? Confident, aren't we?"
He leaned against the backrest, the slice missing from his ear catching the light. The doctor had plainly poured his soul into tormenting him.
"U-un…less you t-think you can win," he lilted.
Boot heels clicking, I circled the cube—pretending his mockery didn't touch me, pretending I wasn't about to be turned into a killer for the thousandth time.
"Good. Let's begin."
Could he really break those cuffs? Take down three armed guards with bare, bandaged fingers?
Steven **was** gone; if the plan ever runs, it's just me—and him—against the building.
I tossed the first word. "Life."
"A vicious loop… an o-obligation," he fired back without a breath.
Impressive. His dead-flat eyes never left mine.
He gave the next word, almost playfully. "Friendship."
The name Steven slammed into my skull. His body, his smile.
Where had they dumped him—acid, flames? My throat locked.
Ashur tapped the glass with one chain.
"Tick-tock… tick-tock…"
I crushed the hurt down. "Like a mug of scalding hot chocolate in a winter desert," I snarled, mouth full of grief.
He chuckled—no joy in it at all.
"Freedom," I shot back, eager to regain ground.
He paused, eyes fathomless. Under the LED glare his pale face looked almost translucent, the black brows and lashes stark against it.
"W-what is freedom?" he mused. "A bird can f-fly yet never be free… a c-caged parrot might feel free.
Tell me—who's freer, you outside the glass… or me, l-little butterfly?"
I said nothing. He had a point: I'm the prisoner of my memories, my guilt—Steven's blood.
"Ask another," I ordered.
Ashur rolled his eyes lazily. "F-family?"
Nothing—no image, no scent of food, no lazy Sunday warmth. My supposed parents sold me before I even had a name. My jaw locked.
"Time's running," he taunted in a sing-song voice.
Family… family… I tasted iron; forced the words out:
"Family is a mirage in an endless desert—nothing but a cruel hallucination."
I sharpened my voice, pressing right on his weak spot. "Mother."
I smirked. He knew I'd done it on purpose. Unbothered, he leaned back in his chair, the emptiest look settling over his face.
"A h-host"—he tripped over the consonants—"to b-bring a little d-demon into hell."
Slowly, his lips stretched into a cruel smile.
Planting both hands on his knees, he bent toward me. Eyes narrowed—razor-thin. In the softest, vilest whisper he breathed:
"Mmm… death."
Ice climbed my arms.
Steven's cracked forehead flashed behind my eyes—blood creeping across the parquet, the smell of gun-smoke, the thud of his body hitting the floor…
My heart forgot how to beat. A ringing filled my skull—maybe the shot itself. Time stalled.
Ashur's gravelly drawl ripped through the paralysis. "Y-you l-lost."
I blinked, stunned, lungs refusing to open. Heat crawled over my skin. My words came out fractured. "Yeah… y-you win."
He swept a contemptuous glance down my body. "Give me my p-prize l-later. D-don't keep me w-waiting."
My skull throbbed. I turned for the door, shoulders caving. I couldn't breathe in that frozen, cursed room. The gunshot still echoed. Steven still died every time I closed my eyes.
Ashur's knife-edge voice cut me down mid-step.
"L-osing a f-friend h-urts, doesn't it?"
My heart shattered—like glass hurled into a runaway wheel of knives. Dizzy, I spun back. He lounged there, all shadow and malice, staring straight through me. The slash of his grin gutted me.
He knows about Steven…
I yanked my gaze away from the camera—what if the doctor knew too?
Sweat slid down my spine. Frozen hands curled into fists. I stared at Ashur—
—and saw something shift behind his eyes. Warning. Accusation.
His wrists angled just enough for me to catch the tattoo on his forearm: two demonic eyes, fixed on me—eyes boring through my bones.
Was Ashur warning me? If he knew, the doctor knew.
Keep your friends close. Your enemies closer.
They were watching. Counting every breath.
I blinked once, the smallest nod.
Ashur smirked, flicked a glance at the camera, then back at me.
I spun and bolted for the door.
Only then did his "prize" click.
He wants to see me—up close.
And he hates to wait.
Which means he plans to break out of this prison.