Chapter 13 – The Panopticon III

The fifth floor of the Central Tower, the conference room. Ten men still sat in a circle. Officer A crossed his legs and gestured at The Swordsman with the spine of his notebook: “Same order as last time. Let’s begin.”

The Swordsman glared at him, his eyes brimming with the rebellious defiance of youth: “Everyone already spoke last time. Why make us do it again?”

“Last time,” A replied with the cold arrogance of a high-ranking Party member, “you talked about your roles on the Island of Saints. This time,” he spread the notebook open on the table, “you’ll talk about yourselves. The basics—why you’re here.”

The Swordsman gritted his teeth: “Why I’m here? You don’t know?”

“I do,” A flipped through his notebook dismissively, “but you don’t know each other’s reasons. Now I need you to know each other.” His tone suddenly turned sharp, barking, “Any more nonsense?!”

Why? What’s the point? The Swordsman thought but didn’t dare say it aloud. “I… got seven years for selling M7B9, resulting in death.”

Everyone turned to look at him. M7B9… wasn’t exactly a thing. It was a string of highly mutable code—a psychoactive hallucinogen in the digital world. Underground rings peddled it in any game, simulation program, or virtual community. It took the form of ordinary narcotics—ingestible or injectable—and embedded code that induced a brief, intense euphoria.

“The batch I sold was M7B9 Fourth Gen,” The Swordsman said. “Strong stuff. Tried it once myself—couldn’t find my bearings for days afterward. But that was it. Never thought it’d kill anyone.”

True, virtual narcotics were harmless to biological tissue, so the government had never regulated them. Selling the stuff was semi-legal.

“When the cops grabbed me, I didn’t even know what was happening,” The Swordsman spat angrily. “Someone got high in-game, lost their pain response, and burned to death. The fuck does that have to do with me?!”

Some scoffed; others nodded in agreement. The Swordsman shot A a glance with his gleaming, single eye: “Done, Officer.”

“Good,” A simply drew a period in his notebook. “Next.”

Next was No. 0416. His gaze flickered subconsciously—whether toward Officer B or No. 0933 was unclear—but both lowered their eyes as if each privately believed themselves the protagonist.

“I…” He licked his lips. “Worked in the underworld. The behind-the-scenes kind. Played with Philcoins the past few years. Made a killing. Killed a few people.”

Philcoins were a hot virtual currency on the black market, mainly used for illicit transactions. Those involved usually had a few bodies to their names, living lavish, metropolitan lives.

“A few people!” A laughed, the mockery blatant.

“Twenty or thirty,” No. 0416 glanced around. “Doubt I’m the highest count here.”

The way everyone looked at him shifted—some shocked, some fearful. Clearly, they couldn’t believe someone like him was sitting among them. A sneered indifferently: “That’s why I say prison’s a great equalizer—everyone’s the same in a cage.”

No. 0416 kept smiling, though panic churned inside. He didn’t want No. 0933 to know his background, especially not in such a rigid setting. He tilted his head, not daring to even glance his way. This was B’s idea, he was sure. That guy wanted to peel everyone open—exposed, laid bare.

“Mainly, I didn’t have solid Party connections,” he continued. “Guys like Jiuqian, Wuliang Haishou, Datong—they all walked free. I got busted, but the business kept running without me.”

“No. 0416,” A cut in sharply, “defaming the Party’s principles, regulations, or members with three or more witnesses present is a felony punishable by ten years or more. You’re toeing the line.”

No. 0416 shrugged, neither confirming nor denying. A pressed on: “Tell us about your courtroom stunt, big shot.”

No. 0416’s expression darkened. They were cornering him. “Underworld methods are all the same. Nothing worth talking about.” He didn’t want to share details—didn’t want No. 0933 to fear him. His eyes flicked to B—just a fleeting glance, but it carried a plea, a surrender. “Pretty sure no one wants to hear this right after breakfast.”

B smiled faintly—restrained, beautiful. He waved a hand, and A moved on, calling the next man.

Next was The Convert. His sharp features made him seem arrogant: “Killed someone last year,” he said casually. “Disposed of the body… unusually.”

He paused, scanning the room. Most showed no reaction—except No. 0933. Compared to everyone else, that guy was too soft. Not just his slender hands, but the overly long bangs and the timid, fearful eyes beneath them.

