The next day, Ayumi woke with a jolt, as if torn by force from a dream that smelled of dust and pain.
Her first breath came out shattered. The second, deeper, brought back the stench of the room: mold, dried urine, and that faint metallic taste that clung to her tongue. She opened her eyes with difficulty.
The walls: dirty, yellowed. The floor: gray. Sunlight filtered through a barred window, slicing the room into two uneven halves. And for a moment—just a moment—panic seized her.
She had forgotten. Forgotten where she was. Forgotten that she had been kidnapped.
When reality hit her again, the air escaped her lungs. Her body instinctively leaned forward, but her arms pulled her back: still bound. Still hanging, wrists swollen and raw from the rope. A low moan slipped from her lips. Not a scream. The sound of a body giving in.
She was thirsty. She was hungry. But most of all, she was afraid.
A quiet fear, constant—like a heavy blanket that never left her.
Then she heard a sound. Footsteps. Keys.
The door opened slowly.
A short, slender boy entered, a black mask covering his face. He wore thin gloves and carried a small metal tray.
Food. Water.
He approached without a word, like a mechanism. Every movement was precise, without hesitation. He set the tray down on a crate beside her, then picked up a bowl and a spoon.
Ayumi watched him. Her heart pounded, but she tried to smile. Her voice came out weak, still hoarse from crying:
— "Thank you..."
No response.
— "What's your name?" she tried again.
Silence.
— "How long have you… done this?"
Nothing. Just the sound of the spoon scraping the white mush. Rice, maybe. Or something like it.
Finally, a voice. Cold. Sharp. As if the very act of forming words disgusted him.
— "Eat."
He brought the spoon to her lips. She hesitated. Then opened her mouth. The food was tasteless, but she swallowed it. Each bite felt wrong, like her own body was rejecting such a normal gesture in such an inhuman place.
But she didn't give up.
— "Why won't you untie me? I wouldn't run…"
He answered in a flat tone, not even looking at her.
— "Eat."
Another spoonful. Then another. Every movement was precise, almost ritualistic—a mechanical task stripped of any trace of humanity.
He offered her a small bottle of water. Lifted her chin with two fingers—cold, light—and brought it to her lips. Ayumi drank. Her tears were still falling.
— "Why are you… doing this?"
He paused for a second. Then spoke.
— "Drink."
The tone wasn't angry. It was stone.
Ayumi closed her eyes. But she didn't cry. Something inside her stiffened. It wasn't strength. It was dignity.
When he finished, he placed everything down without a word. Turned. Left, closing the door with the same terrible silence as when he had entered.
And she remained there. Bound. Alone.But still human.
Even if no one seemed to remember what that meant anymore.
---Feitan...---
Feitan hated having to touch her.
The tray weighed on his hands—not because of its actual weight, light, almost ridiculous—but because of what it represented: wasted time, energy stolen from something more worthy. Chrollo had given him the task like it was a detail, a marginal instruction: "Take care of the girl."
No one told him how. But feeding her… giving her water… it was degrading.
He opened the door slowly. The light in the room was the same, sickly. The stench grew worse every day: mold, stale sweat, blood. And yet that creature, still hanging like meat on a hook, somehow managed to look at him with living eyes.
Feitan despised her.
The way she looked at him. The way she sought connection. As if the smallest fragment of humanity could hold her together.
He didn't understand that strength. But he didn't respect it.
He hated it.
He approached silently, set the tray beside her. She looked at him like she had the day before. Exhausted, bruised, trembling… but kind.
— "Thank you…" she murmured, her voice broken but sincere.
Feitan wanted to rip that voice from her throat. Not out of rage. Just with precision. Just to make it stop.
"Why is she still talking? Why is she thanking me? Hasn't she understood? She never understands, this stupid organism."
He looked at her. A human rag. Her dirty hair fell across her face. Her cheeks were hollow. Her wrists swollen from the rope. One eye more closed than the other—maybe they had hit her during the capture. A portrait of misery.
And yet… she smiled. Or tried to. That tiny effort to lift her lips. That useless, childish, repulsive gesture.
Feitan fed her without care. The spoon clacked against her teeth. Not out of cruelty. He didn't want to hurt her. He simply didn't care.
— "Mmmh…" Her voice broke the silence like glass underfoot.
— "Don't talk to me." He said it without looking at her. Without emotion.
She didn't reply. Just swallowed, one spoonful after another. When he lifted her chin to help her drink, his fingers brushed skin cold and damp with tears. He pulled away immediately.
Disgust.
"Why is she trembling? Why is she crying? Why does she keep acting like pain means something?"
Feitan hated her for that, too. For still believing. In someone. In something.
He, on the other hand, believed in nothing.
When he finished, he set down the bottle and stepped back—movements quick, clean. Like walking away from a corpse that reeked too much.
He didn't look at her again. Didn't say a word. Closed the door behind him.
That girl was nothing more than a body to be kept alive by superior orders. Nothing else. An object stubbornly pretending to be a person. A biological mistake. A noise that refused to go quiet.
And he… felt absolutely nothing.
Except revulsion.