It was evening.
But Ayumi hadn't seen the sky in two days.
Night, in that place, was nothing but the absence of light.
No stars. No moon. Just darkness pressing against the walls — and voices… voices that scratched at the silence.
The screams of the other hostages echoed through the corridors: raw, torn by real pain.
Sometimes they sounded distant, sometimes far too close.
She couldn't cover her ears.
She couldn't do anything.
Only listen. Only imagine.
She curled into herself, as much as the ropes allowed.
Her body was no longer a body:
just wood burning from the inside.
That afternoon she had heard voices in the corridor: two men.
One of them had said:
"Two families have paid. We'll release them tomorrow."
And Ayumi, in the darkness of her exhausted mind, had thought:
"I'm happy…"
Not out of envy.
Truly.
At least someone had made it.
At least someone was going home.
But she?
Her arms, swollen and purplish, were now numb.
Pain had been replaced by nothingness.
An even more frightening sensation: the absence of pain.
It was the third day. Three.
The hours blurred. The walls seemed to move.
Sometimes she thought she would faint, but her body wouldn't even allow that.
Then she heard the lock.
A click.
The door creaking open.
The same boy.
She recognized him by the way he entered — quiet, controlled.
Always leaning against the wall, as if just waiting for the world to burn itself out.
His head down, gaze lost in emptiness or in something too deep to be seen.
Ayumi didn't speak. Not right away.
There was something sacred, or maybe terrifying, in that nocturnal silence.
He moved.
Came closer without a sound, as if not touching the floor.
She couldn't see his face well: too many shadows.
Only his hands — cold, precise — moving behind her.
Keys. A faint metallic jingle.
Then… the sound of iron giving way.
The ropes loosened.
Ayumi collapsed forward; her arms fell like soaked rags.
A sharp pain pierced her shoulders, but immediately after came the void:
her arms were dead weight.
She whimpered.
"Thank you..." she whispered.
Then louder:
"Thank you… thank you… thank you…"
She repeated it without knowing why.
Because she was alive? Because she could breathe a little easier?
Because someone had touched her without hurting her?
He turned. His voice was flat, cold, like a stone slab on a bed of flowers:
"Orders from the boss."
Nothing more.
No care, no intention. Just duty.
Ayumi lowered her gaze; she didn't dare ask anything else.
She had learned to read distance in other people's eyes.
And his… his were far from everything.
And yet, despite everything, something in her still looked at him with kindness.
Not because he deserved it, but because she didn't know how to be anything else.
---Feitan…---
The keys slid into his hand with a precise jingle.
Chrollo hadn't even looked up when he handed them over.
He spoke in his usual calm, low voice, devoid of mercy:
"The mother asked for fifteen more days. We gave her ten. She'll call tomorrow to confirm. If she doesn't… you know what to do."
Feitan asked no questions.
He didn't need to know why.
The world was divided between those who had value and those who were ballast.
And Ayumi — that trembling sack of bones and fear — was nothing but ballast.
He smiled.
A real smile. Rare, sharp, thin as a blade.
Not out of sadism: Feitan took no pleasure in the suffering of others.
He found order in it.
And the thought that the task was nearing completion…
that this useless heap would soon vanish from the world…
gave him peace.
He entered the room as always: silent, in shadow.
The metal of the key glinted between his gloved fingers.
He saw her immediately: sitting on the floor, trembling, her arms in her lap like broken things.
Her face still dirty, skin stretched from fever or exhaustion.
Feitan stared at her, and for a long moment, his mind filled with pure contempt.
"Look at her. Still alive. Still kind. Still stupid."
It was her kindness that irritated him most: that fragile mechanism she insisted on keeping lit.
As if she didn't understand. As if there was still something worth saving.
He stepped forward slowly, deliberately.
She saw him and tried to lift her gaze; maybe she wanted to thank him again.
Feitan stopped less than a meter away.
His voice came out dry, harsh:
"Shut up and don't move."
She bowed her head, weak, without speaking.
He looked at her like one looks at a sick animal still trying to breathe.
The words fell into the room like stones:
"Your mother asked for more time. We gave her ten days. If she doesn't call tomorrow to confirm… we start with you."
He gave her time to understand.
Then, slowly, he knelt before her, staring at her up close with a gaze sharp and unrelenting.
"You know what it means to start, don't you?"
Ayumi trembled; her eyes glassy, but she didn't cry.
Feitan stood up, slipped the keys into his pocket, stepped back.
Before leaving, he looked at her one last time.
Not with anger. Not with emotion.
With pure, absolute contempt.
"I told you not to hope. Now you'll understand why."
And he closed the door behind him.
No sound.
Only darkness.