“My girlfriend,” The Convert averted his gaze, “met some broke student behind my back. What was I supposed to do? Had to send the bastard to hell.”

A crime of passion. No. 0416 shot him a glance. This guy’s jealousy and possessiveness are off the charts. He stole another look at B—sure enough, B’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if locking onto prey.

“Anyway, killed him. One hit,” The Convert flashed his right hand like a boast. “Then cleaned him up like a wild boar or deer, salted him, and stored him in a freezer.”

No. 0933 imagined the scene, covering his mouth as he lowered his head—only to see B gripping the armrest tightly beside him, as if suppressing something.

“Hold on,” A interrupted The Convert. “According to the so-called ‘girlfriend’ of No. 0777, she and the victim were the actual couple.”

A chorus of jeers erupted. Several men gave thumbs-down gestures. The Convert, provoked like a spoiled child, yelled: “She ate my food, wore my jewelry—that makes her my fucking girlfriend!”

His tone was nothing like during the last group session—back then, he’d been slow, composed. Now, his true colors showed. No. 0416 lowered his eyes, hiding any trace of amusement.

“Yeah, Laozi likes stealing other men’s women. Got a problem?!”

The Convert and the others bickered loudly. In the heat of the moment, he blurted, “Love’s fucking useless—still ended up chopped to pieces… I’ve got connections! I got two years for murder and dismemberment. You got seven for fucking manslaughter!”

The argument dragged on, chaotic. A, B, and C let it fizzle out before lazily calling The Ascetic. The old man, same as last time, asked for water. Once served, he spoke unhurriedly: “My case is similar to The Swordsman’s. Also involuntary manslaughter.”

No. 0416 wasn’t interested. His mind was fixed on B and The Convert, the murderer who dismembered bodies.

“…I embezzled virtual assets, but the amount was huge. Got eight months,” The Ascetic said calmly—clearly, time had worn away his cares. “Three weeks before my release, the court summoned me. The guy I scammed in the virtual community hanged himself.”

No. 0416 pondered. If B’s looking for someone, let’s hand him this ‘Convert’!

“He was a big shot in the virtual world but dirt poor in reality. After I took his money, he never recovered… must’ve snapped.”

No one made a sound. The room was dead silent.

“Then I got transferred to the Panopticon. Life sentence. Back then, virtual crimes causing real harm weren’t this severe. Guess I was unlucky—made an example of.”

A simple story. When he finished, A called the next: “The Mute.”

The moment “The Mute” left his lips, everyone looked baffled—except The Firehand, who widened his eyes in alarm. No. 0416 figured this guy was no mystery either. B would surely believe him.

“Oops, my bad,” A feigned apology. “Wrong name. The Firehand.”

Despite the correction, The Firehand didn’t relax: “I… I was in for kidnapping…” Sweat beaded on his forehead, glistening. “Kidnapped a woman, didn’t even ask for much ransom, then…”

“Why so nervous?” A cut in.

The Firehand’s mouth opened soundlessly. In despair, he looked at No. 0416—then clenched his fists and admitted shakily: “I lied. I’m not The Firehand. I’m The Mute!”

The first to admit deception. All eyes turned to him. A’s tone was flat: “Why lie?”

“Last time you said… in the game, we might’ve been friends or enemies,” The Mute wiped his brow. “I… betrayed a lot of people on the Island of Saints.”

A smirked smugly: “Anyone here you betrayed?”

“I don’t know,” The Mute confessed miserably. “I betrayed too many—The Archer, The Listener, The Convert, The Pious One… That’s why I lied.”

A scribbled rapidly: “See? Telling the truth isn’t so hard.” His gaze lingered pointedly on The Thief. “Next.”

The Thief’s expression was… odd. Not quite nervous, but uneasy—like he was hiding something.

“The Thief,” A urged impatiently.

No choice. The guy spoke: “I… really am The Thief. Didn’t lie about that,” he swallowed, looking around. “But…”

No. 0416 sensed he was still lying—just tossing out one of many falsehoods to muddy the waters.

“I’m not here for theft,” he hung his head. “I… was in for… for rape.”

