"Why is this happening to me...? Why... Why are they doing this? I don't know anything. I don't even want to know... I just want to go home. Just... home."
A cry echoed through the dimly lit room.
The faint yellow glow of a single bulb flickered above a boy—Shin Kamizuki—slumped in a wooden chair, his wrists bound tightly behind his back. His head hung low, dark hair falling over his face, but not enough to hide the swelling, the bruises, the blood. His school uniform was torn, stained red with his own blood.
Drops hit the floor—drip... drip...
Not from a cut.
His finger had been severed.
No bandage. Just exposed, raw flesh, the blood trailing down his arm in slow, pulsing streams.
He whimpered, voice cracking.
"My face... these bruises, the cuts... it hurts. It hurts so much. I can't take it anymore."
He tried to move—forcing every ounce of strength into his limbs—but his body wouldn't obey. He twitched, weakly, like a dying fish flailing on dry land—desperate, hopeless. Stranded.
His breathing grew rapid, shallow.
"M-Mom... Dad... please... help me..."
A sob broke through.
"Take me out of here... It's so dark. I'm scared. I don't want to die here... not in a place like this... so please..."
Then he screamed—his voice tearing through the silence.
"PLEASE... SAVE ME!"
More blood spilled from Shin's mouth as he spoke, staining his chin and shirt. But his desperate pleas meant nothing.
The door creaked open.
A man stepped in—not a savior, but another monster.
Cigarette dangling from his lips, old scars slashed across his face, he looked to be in his forties. Fury simmered in his eyes as he marched forward with heavy, angry steps—then slammed a fist across Shin's face.
The boy crashed to the floor with the chair still bound to him, hitting the cold ground hard.
The man stood over him, still puffing on his cigarette, voice cold and annoyed.
"Shut up, you little shit. I've been listening to this crap for hours. No one's coming to help you. No one's going to save you."
He flicked some ash from the cigarette, letting it fall onto Shin's hair and face.
"We've asked you again and again—where's the card?"
"Yet you're still sticking to that stupid lie."
Shin looked up, trembling, blood on his lips, voice cracking but louder now, filled with a flash of anger.
"I said I don't know anything about the damn card you're talking about!"
A boot slammed into his stomach.
He gasped, body convulsing from the blow.
"Don't talk back to me," the man growled, "I'm not your fucking teacher listening to some half-assed excuse."
He crouched down beside Shin, the cigarette now resting between his fingers, and leaned in close. Smoke curled between them.
"I'll ask one last time."
"Where. Is. The Gaiden Card?"
Shin let out a long breath. The defiance was gone now. All that remained was exhaustion. Hopelessness.
His voice was quieter, almost numb.
"Why don't you believe me...? I don't have your damn Gaiden Card. For God's sake… just let me go home..."
He raised his voice slightly—but it wasn't rebellion. It was the voice of someone on the edge. Someone who didn't have anything left to give.
That was enough to set the man off again.
In one swift motion, he stood and began kicking Shin over and over, shouting with every blow:
"I SAID—DON'T—TALK—TO ME—LIKE—THAT!"
"AAAHHHHHH!"
Shin's screams tore through the room, his voice hoarse, eyes wet. His strength had vanished long ago. His body was broken, trembling under the weight of pain no teenage boy should ever feel.
Still, the man didn't stop—not until he was out of breath, chest heaving.
He paused, glaring down, and spat on Shin's face.
"I don't get it…" he muttered, half to himself. "How the hell can a kid lie so easily after getting the shit beat out of him? Two fingers gone... and still no answer."
Shin was sobbing now.
"I-I really don't know anything... I swear… please... please... let me go home..."
The man scoffed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then whispered like it was a curse:
"Die here, then."
He turned toward the door, walking away as Shin continued screaming behind him:
"Please... please... please..."
At the door, the man paused and glanced back one last time.
His eyes met Shin's—not with sympathy, not even anger. Just cold, irritated indifference.
And then... he left.
Inside the room, Shin stared at the closed door.
One of his eyes was swollen shut. The other, barely open, remained fixed on that door—not with hope, but with a quiet, hollow understanding.
There was no escape. Not anymore.
Outside, footsteps echoed in the hallway. Kenjiro Yamazaki exhaled a long trail of smoke as he turned to a young man standing nearby. His tone was sharp, commanding.
"Check on the brat from time to time. If he dies, we'll have a hell of a problem on our hands."
The young man hesitated, shifting uncomfortably.
Then, cautiously, he spoke.
"Sir… I think maybe we should let the kid go. I mean, we've been torturing him for hours. He keeps saying he doesn't know anything about the card. What if… he's telling the truth?"
Kenjiro paused, then released a slow, disappointed breath.
'These damn newbies,' he thought. 'Always starting out with a conscience.'
His voice was colder this time.
"There's no need to feel sorry for that brat. Understood?"
The young man raised his hands slightly, trying to explain.
"I didn't mean—"
But Kenjiro cut him off, stepping closer.
"Listen. Even if he is telling the truth, what would you say about the video, huh? You think that was fake?"
The silence grew heavier.
Kenjiro narrowed his eyes.
"Just follow the damn orders. Or you'll be buried under the dirt long before that kid."
The young man didn't speak again. He simply nodded, though the tension in his jaw betrayed his disagreement.
Kenjiro stared at him for a moment longer, then finally turned away.
He pulled out his phone, flicked the last bit of cigarette from his fingers, and disappeared down the hall.
The smoke lingered.
So did the silence.
Inside, Shin lay motionless on the cold floor.
His body was twisted awkwardly, still bound to the splintered chair. His clothes clung to him, soaked in blood, sweat, and dirt. But it wasn't the wounds that told the story now—it was his face.
His expression was blank.
Not in pain.
Not in fear.
Just... hollow.
As if something inside him had finally given up.
As if he had stopped trying to understand.
His eyes stared into nothing.
"It was just yesterday... wasn't it?"
"I left home after arguing with Mom. She scolded me about my marks. I got angry. Stormed out."
A bitter thought echoed in his mind.
"I really was stupid, wasn't I?"
His thoughts drifted—slow and quiet, like the last flickers of a dying candle.
"Even though I never scored well... I tried. I really tried. Studying, chores, sports... everything."
"But I'd get lazy. I admit it. I let myself get distracted. I knew I shouldn't. I knew our situation. I knew I had to study… get a job… support Mom, Dad, and my brother."
"But I still let myself waste time. Over and over."
He blinked slowly, a tear slipping from the corner of his eye.
"Maybe I deserved to be scolded. Maybe I even deserve to be punished."
His fingers twitched. Blood trailed from the stump where a finger used to be.
"But this...?"
"This torture... this place... am I really worth all this? Just because I didn't study? Just because I argued with my mom?"
There was no answer.
Only silence.
The kind that eats away at the mind.
"Isn't there anyone... anyone out there who can hear me?"
"Anyone who will give me justice?"
"Anything divine? God...? Anyone?"
Silence lingered.
Shin didn't cry. He didn't scream. He just lay there—eyes dull, body still—as the question echoed in his mind, unanswered, unheard.
And then… nothingness.