The showdown
Feitan didn't understand why she kept talking.
Her voice — hoarse, tired, human — scratched at the walls like a rat trapped in a cage.
Questions, always questions.
As if every word might chip away at stone.
As if he could still be something reachable.
"Have you ever been afraid to die?"
No.
Never.
Not since he'd stopped being alive in the human sense of the word.
Feitan had answered her honestly. But not out of respect.
Just because it was easier that way.
To cut it short. Shut it down. Neutralize the verbal parasite.
"Death is better than weakness."
And he spoke from firsthand experience.
There are places in the world where dying is a luxury.
Where crying is punished.
Where silence is the only way not to end up in a black body bag.
He'd grown up there. In a sewer of blood and misery.
Feitan remembered.
Not because he cared.
But because hatred keeps memories alive.
A ruined village, lawless.
The sound of knives more familiar than a lullaby.
A language learned through beatings and muddy hands.
A mother? Maybe.
A woman who left him in the street with a broken name and a chipped bowl.
A father? Never seen.
Or maybe he was one of the men who spat at his feet and kicked him when he asked for food.
Love?
An invention.
A word the weak use to cover up their fear of being abandoned.
And that girl — Ayumi — still dared to believe in it.
In kindness. In goodness.
In human connection.
Feitan despised her for that.
Because she didn't know what it meant to choose the void.
To choose to have no attachments.
Because every bond is a blade aimed at your throat.
And still, despite his frozen answers, she kept going.
One after another.
Words, words, words.
"You had someone, once."
He stared at her.
Didn't answer.
Not because he couldn't remember.
Feitan remembered exactly the moment he stopped being a child.
It was the day he heard the first scream die in the throat of a man bigger than him.
That was when he understood: pain isn't something to fear.
It's a tool.
Feitan had never wanted to be loved.
He wanted to be untouchable.
Invisible.
Invulnerable.
And he had succeeded.
Until today.
But she…
she kept looking at him.
Not like a monster.
But like a lost person.
It was unbearable.
So he stepped closer.
His words came out sharp as nails:
"If your mother doesn't call within three hours… I'll cut you to pieces. It won't be fast. It won't be clean. And it won't be personal. Just… necessary."
Because that's how the world works.
You cut away what weighs you down.
You subtract what insists on existing without purpose.
And Feitan wouldn't feel a thing.
Because inside him, there was nothing left.
***
The blade was already at her throat.
Ayumi could feel the cold of the metal against her skin.
Not just any cold — the cold of death.
Sharp, perfect, irreversible.
His face — or rather, the mask — was so close she could feel his breath.
Calm. Rhythmic.
As if he were performing a task.
As if he were a surgeon making an incision, not an executioner.
She screamed.
Not out of strategy.
Not out of bravery.
Out of instinct. Out of flesh. Out of love for her mother.
"Please! No! Please don't do it! I don't want to die! Please!"
Knees on the floor, back against the wall.
Her trembling hands searched for space, for air, for mercy.
Feitan watched her in silence.
For the first time in a long while...
he was satisfied.
He didn't laugh. He didn't smile.
But the sight filled him with a deep calm.
Order fulfilled.
Reality returning to balance.
She begged, crawled, clawed against the wall like a wounded insect.
"Perfect," he thought. "She finally understands."
The tip of the katana was still, angled toward her skin, ready to slice.
Just a few centimeters away. A single movement.
Then—
Quick footsteps in the corridor.
A knock on the door.
A voice:
"Stop. She paid. The mother called. She's free."
Silence.
Complete.
Feitan remained still.
For a few more seconds.
Then slowly pulled the blade back.
Slid it into its sheath without a word.
No comment. No frustration. No obedience.
Just an interrupted execution.
He turned and walked out, leaving her collapsed on the floor, her heart still beating only by miracle.
Ayumi didn't understand right away.
Reality still felt warped, unreal.
Blood pounded in her ears like a drum.
She'd stopped screaming only because her voice was gone.
Then the door opened again.
Two men entered.
"You're free. Go."
They didn't look at her. Didn't say anything else.
They threw her backpack at her feet.
Her hands trembled too much to hold herself up.
It took her several minutes to stand.
To sling the backpack onto her shoulders.
To truly believe it was over.
Feitan walked out of the room without looking back.
The katana in its sheath, his steps slow, stripped of any lingering emotion.
Ayumi, still on the floor, trembled like a leaf dropped into icy water.
The door had just closed, and silence began to flood back in.
Then—she heard a sound just outside.
A soft noise, metallic. Slow.
Something—instinct, or pure fear—pushed her to move.
She crawled toward the crack between the door and the wall.
And that's when she saw him.
Feitan.
Standing in the hallway, back turned.
He raised his hands to his face—
And removed the mask.
Ayumi caught his profile.
That face.
The shape of his eyes.
The way he stood still, like an animal watching its prey.
Time shattered.
She knew him.
It wasn't a fantasy.
It wasn't déjà vu.
It was him.
The boy from the abandoned house.
The one she had brought cookies to.
The one who had shut the door in her face.
Feitan.
The world collapsed in a single instant.
She brought a hand to her mouth.
A sob hit her so hard she had to clamp her lips shut not to scream.
It was him. It had always been him.
Her tormentor.
Her executioner.
Her neighbor.
And suddenly, everything that had happened—the words, the threats, the blade at her throat—took on a new color.
Darker.
More cruel.
More personal.
He didn't realize he had been seen.
Feitan, as always, never believed anyone could truly look at him.
But Ayumi had seen him.
And she would never forget.
Then… she started running.
She never looked back.
She ran out of the building as if evil itself could still reach out and drag her back.
