The man with blue eyes studied him with a quiet intensity that felt more unnerving than being shouted at.
Eros shifted uncomfortably in the chair, the restraints biting into his wrists and ankles. His throat was dry, his tongue heavy. He had no idea what was coming next—who these people were, why they had dragged him here, or what they wanted.
Fear sat like a stone in his chest. His heart hammered so loudly it was almost embarrassing. He tried to control his breathing, but the silence in the room only magnified every inhale, every exhale, until it sounded like he was trying to drag air through broken glass.
Finally, words stumbled out. "Y-yes, sir. I won't do anything stupid."
He forced a smile, but it came out crooked and strained, the kind of expression that looked more like a confession than reassurance.
The man didn't return the gesture. He just kept watching, as though peeling back each layer of Eros's face, weighing every twitch of muscle, searching for lies that might not even be there. Then, with a slow exhale, he drew a small notebook and pen from his coat pocket.
"I'm going to ask you a few questions," he said, his voice even, neither harsh nor gentle. "Answer them quickly. No hesitation. Understand?"
Eros nodded. His voice wasn't trustworthy at the moment.
The man clicked his pen. The sharp sound cut through the sterile white room like the start of a game show buzzer. For one absurd second, Eros imagined flashing lights, canned applause, and a grinning host shouting, Time's running out!
«Yeah, except if I mess up here, it's not a buzzer, it's bullets.»
"Name?" the man asked.
"Eros."
"Age?"
"Seventeen."
"Where do you live?"
"Uh… around."
The man's eyebrow twitched. He shot a sharp glance upward, then returned to his notes.
"In what city are we right now?"
Eros blinked. "Capital East."
"And the nation?"
"The Confederation."
"The year?"
That one made him frown. "Year thirty-three after the Pact."
The man's eyes flickered almost imperceptibly before he wrote again.
"What faction do you belong to?"
"None." Eros shrugged. "I don't even know what that means."
The man didn't explain. He simply moved on.
"How did you acquire the book?"
"I found it."
"Did you read the warnings?"
Eros hesitated. "…You mean those scribbles in the margins?"
The man shot him another pointed look, then sighed.
"The questions are mine," he said. "Your job is to answer them."
"Fine. Yes. I saw them."
"How did you get through the barriers?"
"What barriers?"
"Answer the question."
"I don't know what you're talking about." His irritation slipped through, despite the fear chewing at his insides.
The man exhaled again, slower this time, as though reigning in frustration. He flipped a page in the notebook before looking back up.
"Once more. Where do you live?"
Eros swallowed, his eyes falling to the floor. His voice was smaller now. "I'm an inmate at the juvenile detention center."
The pen hovered in the air. The man's expression was unreadable.
"Why?" he asked.
Eros's fists clenched so tightly the restraints dug into his skin. He didn't want to answer. He wanted to lie, crack a joke, make it all disappear. But the weight of that unyielding stare drained the humor out of him.
"I…" His throat locked. Sweat burned down his temples. "I…"
"Answer."
"Because I killed my father!"
The words ripped out of him like shrapnel, louder than he meant, echoing against the sterile walls. His chest heaved, his ears rang, and the silence that followed pressed so heavily it felt like it had weight.
The man didn't flinch. He only studied him longer, pen unmoving, eyes sharp and cold. Then, without a word, he closed the notebook and slid the pen back into his pocket.
He turned to the guards. "Leave us. The subject isn't dangerous. Return to your posts."
The two men exchanged a look of thinly veiled relief. "Yes, sir."
Their boots clattered as they left, until the only ones in the room were the boy and the man with blue eyes.
Eros thought the silence would crush him. But then the man stepped forward, crouched slightly, and began unfastening the restraints one by one. The straps fell loose, leaving red marks etched into his wrists.
Eros rubbed them gingerly, staring in confusion. "What the hell is going on?"
The man straightened. His expression was calmer now, though his eyes stayed razor-sharp.
"Protocol," he said simply. "We had to ensure you weren't a Vessel."
Eros blinked. "…A what?"
"When a Reader dies inside the story a book creates, sometimes… something else wakes up in their place."
A chill crawled up his spine. He hadn't expected that. "Something else? Like what exactly?"
The man's eyes hardened. His jaw locked. "The kind of thing you don't want to meet alone in the dark. Leave it at that."
Eros swallowed. «Perfect. First a giant snake god tries to eat me alive, now I learn I could've woken up as a horror movie stand-in. Great.»
The man placed a hand on his shoulder. The touch was unexpectedly gentle, almost fatherly. His voice softened for the first time. "Kid… was it hard?"
Eros stiffened. The sudden kindness cut deeper than the straps had. His walls cracked, and images rushed in: venom burning through his skin, the eagle tearing out his throat, the stabbing by the bandits, pain dragging him back from death again and again. Cerberus's jaws ripping into Apophis. Loki's grin. Amanda's face, always close, always out of reach.
His throat tightened. He wanted to scoff, to joke, but the weight was too much. His eyes stung.
"…A lot," he whispered.
The man gave a small nod. His face softened too, if only slightly. He patted Eros's back, firm but not unkind.
"You did well," he said. "You survived. That's more than most can claim. I know you have a thousand questions, but you'll get your answers in time. For now, rest. Someone will bring you food soon. A specialist will come to speak with you."
"A specialist?"
The man's lips shifted into something between irony and sorrow. "A psychologist. Talk to him. It helps. Trust me—I know."
His gaze drifted for a moment, distant, caught in memories he didn't share. His jaw tightened. Then he shook his head and pulled himself back.
"I'll return soon," he said. "We'll discuss your situation properly."
Eros let out a bitter laugh. "My situation? I'm guessing I'm screwed, huh?"
The man's blue eyes flickered. Then, to Eros's shock, he broke into a deep, genuine laugh.
"Kids these days!," he said, chuckling. "Screwed? Yes. But not in the way you think. Let's just say your life won't go back to what it was. Not anymore."
Eros slumped against the chair, muttering under his breath. «Great. First Loki tells me the same thing, now this guy. I still don't know whether to be terrified or grateful.»
The man's voice softened again. "Rest, boy. In a few hours, I'll answer your questions. Agreed?"
"…Fine," Eros murmured.
The man gave him one last look. For a moment, something like pity flickered in his eyes. Or maybe Eros imagined it.
"Sir," Eros asked quietly. "What's your name?"
The man paused. For the first time, his expression shifted into something warm, even polite.
"My apologies," he said. "Captain Ariel. That's what they call me."
Then he turned, his coat brushing softly as he walked out. The faint scent of mint gum lingered in the sterile air.
Eros rubbed his wrists again. The marks ached, but not as much as his chest.
«Perfect. Strapped down, grilled with questions, babysat by guys with guns. Feels just like home...»
Eros arguably had experience with interrogations. And this was undoubtedly the strangest of all. Questions crowded his head, but, as Captain Ariel had said, that was for later. Now he felt like he'd been hit by a train.
He leaned back against the cold wall, staring up at the ceiling. The questions clawed at him, but exhaustion was louder. For now, he shut his eyes and let the silence take him.