The last word was barely audible. “Rape”—the vilest crime in any prison. The group erupted—middle fingers raised, The Swordsman even spat at his shoes. The Thief didn’t argue, wisely staying silent.

A tapped his Doctrine Baton against the chair leg. As the room quieted, he said, “If you’ve got some sob story, now’s the time.” A mockery disguised as a prompt.

“No sob story,” The Thief muttered. “Had a stepmom. Beat me as a kid, called me useless. Grew up wanting to prove myself with women…”

“Fuck you!” The Swordsman lunged, held back by No. 0416. “Bullying women proves shit! Try raping someone like me!”

No. 0416 glanced at No. 0933. Next was him. The 09 series was the highest-numbered block. Those slender hands, those cheeks that flushed so easily—he couldn’t imagine what serious crime he’d committed.

“No. 0933,” A finally called, his tone different—laced with disdain, yet wary.

No. 0933 straightened his legs, lips pressed nervously: “I was only seventeen when I entered the Panopticon.”

Shocked murmurs. Juvenile arrest meant one thing—

No. 0933 continued softly: “I’m an ideological criminal.”

No. 0416 frowned. Ideological criminal… Life sentence. No visits. No access to any information—news, letters, even time.

This was the first time any of them had encountered an ideological criminal. The weight of their curious gazes nearly swallowed No. 0933 whole. He lowered his head to avoid them and spoke softly: “During a physics class in high school, I wrote an essay titled On the Virtuality of the Real World.”

The prisoners didn’t understand such things, assuming it was about simulation games or the like. But No. 0933 continued: “I discussed the possibility that the space we live in is itself a virtual program.”

At this, A cut in with a stern warning: “Let me remind everyone—the ideas No. 0933 is describing are extremely dangerous. No one is permitted to contemplate, record, or repeat their content.”

No. 0416’s palms grew damp. No. 0933 was genuinely dangerous—not in the way of killing a few people or peddling illegal code, but in a way that could shake a party, a nation, the entire world. He stared at him—so meek, so frail—yet his mind was a razor-sharp blade cutting straight into the nerves of humanity.

No. 0933 knew they didn’t grasp what he was saying. “For example,” he explained, “have you ever felt like a certain street or scene was eerily familiar, as if you’d experienced it before?”

They had. Everyone had.

“That could be explained by a system glitch after correction,” No. 0933 said. “But have you ever considered—if we can create a world like the Island of Saints, why couldn’t we ourselves be created by some system?”

No one had thought of that. No one would entertain such absurdity. No. 0933 spoke gently, like a fallen prophet with broken wings: “You don’t think about it because of the system’s command.” He interlaced his ten slender fingers like a roof. “Each person’s consciousness is a cage. Beyond it lies unclaimed land—unseen, unnoticed.”

“What do you mean…?” The Archer mumbled.

“It means,” No. 0933 met his gaze, all traces of timidity gone, “consciousness controls you completely. Centuries ago, people believed women with deformed feet were beautiful—so countless women became disabled. For millennia, people believed women must marry a man—so unmarried women faced overt and covert attacks, even from family and themselves. That is the power of consciousness.”

“Enough,” B suddenly stood. “That’s it.”

Confusion was etched on every face. That was the danger—once doubt took root, people would think. And thinking meant revolution.

The prisoners were escorted back to their pods one by one. No. 0416 was last. He sat for a long time, mulling over No. 0933’s words. He didn’t fully understand, yet was hopelessly drawn in. This restless agitation—he couldn’t tell if it was for the theory or the man himself.

“No. 0416,” B had been standing opposite him, admiring him like a prized possession, “don’t overthink. Thinking isn’t for you.”

No. 0416 met his gaze—blank, domineering: “Then what is?”

B didn’t answer, just withdrew his eyes with subtlety. “Come with me.”

No. 0416 followed him to the office. The door locked behind them. B picked up a remote device from the desk, deactivating the nano-cameras, then leaned lazily against the edge of the table, undoing the clasp at the collar of his Party uniform.

No. 0416 wasn’t sure if this was an invitation or just a need to loosen up. He stood frozen. “You’re saying I’m suited for… fucking you?”

B laughed—genuine, unguarded. Encouraged, No. 0416 stepped closer, pressing against him, raising his cuffed hands coyly: “Can you take these off? Hard to pull my pants down like this.”

