Two years later.
I opened my green eyes when one of the guards called my name while I was idling on my bunk. I sat up and looked at the guard standing at the door.
"Inmate 524. You have a visitor."
I frowned in confusion. I had a visitor? No one had come to visit me in two years. Even my family had probably forgotten my existence. Who was this?
When I climbed down from the bunk and approached the guard, he handcuffed my wrists. He shoved my shoulder, signaling me to walk ahead. I didn't even know where the visitor's room was, so I followed his directions along the way.
"Turn left. First door."
I turned left and stopped in front of the first door. Since my hands were cuffed, the guard opened the door for me. Inside, there was a simple table and two chairs.
The detective was already sitting at the table when I entered the room; his gaze was fixed on me as the guard seated me in the chair opposite him. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't surprised to see him. It was ironic—the man who threw me into this hellhole was coming to visit me.
After locking my cuffs to the leg of the chair, the guard closed the door and left. Once we were alone, the detective leaned back in his chair, studying my face after all these years.
My golden-blond hair had grown long. Aside from my face, every part of my body visible through the collar of my white t-shirt was covered in scars. It was as if my face had been deliberately left untouched. My green eyes were empty and void of expression.
"What do you want?"
There was a mix of pain and anger on his face as he tried to keep his emotions in check. He took a deep breath, attempting to maintain his composure.
"You..." he began, his voice trembling slightly, "...you look different."
"They don't exactly welcome a guy like me with open arms in prison." I said sarcastically.
The detective clenched his jaw at my comment, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"They shouldn't have treated you like this," he said, his voice tense. "But why did you let them?"
Was he mocking me? What did he expect me to do?
"They didn't leave me much of a choice when they held a knife to my throat."
The signs of torture were clearly visible all over my body, yet my face was untouched. It was as if that was the only place they refused to damage for some reason.
"Did they deliberately spare your face?"
I didn't answer him. The answer was obvious anyway.
The detective took my silence as confirmation of his suspicions.
"They deliberately didn't touch your face," he murmured. "As if they wanted to preserve your beauty..."
A sense of revulsion rose within him as he thought about what they had done to me, what they had put me through. Leaving such a specific detail untouched felt like a twisted form of mockery, a sick way of asserting authority.
My voice was devoid of emotion.
"Detective, why did you come here?"
"I came to see you."
He paused for a moment, as if struggling to find the right words. Finally, he continued.
"I had to see you with my own eyes, to know how you've been after all these years."
He paused again, his gaze drifting over the various cuts and scars on my skin.
"And I have to say... Seeing you like this wasn't what I expected."
I looked down at my handcuffed hands.
"At least I'm still alive."
"Alive, yes. But at what cost? Why didn't you report this to any of the guards?"
I bit the inside of my cheek at the mention of the guards.
"Guards? They're nothing more than decoration. The powerful inmates run this prison."
One of the guards entered and announced that our time was up. I stood as he unlocked the cuff from the chair.
The detective watched me as I rose to leave, never taking his eyes off my face. He wanted to say something, to stop me from returning to that pit of hell, but the words wouldn't come. Before walking out the door, I turned my head slightly and looked at him from the corner of my eye. Even though his voice was a mere whisper, I heard him.
"I will save you." he murmured in panic.
As the door closed behind me, leaving him alone in the cold room, the detective slammed his fist on the table in frustration.