Ayumi knew it even without a calendar.
Her body counted the days better than any clock.
Each hour carved itself into her through pain — in hunger, thirst, and sleep shattered by screams.
She hadn't eaten in three days. Not because she refused to. Simply… no one had come.
Until that evening, when she heard the key turn in the lock.
The sound was always the same, but this time, it hurt more.
Feitan entered with his usual hollow steps, a tray in his hand.
But this time, something was different:
The plate… was steaming.
Hot rice. Real food.
The smell filled the room like an offense. A torment.
Ayumi's body reacted before her mind: saliva surged into her throat — pure hunger.
But she didn't move. She didn't dare.
Feitan set the tray down. Still wearing his mask.
He looked at her.
She was on the floor, legs pulled in, eyes tired, lips cracked.
Her face still scratched, unhealed. Her hair stuck to her skin.
"Your beloved mother didn't call."
His voice was almost a hiss, slow.
The sentence, a thin blade.
Ayumi lowered her gaze. Her eyes filled, but no tears came.
She had already cried too many.
She had too little left to lose.
"I warned you."
Feitan stepped closer.Each step colder than the air itself.
Ayumi instinctively backed away, but there was no escape:
a mouse trapped against the wall.
"Look at the plate."
He pointed to the rice.
"Hot. Fragrant. You're hungry, aren't you?"
She barely nodded, trembling.
He knelt beside her, slowly.
He spoke in a whisper, as if reading her agony.
"You won't get it. Not yet. First… I want to hear you say you understand. That you're worth nothing. That you've been abandoned. That the world owes you nothing."
Ayumi shook her head.
"No… that's not true…"
Her voice trembled.
Feitan grabbed her chin between two fingers.
Firmly.
He squeezed. It hurt. Not from strength — but precision.
His thumb just below her eye. He stared closely, as if trying to dig inside her.
"The truth burns because it's real."
Ayumi whimpered, almost crying.
"You're hurting me…"
Feitan didn't react.
No emotion.
Only pressure. Only power. Only silence.
Then he let go.
She collapsed forward, breath ragged, hands clutching her stomach in a futile attempt to hold it all in: the tears, the fear, the hunger.
Feitan stood up.
Picked up the spoon.
Scooped a portion.
Held it out to her without a word.
Ayumi opened her mouth,
devoured it like a frightened animal.
Eyes closed. And finally — finally — the tears came.
Another spoonful. And another.
Feitan stopped halfway.
Set the spoon down.
"Tomorrow is the last day. If no one calls… I'll tear you apart. Alive."
He didn't say it in anger.
He said it like a schedule.
Like a weather report.
Like a certainty.
Then he left.
The door closed.
And Ayumi…
clung to nothing.
She stayed there, breathing in her terror.
---Feitan…---
Feitan didn't understand what was so hard to accept.
Reality was simple.
Harsh — but perfect in its linearity.
People have no value.
They exist while they're useful.
Then they're removed.
Forgotten.
Replaced.
Ayumi — or whatever her name was — was no different.
Feitan watched her as he slid the spoon between her trembling lips.
Her hands were too weak to support her; her body bent, broken, collapsed like wet paper.
And yet…she still cried. Still prayed. Still hoped.
Feitan hated her for it.
"Why do you insist on thinking you're alive, when you've already been emptied?"
Every kind gesture — the thanks, the gaze, that absurd way of not even hating her tormentor —was like an infection in his mental code. An irritation. A biological defect.
So he decided: he would say it.
To her face.
"You are worth nothing."
It had been like setting down a weight.
Not to feel lighter — Feitan had no need for relief.
But to restore order.
To remind her — and himself — that there are no exceptions.
He had gripped her chin between two fingers. Not to hurt her.
To show her how little resistance she gave.
How easy she was to bend.
And when she whispered, "You're hurting me…"
something inside him flickered.
Not emotion.
Not empathy.
Control.
Pain is a language.
The simplest way to communicate with those who won't understand.
Feitan took no pleasure.
He felt nothing.
And that was his strength.
Feeding Ayumi was just a mechanism. A procedure.
Like oiling a machine that would be dismantled the next day.
His last words — "I'll tear you apart. Alive." — were not a threat.
They were a fact.
A statement of intent.
Not because Ayumi meant anything to him,
but because the world demands punishment.
And she was there.
In the wrong place.
At the right time.
He left the room without looking back.
Without wondering if she was sad, afraid, broken.
Feitan doesn't wonder.
Feitan acts
And then forgets.
---Ayumi…---
It was night. Nothing could be seen in the room.
The air felt suspended, as if even time had stopped breathing.
Ayumi wasn't sleeping. She hadn't closed her eyes in a long time.
She was afraid that if she did—if she dared to blink—everything would end.
That there would be no "after."
She didn't want to die.Not like this.
Not here
Not forgotten, alone, hollowed out.
She wanted to live.
To go home.
To hug her mother and tell her everything was okay—even if it wasn't.
Even if she'd carry this trauma forever.
She had thought about escaping.
Now that her hands were free, she could break the little window with a stone, slip out.
Run. Barefoot, even in the dark.
But where?
The hallway was guarded.
And then—he was always there.
That boy, that faceless thing, watching her like something to dispose of.
But tonight… he had left.
He had said in his mechanical voice — "Back soon" — and vanished down the hallway.
Bathroom, maybe. Or checking something.
Ayumi moved toward the window.
Stared at it.
One hard strike and it would shatter.
She could do it.
Then she heard him.
His footsteps.
Silent, but unmistakable.
Feitan was there again.
He entered.
He was about to return to his usual place — leaning against the wall like a nailed-down shadow — but Ayumi spoke.
"Have you ever been afraid to die?"
Her voice was hoarse.
But steady.
Almost… clear.
Feitan didn't answer right away.
He looked at her in the dark.
Then sat on the floor, back against the wall.
"No."
A sharp, dry response.
"Never? Not even as a child?"
"Death is better than weakness."
Ayumi lowered her gaze.
But didn't stop.
"Why do you do it? Why hurt people?"
"Because I'm good at it."
Another dry blow.
He wasn't playing.
He wasn't trying to have a conversation.
He answered out of duty. To end it.
But she continued.
"And what if I told you… you could choose not to?"
Feitan turned slightly.
His voice thinner, but glacial.
"And what if I told you to stop talking?"
Ayumi stared at him. Her eyes—swollen, tired—still shone.
Not with hope.
With will.
The strength of someone who refuses to collapse before someone who feels nothing.
"You weren't born this way, were you?"
Her voice was soft.
Too human for that room.
Feitan stood.
Walked slowly toward her.
But the words came anyway:
"There was someone, once. Someone who cared about you. Someone who—"
"Enough."
His voice was lower than usual—but sharper.
His gaze frozen.
Still.
"If your mother doesn't call within three hours… I'll tear you apart. It won't be fast. It won't be clean. And it won't be personal. Just… necessary."
He stood in front of her, silent.
Ayumi felt a knot rise in her throat.
She said nothing more.
She didn't move.
And from that moment on, time began to die—second by second.