B smirked, eyes glinting, then yanked his pants down in one swift motion. “Hey!” No. 0416 thrust forward, slamming him into the desk with a thud. “Think about the consequences, Officer.” His voice was a whisper. B lowered his lashes, haughty. “Not thinking about The Convert anymore?”

“Tch.” No. 0416 clicked his tongue. “Not interested in psychos.”

B couldn’t help but laugh again, his perfectly styled hair disheveled, a few strands dangling precariously.

“Look up!” No. 0416 ordered, cuff-bound hand gripping his chin. That mouth—he stared coldly, reluctant yet compelled. He crushed their lips together.

B was eager, leaning in, eyes shut in surrender. No. 0416 kissed him methodically, teasing with little tricks, bending to murmur: “Can I fuck you? Huh?”

Just from kissing, B moaned theatrically, trembling at No. 0416’s shameless words. “I give orders. You obey!”

That pissed No. 0416 off. He tore at B’s uniform and the white shirt beneath, shoving him back, clearing half the desk with a sweep of files before yanking his pants down. B was already hard, the bulge slanting right, swaying pitifully from the rough handling.

B lay half-sprawled across the wrecked desk, hips wedged against the edge, pelvis jutting. His low-rise underwear was made of some modern composite—silky, sheer, latex-tight. No. 0416 groped his chest shamelessly, watching as B slowly pushed the soft fabric down his thighs himself.

Not huge, but well-shaped—this understated moderation suited a high-ranking Party member. No. 0416 tugged off the red armband from B’s left sleeve, using it to grip his slick cock.

“Damn, you’re worked up,” he stroked, weighing it. “How long’s it been?”

“Th-Three years…” B panted, squirming, his sweaty palm clutching No. 0416’s arm. “Hurry up, stop dragging it out!”

Three years. No. 0416 guessed he’d arrived at the Panopticon then. “No way. A high-ranking officer like you—no special treatment?”

The moment he said “you”, B shuddered, hand scrambling across the desk, hips rocking, smearing the red armband with wetness. No. 0416 looked down at him, arrogance bordering on rudeness: “Officer, you’re being pretty shameless…”

True—tousled black hair, glistening lips, bared limbs under the open uniform, flushed thighs, the Party insignia sullied by bodily fluids—he was obscenely debauched.

B began to whimper, each sound stifled, his right foot tapping restlessly before hooking onto the desk edge. No. 0416 eyed the expensive black leather shoe, pulling it aside to expose a secret crevice.

B stared at his own legs. Even in this humiliating pose, he seemed to relish it, lashes fluttering as he commanded shakily: “Look… don’t touch.”

No. 0416 knew what he meant. “Why not?”

B gripped his hand, forcing his hips into No. 0416’s palm. “Same-sex relations… are legal, but internally, the Party… doesn’t condone it.”

No. 0416 raised a brow. “Don’t tell me you’re saving your ass for the Party.”

Meant as mockery, B ate it up, gasping, bucking wildly. The armband was soaked. He cried out, shamelessly chasing long-denied release on the desk. No. 0416 glimpsed the crease between his cheeks—then B stiffened, face reddening, breath hitching as he collapsed, legs sliding limply off the desk.

Amidst sticky panting, No. 0416 let go. The red armband was streaked white. He grabbed a stack of papers from the floor—a Q3 ideological analysis report from the Central Party Committee—tore off the first two sheets, wiped his hands, and tossed them back.

B showed no sign of moving, still basking in the thrill of fucking a prisoner in his office. No. 0416 had to admit—the guy was attractive. Pretty, wanton. He leaned down, arms bracketing B’s head: “Officer, let me fuck you. No one’ll know.”

B gazed up, bright-eyed, and smiled. He lifted his Party-ringed hand, slapping No. 0416’s cheek weakly. “Fuck me? Forgotten your place.” Like all post-orgasm men, he turned away coldly. “Get lost.”

No. 0416 obeyed, stepping back. B thought he’d cowed him—until the man made an audacious demand: “Then let me go to No. 0933.”

B’s expression darkened, eyes sharp. Unfazed, No. 0416 pinched the soft flesh at his waist: “You won’t do it, won’t let me do others—how’s that fair?”

He was shameless, utterly unrepentant. B narrowed his eyes: “Planned this all along, didn’t you?”

