5

Hikari didn't break stride. He knew the voice. Knew the irritation braided through it.

Takairo.

"You following me," Hikari said, "or just desperate for conversation?"

His tone was flat. Careless. But only just.

Takairo scoffed, lengthening his stride to match Hikari's. His frame was lean, all twitch and tension. No bruises marked his skin. No sweat clung to his collar. His uniform sat too clean, too loose—untouched.

"Not as desperate as your little charity case back there." He cut a sidelong glance. Annoyed. Tight. "Seriously. What'd you even get out of that?"

"A decent fight," Hikari said, rolling his shoulders. Shrugging it off.

Takairo stopped. Abrupt. Hikari slowed down to match.

Takairo's stare sharpened. Each word came measured, crisp, a blade tapping the whetstone.

"You didn't fight today. You babysat."

Hikari met his eyes. Steady. Unblinking. There was something beneath Takairo's voice—not fury, not even disappointment. Something smaller. More bitter.

Envy.

"Call it whatever helps you sleep," Hikari murmured.

Takairo's expression didn't shift. But something behind it started to.

"You think you're that far ahead of the rest of us?" he said. "Like you can afford to slow down? Like it doesn't matter if you fall behind?"

So that's what this is.

Hikari tilted his head—barely—and let a faint smirk flick at his mouth.

"You worried I'll get rusty?"

Takairo held his gaze for a beat too long. Then something passed through his face—a memory, maybe. Or a choice.

The tension thinned. He scoffed. Turned.

"Not particularly." He walked on again, posture straight, pace even. His voice followed, a little quieter this time. "I probably should thank you."

Hikari arched a brow. "For what?"

Takairo didn't turn. He shook his head once, "For making my life easier." His stride didn't break, if anything he sped. Shoulders squared. Chin lifted. Then—softer still. Almost playful. "There's no way you forgot."

He didn't stop. "Only one of us can survive."

The torches guttered behind him. Their shadows crawled across the wall.

Hikari didn't argue. 

That's exactly how they want you to think. But I guess there's really no other way to see it from your eyes.

Let him think that way.

They were aiming for different ends anyway. Takairo wanted to survive the system. Hikari wanted to destroy the logic that made that fear real.

He watched Takairo disappear into the curve of the corridor. Then turned, and followed his own path—toward the barracks, where the metal door loomed like a sealed vault. He watched Takairo vanish into the bend of the corridor. Didn't follow. Didn't rush.

He took the opposite curve. The way he always went. The oversized door to the barracks stood at the end—metal-framed and warped at the hinge, too heavy for what little it guarded.

Hikari pushed it open. It groaned. That same, tired groan that had echoed for years, unchanging. It scraped against the silence like a warning, though no one ever listened.

No one inside stirred.

He followed the curving hall slowly, steps softened by memory, shoulders loose but alert. His gaze skimmed over each recessed cot without lingering.

Torchlight bled into the stone, shallow and warm, but it didn't touch much. Just enough to mark the rot between bunks. Same as last week. Same as always.

To his left, a laugh—small, hushed, worn soft by fatigue—drifted out from the shadows. Two voices followed it. Low. Familiar. The sound of fabric rubbed thin.

Others didn't speak at all. They just lay still. Eyes open. Faces blank. Staring upward like they'd forgotten how to close their lids.

Hikari reached his own cot and sat, slow, careful. He lifted the bowl from his bed, the serving of nutrients he'd been granted for his extended stay. The frame creaked beneath him. Wood too old for weight.

The barracks exhaled around him—half-whispered conversations, dry laughter, the faint rhythm of people trying to remember they existed. Some had stopped pretending.

Few people here were still trying to win.

After finishing his food, he didn't lie down. Didn't even reach for the blanket.

Sleep had stopped being a refuge a long time ago.

There'd been a time when it was dangerous. Back when the Foundation took more kynenns than it needed. When ambition bred threat. Back then, it wasn't uncommon to wake to the sound of choking. Not your own. Someone else's. Someone who'd fought too well the day before.

But not now. Not anymore.

Now, the barracks were still. No knives in the dark. No footsteps inching closer.

Not because it was safer. Just quieter. Like the decision had already been made.

Most of them were already dead. Just waiting to catch up.

Hikari flexed his fingers against his knee, and then rose. His body obeyed. Not easily—but it obeyed.

He leaned against the far wall, felt the cold of it sink into his spine. Somewhere down the row, a cot collapsed beneath someone's weight. The sound cracked like brittle wood finally surrendering.

From the near alcove, another voice rose. Dry. Fading. Still carrying the ghost of laughter.

"Bet the Inner Circle doesn't sleep like this."

Someone chuckled in response. Quiet. Hollow.

Hikari didn't laugh. His mouth curled upward instead—almost a snarl. Not at them. At what they named.

The Inner Circle.

He hated the way they said it. Like it was a myth. Like it didn't stink of polished floors and sterilized silence.

He remembered the smell. Clean air. Too clean. White rooms. White doors. A place for people who didn't have to fight.

And her—

He remembered her. His mother. Standing by the door the night they came. Back straight. Hands flat at her sides. She hadn't asked why. Hadn't tried to stop them. She hadn't even looked at him. Just kept her eyes on the floor, as if the cost of meeting his would've been too great.

He waited for her voice. For something. Anything.

But she chose silence.

The clerk's hand on his shoulder had been gentle. His voice, too.

"Come with us."

Then he was gone. Back to Sector 3. Back to the cage. A transfer. One less inconvenience for her new life.

He pressed his thumb into his palm. Felt the dull ache ripple up his forearm, grounding.

Not pain. Not comfort either. Just something to anchor the quiet that curled behind his ribs.

He wasn't angry anymore. Anger required expectation. Surprise. Disappointment.

He'd burned through all that.

But remembering—

That didn't take effort. It just happened.

Memory wasn't something he reached for. It followed. And as always, he pulled away from it the same way: by moving.

Along the curved wall, his steps turned instinctive. Shoulders calm. Eyes dull with routine. He knew where to go. He always did. At the far end—just near the base—his fingers found it: the crack in the stone. Small. Invisible to anyone not looking. But he knew the place. Knew the angle. Knew the pressure.

He slipped it loose. Silent. Practiced.

Cool air met his skin, clean and sharp—like something that didn't belong in this world. It whispered over him, a ghost of another life. Ahead, torchlight flickered faintly, waiting. Always there. Always the same. He stepped through. Replaced the stone behind him.

And stopped.

"You really think you're something special, don't you?"

The voice was unfamiliar. Male. Cold. Authority laced in contempt.

Hikari didn't move at first. Didn't even breathe.

Then, slowly, he turned.

The instructor stood just ahead, draped in shadow. Arms folded. Helmet tilted slightly. The red visor burned—dim, steady. One glowing eye fixed on him.

"What do you think this is?" the voice asked. "Some kind of friendship? You think that boy you helped today would hesitate to gut you, if the order came?"