Chapter 12 – The Panopticon II
by Salted Fish0416 followed Officer A and stopped in front of a prison pod. The door had an electronic number, starting with the prefix “01.” A pressed the intercom on the door: “Partial power failure in some pods. 0416 will be temporarily housed here for one night.”
“What a lame excuse,” 0416 muttered under his breath. A shot him a glare, unlocked the door with an electronic key, shoved him inside, then lowered the outer partition from the outside and removed his handcuffs.
Inside was The Swordsman, sitting in front of the access terminal without his device, tilting his head to glance over: “What a lame excuse.”
0416 chuckled, flexing his wrists, and plopped directly onto the bed: “Your prefix number’s pretty low, huh?”
“What did they promise you?” The Swordsman stood up, staring at him, fists clenched together—a street fighter’s pre-brawl stance.
0416 didn’t show the slightest fear: “Nothing. I was forced. If it were you, you’d have to do the same.”
The Swordsman glared at him coldly before lowering his hands: “You won’t get anything out of me.”
“I know,” 0416 nodded. “Been in here so long, I barely remember how to move my lips. Having someone to argue with is kinda nice.”
The Swordsman walked past him to take a piss: “Are they stupid? We just had a ‘study session’ together, and now your pod has a power failure? Seems like they’re not trying to get info out of me—they’re just fucking with you.”
A rather clumsy attempt at provocation. 0416 watched his youthful back: “Don’t you think it’s weird, this bullshit ‘study group’?”
The Swordsman turned around, not bothering to tuck himself back in—an intentional lack of respect: “Isn’t it just game testing?”
He was doing it on purpose. 0416 wasn’t going to be riled up by such childish posturing: “If it’s just testing, they could’ve tossed in a questionnaire. Why go to all this trouble?”
He had a point. The Swordsman was starting to catch on: “Then… it’s like they’re looking for someone. What’s it called again?” He finished up, waving his hands under the laser sanitizer. “Screening!”
“Exactly,” 0416 cut straight to the heart of it. “But someone’s lying.”
The Swordsman plopped back down, staring into his eyes with a raw intensity: “That’s why they sent you.”
0416 shrugged, agreeing: “Who do you think it is?”
“How would I know who they’re looking for?” The Swordsman kicked off his shoes and climbed onto the bed, leaning against the wall. The quantum lens over his left eye flickered. “Definitely not me.”
“Hey, where am I sleeping tonight?” 0416 suddenly asked, switching topics so fast it caught The Swordsman off guard.
“My bed? No way. Get in the system.”
“I’m not using your IV port,” 0416 refused. The intravenous setup was for prisoners to stay nourished during long gaming sessions—metal ports, not disposable. “Give me the floor.”
The Swordsman didn’t object, glancing at the backs of his hands: “Damn, you play a lot.” They were covered in needle marks, some areas already bruised. “Haven’t you only been in here a few months?”
0416 gave him a veteran’s sidelong glance: “Back in the day, people shot up drugs, right?” He shook his hands. “Same thing. Got addicted.”
At the word “drug,” The Swordsman stiffened briefly. 0416 asked, “What happened to your eye?”
The Swordsman ruffled his hair and didn’t answer. 0416 didn’t push it—some things you talk about if you want, keep to yourself if you don’t. Who cared?
After a while, The Swordsman stretched his neck and asked in an odd tone: “You… love The Convert?”
0416 thought about it: “Yeah, I guess.”
“No way,” The Swordsman scoffed. “That’s just a fucking game.”
“Some guys go to a nightclub, meet a girl, fall in love. Some go for congee, meet a girl, fall in love. Me? I play a game where I die over and over, meet a…” Not a girl, obviously. 0416 smirked. “Fell in love. What’s so impossible?”
“What’s the point? It’s all zeros and ones.”
0416 didn’t argue, tugging the blanket over himself as if ready to sleep. The Swordsman stayed silent until he’d settled on the floor before slowly muttering: “This eye? A girl stabbed it.”
“Partial power failure in some pods. 0416 will be temporarily housed here for one night.” Officer A pressed the intercom again.