Barefoot, dirty, covered in bruises and cuts — but alive.
The abandoned building disappeared behind her, swallowed by emptiness.
Outside… nothing.
Dry fields. Gray sky.
Wind hitting her face like cold fingers.
But it was wind.
It was freedom. It was life.
She ran until her legs gave out.
She got up. Kept going.
She didn't know where she was.
She didn't know if anyone was out there.
But she was running away from him.
Away from those eyes.
From that voice.
From that mask.
Inside her, one thought:
"I'm not dead. Not today. Not by him."
And even if her heart was broken, even if her soul was stained, she ran.
She ran toward the light.
Toward home.
Toward her mother.
---Feitan...---
He was ready.
The katana was angled with surgical precision.
Weight on his left wrist, foot forward, breath steady.
Feitan never trembled.
Every fiber of his body had been trained for execution.
Not murder — that was emotional. Personal.
This was function.
A task.
Cut.
Clean.
Erase.
The girl — Ayumi, he now knew her name, though it meant nothing — was at his feet.
Crying. Thrashing.
Her screams came out messy, fragile, desperate.
And right there, in that emotional chaos, Feitan found peace.
She had finally stopped speaking like a human being.
No more questions.
No more hope.
No more belief in goodness.
Just flesh fighting to remain flesh.
Feitan watched her with interest.
Not pity.
Not hatred.
But because fear was the only honest language he had ever known.
It was beautiful.
Efficient.
True.
He raised the blade, ready to cut.
He would start slowly. Maybe at the side. Maybe the neck.
Because suffering is reality's signature.
Then — a knock at the door.
A voice, flat and firm:
"Stop. Her mother paid. It's over."
Time snapped.
Feitan didn't turn right away.
He didn't lower the katana.
He stayed still — suspended in an unfinished cut.
In his chest, there was no frustration.
No disappointment.
Just an unresolved tension. An act that had lost its shape.
An interrupted order.
Feitan hated leaving things unfinished.
Only for that reason, he lowered the blade — slowly, precisely, almost elegantly.
He looked at Ayumi one last time.
Her face twisted from crying.
Eyes wide with fear.
Her body curled like a wounded animal.
He should have killed her.
And she knew it.
He knew it.
And yet — for once — it hadn't happened.
Feitan turned.
Left the room.
Closed the door behind him as if sealing a cold-storage unit.
The corridor was quiet.
He removed his mask calmly.
Sweat barely clung to his brow — but he wasn't tired.
He was simply… interrupted.
Like a sentence cut short.
Later, in the meeting room, he spoke to the others.
Briefly, as always.
"The girl is safe. Order followed."
That was all he said.
Some nodded. One laughed.
No one really cared.
But Feitan... he was irritated.
Not by the girl.
By the chaos.
By a world that, once again, had changed the rules at the last second.
He returned to his room.
Sat down.
Cleaned the blade with ritual motions.
Then he remained there, in the dark.
Staring at nothing.
Not thinking.
Not feeling.
He had almost forgotten what it felt like to be stopped.
And he didn't like it.
***
The daylight hurt her eyes.
The sun. The air. The real wind — the kind that didn't reek of blood and sealed walls.
Ayumi ran.
She ran without thinking, without looking back, as if the world might still close in around her.
Then… she saw it.
The house.
Small, familiar, alive.
And she saw her mother.
Standing at the door, face in her hands, crying, shaking.
When they saw each other, Ayumi screamed — but it was a scream of life.
She threw herself into her mother's arms.
They cried. Together. For a long time.
As if they could wring out all the fear, the scent of terror, the lost days.
She was alive.
And home.
But the peace was only on the surface.
The days that followed were slow, heavy, off-balance.
Ayumi didn't eat.
Didn't sleep.
Her hands trembled for no reason.
At night she woke up screaming, clinging to the sheets like someone was still pulling her away.
She saw the mask in her dreams.
Felt the blade on her neck.
His breath. His voice.
"If your mother doesn't call in three hours… I'll tear you apart."
That sentence had carved itself into her flesh — an invisible scar.
Her mother stayed close. Quiet.
She asked no questions.
Made tea. Straightened the blanket. Touched her daughter's face gently.
She tried to be present.
And that was enough.
But it wasn't the house that terrified Ayumi.
It was the villa, just a block from her away.
His villa.
Feitan.
Ayumi watched it every day.
Peeking from behind curtains, through cracks.
Waiting for movement. A shadow.
A sound.
A return.
She was afraid.
Truly afraid.
Not just for herself.
For her mother too.
What if one day he came in?
What if he no longer followed orders?
What if no one was there to stop him?
The fear became habit.
Until one day, her mother brought her to a psychologist.
At first, Ayumi didn't want to speak.
She sat in silence.
Stared at the floor.
But slowly, she began.
She spoke of the room.
The screams.
Him.
The knife.
The crying.
The truth: he was the boy from the villa.
The doctor listened. Didn't judge.
Made space for her.
Gave her breathing exercises.
Helped her reconnect with her hands.
Asked her to feel her body again.
And day by day, Ayumi resurfaced.
Not whole.
But stronger.
She bought a gun.
Legal. Registered.
She practiced at the range.
Not because she wanted to use it.
Because she wanted to choose.
Not be chosen.
But Feitan never came.
No signs.
No footsteps.
No car.
No return.
Gone.
And that absence…
wasn't liberation.
It was suspension.
Like a thunderclap that never comes.
Like a half-open door.
Like a whisper that won't stop.
Ayumi began to live again.
In small steps.
With eyes open.
And a hand always near the pistol.
Because she knew:
Evil doesn't disappear.
Not forever.
It just…
hides better.