"Clash of minds" wasn't soulmates in a romance drama. It was more like two drunks smashing their foreheads against the same table corner. No one wins—just broken tables, bleeding heads, and a laughing crowd.
After the illusion battle, we rested in a warehouse. Air smelled of scorched rust, like someone had fried nails in a skillet all night. I leaned on the wall. My friend across the way, eyes flickering as if weighing whether I belonged in the trash bin.
"You know," he began, voice calm, "the Bureau doesn't save humanity. It domesticates it."
I rolled my eyes. "Sounds like a diet ad—'With one Bureau, you too can slim down to a dog.'"
He didn't laugh. "You're still their pawn, Ethan. Still playing the good soldier, chasing leads, covering their mess. Don't you see? You're just one of their samples."
Sighing, I lit a cigarette. Nightmare smoke tasted like burnt socks, but at least it gave me posture. I exhaled slowly.
"Sample's still better than garbage. At least samples get serial numbers."
His face darkened.
"Numbers are cages!" he snapped, voice rattling the iron roof. "They give you code names, dossiers, missions. But who are you? Do you remember? Or are you just another file in their cabinet?"
"Oh, I remember." I smirked. "Ethan Maxwell, the idiot best at surviving nightmares. And the number? That's more reliable than your so-called 'free humans.' What's freedom worth? You don't even have health insurance."
That silenced him for a beat.
Finally, he sneered. "You don't get it. Freedom isn't an insurance plan. It's the right to choose your own death."
"Then can I freely choose being betrayed by you again?" I tapped ash. "Since last time, you sold out the whole squad to the Bureau."
His face twitched. "I was forced!"
"Of course." I shrugged. "Just like every traitor is 'forced.' No one volunteers to sell their team. They just give discounts on the price tag."
That hit him hard. He stood, anger flaring like he'd lunge any second.
"You think you're funny?!"
"Black humor," I corrected. "Difference is—you cry, I laugh."
We locked eyes, a silent chess match. Each of my jabs was a stone thrown on the board; each flare of his anger, the ripples.
At last, he forced himself calm. "Ethan, I didn't come to fight. I came to bring you over. Humanity needs freedom—not nightmare-mutated soldiers, not the Bureau's chains."
I rubbed my temples. This negotiation was more exhausting than the battle.
"You know why I haven't agreed?" My voice was low. "Because you sound too much like a politician. Freedom, humanity, future… It's campaign-poster stuff. And I don't believe in posters anymore."
His eyes narrowed. "Then what do you believe in?"
I crushed the cigarette, lips twisting into a cold smile.
"Black humor. Because no matter how bad life gets, at least I can laugh my way to death."
Silence thickened the warehouse like dust. Thoughts clashed, sparks flew, but no winner emerged.
He finally backed away, restraining himself.
"One day, you'll see your own cage. I just hope… you'll still be laughing then."
I waved lazily. "Don't worry. My standards for jokes are low."
He turned, leaving with the night wind. I stayed, thinking far too long.
A clash of minds doesn't crown a victor. It just leaves cracks. The question is—do those cracks lead to freedom, or to graves?