No. 0416 grinned: “Who needs plans for this?” He traced B’s ribs, circling a nipple teasingly. “Or should I just fuck you instead?”

B pushed him away, smoothing his hair as he stood. “That bookworm’s so scrawny—doubt he can take you.” His gaze dropped. “Never even had a girlfriend. Locked up just for you to ruin?”

“Hey, then I just—” No. 0416 searched for a word, “—serviced you for free?”

He meant to tease, but B actually laughed, licking his lips smugly. He pressed a button on the desk: “Come here,” he ordered. “Take No. 0416 back. To the top floor—No. 0933’s pod.”

Leaning back in his chair, he refastened his buttons, watching like a cat awaiting reward. To No. 0416, he looked unbearably smug.

No. 0416 struggled to pull his pants up, clumsily gathering files. The armband was a sticky mess—he feigned interest: “Mind if I keep this as a souvenir?”

B actually blushed, snatching it up and tossing it into a vacuum shredder.

“No. 0933, attention. No. 0416 entering pod.” A announced over the intercom, shoving him inside with a reminder—”12 hours”—before locking the door.

12 hours. No. 0416 flexed his wrists. Plenty of time. No. 0933 huddled by the window, head bowed like last time, clearly avoiding him. No. 0416 approached, watching him flinch, back arching as he pressed against the wall.

This scared… Annoyance flared—maybe the insecurity of an underworld thug. He thought of his own disgraceful status. Maybe No. 0933 despised him… but no. Studying that face under the bangs—flushed, almost shy. Because of those words last time: Get ready. Relax. Wait for me.

This guy wasn’t relaxed at all! No. 0416 stifled a laugh. An arm’s length away, he reached for him. No. 0933 dodged blatantly. Undeterred, No. 0416 spread his arms, grinning as he advanced—a predator playing with prey. From the Central Tower, this must’ve looked utterly depraved.

“You… don’t…” No. 0933’s voice was barely audible. No. 0416 seized the excuse to lean in: “Huh? Didn’t catch that!”

He grabbed him, hauling him into his arms. No. 0933 fought, but No. 0416 tossed him onto the bed effortlessly. “More fight,” he said. “I told you—I’m here to rape you.”

“R-Rape?!” No. 0933 gaped, stunned. No. 0416 stripped naked, pouncing onto the bed. No. 0933 yelped as something hot pressed against his thigh, biting No. 0416’s wrist.

No. 0416 handled him easily. As No. 0933 twisted, he yanked his pants down; as he rolled, he tore his shirt off. In moments, he had him bare beneath him. “So smooth,” he murmured, licking the vertebrae at his nape, pinning his wrists as he rutted against that soft ass.

No. 0933 burned scarlet. They’d done this on the Island of Saints, but not like this. Back then, he’d been tall, dignified—the masculine one. Now their roles had flipped.

No. 0416 began touching him, fingers slipping under his body to tease ribs and nipples. “Don’t worry—it’s for show.” He scraped a nail over a nipple’s dip. “Turn your head. Let’s kiss.”

God, how could he say such things?! No. 0933 was flustered, unsure if he should comply. Before he could decide, No. 0416 stretched over, tongue prodding, sucking his inexperienced lips in.

“Mmm…” No. 0933 let out a sigh. With the kiss, the hands on his nipples and the thing pressing against his ass seemed bearable. He tried to deepen the kiss but realized he wasn’t skilled enough, so he just let No. 0416 do as he pleased. When No. 0416 wanted to lick his throat, he opened his mouth wide; when No. 0416 pulled back, satisfied, he obediently swallowed his saliva.

“How was that?” No. 0416 asked, flipping him over in the process. Taking advantage of his dazed state, he grabbed his hips, spreading his legs wide. The moment their bodies pressed together, they both realized how wet they were.

“You’re so wet,” No. 0416 propped himself up to look down. A small, trembling thing stood on a pale belly with sparse hair. “So little hair…” He grabbed it, stroking a few times before kissing his way down from the neck, lingering at the navel before taking him into his mouth.

No. 0933 twitched and curled up. They’d done this in the game too—No. 0416 was good at it, lips forming a tight circle as he moved up and down. When he got tired, he’d suck harder, swallowing him deeper. After a few rounds, No. 0933 was whimpering and begging.

