The sound of boots and a cane tapping echoed down the narrow, torch-lit tunnel leading to the root cellar-turned-bunker. It was dug into the hill beneath the tavern, damp and cool, with rough-hewn stone walls and a thick iron door bolted shut from the outside.
Inside, Wang sat slumped against the wall, pale and gaunt, the dirty bandage on his right arm soaked through again. Sweat clung to his brow, and his left hand trembled from dehydration and the relentless ache pulsing through his body. His one eye—unbandaged and alert—tracked the door as it creaked open.
Elder Warru stepped through, ducking low, leaning heavily on a carved cane. His shotgun was slung across his back, more decorative than practical, but still within reach. He said nothing at first—just stared.
Wang blinked. "You the one who chained me up like some junkyard dog?"
Warru took a long breath. "You the one who bled all over my floor."
Wang gave a dry, humorless chuckle. "Guess we're even, then."
Warru stepped closer, his face unreadable beneath the nest of wrinkles, beard, and a slight sheen of wine-sweat. He pulled over a wooden crate and sat down, exhaling like the act of sitting took effort.
They stared at each other for a few beats.
"Name?" Warru asked.
"Wang-Yang."
"That a first and last, or are you one of them hyphen folks?"
Wang smirked faintly. "Does it matter?"
Warru shrugged. "Not to me."
He leaned on the cane with both hands. "You know why you're branded?"
Wang shook his head. "No. Got stunned on the way here. Don't remember a goddamn thing before waking up on the boat."
"You believe in coincidences?"
"I don't even believe in second chances."
Warru's eyes narrowed, studying every twitch of Wang's face. Every pause between words. The way his gaze didn't dance or dart away. His tone wasn't slippery, either. Just tired. Honest.
"Your letter," the old man said, "stands for murder."
"I know," Wang muttered. "Aiyana told me."
"You think you did it?"
Wang looked away. "I think... if I did, I'd know. I'd feel something. Guilt. Regret. Rage. Something. But all I feel is empty."
Warru didn't respond for a long time. He just kept staring, jaw clenched beneath his scraggly beard.
Finally, he nodded once.
"You don't look like a killer," he said, "and not in the innocent way. More in the... 'might've done something stupid but ain't a monster' kind of way."
Wang let out a slow breath. "I'll take that as a compliment."
Warru stood up with a grunt, his knees cracking loudly.
"I've seen real killers. They either talk too much or not at all. You just look tired."
"Guess dying does that to you."
The old man paused near the doorway, glancing back.
"You want out?"
Wang looked up at him. "What do you think?"
"I think you want answers more than freedom," Warru said, tapping his cane once. "But answers don't always come before the sentence."
"That supposed to be deep?"
"Nope," he muttered. "Just true."
He turned toward the hallway but stopped short.
"Aiyana will be back soon. She'll change your dressing. Feed you."
Wang furrowed his brow. "So... I'm not free?"
Warru scratched his beard, not turning around. "You're not dead either. Call that step one."
Then he walked out, leaving Wang in the dark again.
Q: Do you drink?