Between the wire and the fire

Day Five

Ayumi knew it even without a calendar.

Her body counted the days better than any clock.

Every hour etched itself inside her through pain — in the hunger, the thirst, the sleep broken by screaming.

She hadn't eaten in three days. Not because she didn't want to.

Simply… no one had come.

Until that evening.

She heard the key turn in the lock.

The sound was always the same, but this time, it hurt more.

Feitan entered with his usual empty stride, tray in hand.

But this time was different.

The plate… was steaming.

Warm rice. Real food.

The smell filled the room like an offense. A torment.

Ayumi's body reacted before her mind: saliva rose in her throat — pure hunger.

But she didn't move. She didn't dare.

Feitan set the tray down. Always with his mask. 

He looked at her.

She was on the floor, legs curled up, eyes tired, lips cracked.

Her face scratched and unhealed. Her hair stuck to her skin.

"Your beloved mother didn't call."

His voice was almost a hiss. Slow.

The sentence, a thin blade.

Ayumi lowered her gaze. Her eyes filled, but no tears came.

Too many already shed.

Too little left to lose.

"I warned you."

Feitan stepped closer.

Each footstep colder than the air itself.

Ayumi instinctively backed away, but there was nowhere to go.

A trapped mouse against the wall.

"Look at the plate."

He pointed at it.

"Warm. Fragrant. You're hungry, aren't you?"

She nodded slightly, trembling.

He knelt beside her, slowly.

Spoke softly, as if reading her agony.

"You won't get it. Not yet. First… I want to hear that you understand. That you're worth nothing. That you've been left behind. That the world owes you nothing."

Ayumi shook her head.

"No… that's not true…"

Her voice trembled.

Feitan grabbed her chin between two fingers. Firmly.

He squeezed. It hurt. Not from force — from precision.

His thumb just under her eye. He stared closely.

As if he wanted to dig inside her.

"The truth burns because it's real."

Ayumi whimpered, almost a cry.

"You're hurting me…"

Feitan didn't react.

No emotion.

Just pressure. Just power. Just silence.

Then he let her go.

She collapsed forward, breath broken, hands on her stomach as if trying to hold it all in: the tears, the fear, the hunger.

Feitan stood.

He grabbed the spoon.

Took a portion.

Held it out to her without a word.

Ayumi opened her mouth.

Devoured it like a frightened animal.

Eyes closed. And finally — finally — the tears came.

She received another spoonful. Then another.

Feitan stopped halfway.

Set the spoon down.

"Tomorrow is the last day. If no one calls… I'll tear you apart. Alive."

He didn't say it with anger.

He said it like a schedule.

Like a weather forecast.

Like a certainty.

Then he left.

The door closed.

And Ayumi…

clung to nothing.

And stayed there, breathing in her own terror.

---Feitan...---

Feitan didn't understand what was so hard to accept.

Reality was simple.

Harsh — but perfect in its linearity.

People are worth nothing.

They exist as long as they're useful.

Then they're removed.

Forgotten.

Replaced.

Ayumi — or whatever her name was — was no different.

Feitan watched her as he slid the spoon between her trembling lips.

The girl's hands were too weak to hold herself up. Her body bent, broken, collapsed in on itself like wet paper.

And yet…

she still cried. Still pleaded.

Still hoped.

Feitan hated her for that.

"Why do you insist on thinking you're alive, when you've already been emptied out?"

Every kind gesture — the thanks, the gaze, that absurd way she didn't even hate her own executioner — was like an infection in his mental code.

An irritation. A biological flaw.

So he had decided: he would tell her.

Right to her face.

"You're worth nothing."

It had felt like releasing a weight.

Not to unburden himself — Feitan never felt the need to be lighter.

But to restore order.

To remind her — and himself — that there were no exceptions.

Not among the victims.

Not among the innocent.

Especially not the innocent.

He had gripped her chin between two fingers. Not out of violence.

To show her how little resistance she offered.

How easily she could be bent.

And when she had whispered, "You're hurting me…"

something in him had flickered.

Not emotion.

Not empathy.

Control.

Pain was a language.

The simplest way to communicate with those who don't understand.

Feitan felt no pleasure.

Felt nothing.

And that was his strength.

Feeding her had just been a mechanism. A procedure.

Like oiling a machine that would be destroyed the next day.

His final words — "I'll tear you apart. Alive." — weren't a threat.

They were a fact.

A declaration of intent.

Not because Ayumi mattered to him.

But because the world demands punishment.

And she was there.

In the wrong place.

At the right time.

When he left the room, he didn't think about her again.

He didn't look back.

He didn't wonder if she was sad, afraid, shattered.

Feitan doesn't wonder.

Feitan acts.

And then forgets.

---Ayumi...---

It was night. She couldn't see anything in that room. 

The air in the room was still, suspended, as if even time had stopped breathing.

Ayumi wasn't sleeping. She hadn't closed her eyes in a long time.

She was afraid that if she did — if she dared blink — everything would end.

That there would be no "after."

She didn't want to die.

Not like this.

Not there.

Not forgotten, alone, emptied out.

She wanted to live.

She wanted to go home.

She wanted to hug her mother and tell her everything was okay — even if it wasn't.

Even if she would carry that trauma with her forever.

She had thought about escaping.

Now that her hands were free, she could break the small window with a stone, slip through.

Run. Barefoot, even in the dark.

But where?

The hallway was guarded.

And then — he was always there.

That boy, that faceless thing, watching her like something meant for disposal.

But tonight… he had left.

He'd said something in his mechanical voice — "I'll be back soon" — and disappeared into the hallway.

Bathroom maybe. Or some check-in.

Ayumi moved toward the window.

Stared at it.

One sharp blow and it would shatter.

She could do it.

Then she heard it.

His footsteps.

Silent, but unmistakable.

Feitan was back.

He entered.

Was about to return to his usual place — leaning against the wall like a shadow nailed there — but Ayumi spoke.

"Have you ever been afraid of dying?"

Her voice was hoarse.

But steady.

Almost… clear.

Feitan didn't answer immediately.

He looked at her, in the dark.

Then sat down on the floor, back against the wall.

"No."

A sharp, clipped reply.

"Never? Not even as a child?"

"Death is better than weakness."

Ayumi lowered her gaze.

But she didn't stop.

"Why do you do this? Why do you hurt people?"

"Because I'm good at it."

Another sharp blow.

He wasn't playing.

He wasn't looking for a conversation.

He was responding out of duty. To end it. To shut it down.

But she didn't stop.

"And what if I told you… you could choose not to?"

Feitan turned slightly.

His voice thinner now — but ice-cold.

"And what if I told you that you could stop talking?"

Ayumi stared at him. Her eyes — swollen, tired — still shone.

Not with hope.

With will.

The strength of someone who refuses to collapse in front of someone who feels nothing.

"You weren't born like this, were you?"

Her voice was soft.

Too human for that room.

Feitan stood up.

Walked slowly toward her.

The words came out anyway.

"There was someone, once. Someone who cared about you. Someone who—"

"Enough."

His voice was lower than usual — but it cut deeper.

His gaze was frozen.

Unmoving.

"If your mother doesn't call within three hours… I'll tear you to pieces. It won't be fast. It won't be clean. And it won't be personal. Just… necessary."

He stood in front of her, silent.

Ayumi felt a knot rise in her throat.

She didn't speak again.

She didn't move.

And from that moment on, time began to die — second by second.