But begging was useless. No. 0416 only went faster and rougher, kneading his ass until it turned red and soft, making him writhe shamelessly like a wanton girl.

“Stop… stop sucking!” No. 0933 pushed at him, hips jerking. Did he really want him to stop? Of course not. It was just the useless shame of a virgin.

To his surprise, No. 0416 actually stopped. Without wiping his mouth, he crawled up and latched onto a nipple. No. 0933 grabbed his hair, trembling. His lower half was still hard, his upper half now being sucked—he wanted to moan wildly but clenched his toes to hold back. “The… the blanket,” he groped beside him. “The Central Tower is watching!”

“Let them watch,” No. 0416 slid a hand along the curve of his ass, fingers probing the soft, slick crevice. “Let them burn with desire.”

There was no “them.” He meant B. He was definitely watching, intently, satisfying his own hungry fantasies. No. 0416 pulled No. 0933 close, facing him as they lay on their sides, kissing him deeply, over and over. Then he hooked one of No. 0933’s legs over his hip, reaching behind to slide a finger inside, slick with their shared wetness.

No. 0933 whimpered, hips jerking back. No. 0416 pinched his nipple lightly, sucking on his lips as he scolded: “I let you fuck me so many times, and you won’t even let me do it once?”

No. 0933 pouted: “It’s different.” He grabbed No. 0416’s wrist, pleading pitifully. “The Convert and so many others have fucked you. It doesn’t hurt you…”

“You’re scared it’ll hurt?” No. 0416 stubbornly worked his tight hole, most of his middle finger already inside. “If it didn’t hurt, you’d let me fuck you properly?”

No. 0933 didn’t answer, which clearly meant yes. No. 0416 kissed him again—nose, chin, eyelids, temples—then whispered: “I’ll get you out of here.”

No. 0933 froze. Seizing the moment, No. 0416 twisted his fingers inside him, adding a second. The tight entrance clenched instinctively.

“You’re an ideological criminal,” No. 0416 fought against his resisting muscles. “If you don’t escape, you’ll never see the sun again.”

No. 0933 didn’t know if he was serious or just distracting him. The fingers were rough but didn’t hurt—just left him aching, full, and oddly excited. “When I fucked you… did it feel good?”

“Couldn’t you tell?” No. 0416 rolled his eyes, clearly embarrassed. “It hurt a little at first, but once we got going, it felt amazing.” He tried adding a third finger. “Different from being on top. Addictive. Made me want to… act slutty,” he muttered, “like I’d turned into some whore…”

What kind of talk was this?! No. 0933 flushed at the word “whore,” but curiosity won out. His hole seemed to clench in anticipation. “Then…” He arched his back weakly. “Be gentle, okay?”

Hearing this, No. 0416 flipped him over in an instant, pulling his legs into a shameless spread. Gripping his own intimidating length, he lined up and pushed into the slick entrance.

No. 0933 stared at the ceiling nervously, his vulnerable spot rubbed raw by the hard cock. He bit his lip, face burning, but after much grinding, No. 0416 still couldn’t get in. He resorted to using his fingers to stretch him wider, then thrust in forcefully.

Maybe he was too big. Maybe No. 0933 was too tight. After several failed attempts, the rim was red and swollen. “Does it hurt?” No. 0416 asked, heart aching.

No. 0933 held back but finally admitted: “Yeah…”

No. 0416 looked at this clueless body—the feverish skin, the sparse hair, the torturously tight hole. It was his, yet he couldn’t conquer it. Frustrated, he sighed and gave up.

Climbing off, he sat on the edge of the bed, silently jerking himself off. In the Central Tower, B was surely gloating. He sulked, head lowered, until a slender hand reached for him. No. 0933 looked up pleadingly, catlike, wrapping his fingers around the throbbing length and taking the tip into his mouth without hesitation.

This was a surprise. No. 0416 jerked in excitement, almost coming from the sudden pleasure. Stroking No. 0933’s soft hair, he felt all his wounded pride restored. “Why’d you have to be so tight?” he teased. “So unfair.”

No. 0933 sucked earnestly, trying to take him deeper like he’d seen him do, but his jaw was too narrow. Instead, he kissed it slowly, driving No. 0416 wild. Unable to take it, he yanked him up, licking his armpit like a pervert. No. 0933 squirmed, ticklish, until No. 0416 repositioned him, sliding his cock between his thighs.

“Huh?” No. 0933 gasped. No. 0416 feigned indifference. “Hold still.”

No. 0933 obeyed. No. 0416 thrust recklessly, making his face bounce with each movement, hair falling into his eyes. He brushed it back, only for it to tumble down again.

That look—shy, clueless—was utterly endearing.

B was waiting at his desk when No. 0416 returned, head hanging. He smirked around a cigarette: “Had your fun?”

Mocking him for failing to penetrate. No. 0416 slumped onto the couch, scowling. “Just jealous!”

“Jealous?” B feigned innocence. “You wanted No. 0933, I let you have him. You fucked his armpit instead—how’s that my fault?”

“Armpit?” No. 0416 rubbed his face, sinking lower. “Get me some lube,” he muttered, too fast and too quiet.

B pretended not to hear: “What was that?”

“Lube…” No. 0416 repeated, even quieter.

B heard him this time but played dumb: “Did fucking an armpit ruin your tongue? Can’t even speak?”

“Lube!” No. 0416 snapped, glaring. His face was red with a charming, boyish anger. B walked over, arms crossed, then straddled his lap with deliberate seduction, blowing smoke in his face. “Is this how you ask for favors?”

No. 0416 smirked, raking his eyes over him before sliding his cuffed hand into B’s pants, stroking the hardness there. “I really wanted to fuck him,” he whined, then boldly suggested, “After I do, you can fuck him too.”

B tilted his head, watching him through the haze. “You want me to rape a prisoner?” He took a drag, the ember flaring, then offered the cigarette. “Together?”

No. 0416 took it. The filter was damp. He didn’t inhale. “Three people. Sounds fun?”

B visibly swallowed. His face was pure desire, lips parting as if to agree—but some Party rule must’ve held him back. He changed the subject: “Why lube? Just force it in.”

No. 0416 flicked ash onto the floor. “One round of fun isn’t worth giving him anal fissures.”

B chuckled softly, standing. “You really are gentle,” he mused, walking to the window. “You… were gentle with me too.”

No. 0416 froze, unsure what he meant. Nervous but hiding it, B gazed outside at the monotonous view—the occasional vehicle speeding down the twilight freeway. “You don’t have to… I mean, we’re warden and prisoner. But you don’t need to keep using that tone,” he met No. 0416’s eyes, “that hostile tone.”

Hostile? No. 0416 guessed he’d noticed the differences between him and The Listener, attributing them to oppositional tension. Some details were unavoidable, no matter how careful he was. “Hostile?” he asked roughly, leaning into the act.

“That. Exactly that tone,” B said, disgusted. “And all those crude words. I know you’re used to provoking ‘officers,’ but with me,” his gaze held No. 0416’s, strangely tender in the golden-red twilight, “don’t.”

No. 0416 stayed silent, letting B believe he’d struck a chord. The silence seemed to move B, even elate him. “I hope,” he stepped into the shadow of the curtains, as if sharing a secret, “you’ll always think of me as Silver.”

No. 0416 remained quiet. The silence stretched, making B regret his words. Finally, No. 0416 spoke: “Then tell me—what’s the real purpose of this group?”

B didn’t answer. No. 0416 sighed. “Then at least tell me why Silver’s recovery speed keeps increasing.”

A compromise. B responded: “Administrators have backend access. I modified a cycle parameter to buy more time with you.”

Mentioning admin rights reminded No. 0416: “Was it you who left the key imprint on the underground chamber wall?”

Likely, since he’d wanted out of the cage. But B said, “What key imprint? I don’t know. All my awareness started from the first sip of water you gave me. Before that, there was only darkness.”

His tone was so lonely, even pitiful. For a moment, No. 0416 almost felt sorry for him. Softened, he asked again: “Can’t you really tell me who you’re looking for?”

Maybe it was the twilight’s warmth, or their earlier intimacy. B hesitated, then said slowly from the shadows: “One of them played The Elder in the last few dozen hours.”

By “last,” he meant the hours before the study group formed. No. 0416 seemed to process this—then his eyes widened.