This pod was prefix “07.” 0416 rolled his eyes: “Couldn’t come up with a better excuse? They don’t even believe it.”
A smirked darkly: “That’s your problem.” He lowered the partition and whispered, “Try not to get killed, huh?”
A pair of hands reached out from inside. Only after cuffing them did A dare open the door. 0416 noticed the difference—he hadn’t been this careful with The Swordsman in pod “01”: “Hey, is my safety guaranteed?”
The person inside could hear. A didn’t answer, just shoved him in and slammed the door shut. 0416 quickly stuck his hands out, letting A remove the cuffs. Meanwhile, The Convert stood beside him, leaning against the doorframe, locking onto him with those striking eyes—like a hunter eyeing prey.
If he was “04,” what level of crime warranted “07”? Organized crime? Heresy? Serial killing? 0416 rubbed his wrists and stepped aside to give The Convert space.
This guy wasn’t lacking in physique either, with muscles clearly trained for specific purposes—either a professional athlete or an underground fighter.
“What are they trying to get out of me?” The Convert suddenly turned and asked. Officer A hadn’t closed the partition yet and definitely heard, but with a sharp click, he sealed it and walked away.
0416 kept a safe distance: “No choice. They sent me.”
His eyes darted around the room—same layout, but oddly, the bed had scattered items like sand trays and building blocks, toys banned by regulations.
“They trust you?” The Convert advanced on him. “Why else pick you over me?”
0416 had already confirmed he had special privileges and no fear of the officers. Quick thinking told him playing weak was smarter here: “Because I tell the truth. They want me to find the liar.”
The Convert stopped. 0416’s blunt answer pleased him—in his eyes, this guy was just a cowardly fraud: “So, who do you think is lying among the seven of us?”
“No idea,” 0416 sensed his guard lowering. This guy didn’t seem like a seasoned criminal. “I’ve only been to The Swordsman’s. He wasn’t lying.”
“With all this fuss, it’s like they’re hunting someone.” The Convert turned away, tidying the bed. 0416 stayed put, scanning the pull-up bar, toilet, and terminal—nothing unusual.
“Did someone piss them off in the game?” The Convert paused abruptly. “Are there admins in Island of Saints?”
Sharp reflexes, strong analytical skills. 0416 observed silently. You couldn’t outthink someone like this—you had to study his behavior and speech for clues.
“Hey,” The Convert beckoned. “You think maybe some roles aren’t on our selection screen but show up with admin access? Like that angel of yours?”
“Huh?” 0416 feigned shock. “…Wasn’t that an NPC?”
The Convert laughed, disdainful. That gave 0416 confidence—this guy had a weakness: arrogance. “What’re you messing with?” He deliberately used an amateurish tone.
Right on cue, The Convert took the bait: “Hunting. Know it?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Not that lame electronic targeting crap—real hunting. Setting traps!”
Traps? 0416 paused, hesitant: “You’re using toys to simulate traps?”
The Convert pointed to the half-packed sand tray: “This is our ‘study group.'” Pure bragging. “I’m figuring out what kind of trap could take out three officers at once.”
0416 was genuinely shocked: “You’re planning an escape?”
“Not interested in that,” The Convert drawled. Clearly, he was just into the mechanics of traps. “Besides, I’m out in six months.”
Six months? Prefix “07”? 0416 couldn’t believe it. Combined with his privileges, this guy was either a turncoat witness or had connections. Then The Convert suddenly asked: “Think I’m lying?”
“Huh?” 0416 tried to hedge, but before he could, The Convert grabbed his throat and slammed him against the wall.
The grip tightened—strong, but 0416 could handle it. He held back, surprised when The Convert snarled: “You told him to kill me, didn’t you?!”
A cold voice blared from the intercom: “Prisoner 0777, cease hostile actions immediately! Prisoner 0777—”
“You’re The—” 0416 couldn’t speak now, struggling painfully. This was The Archer. He’d confirmed it. The “he” he mentioned was the real Convert. But why expose himself? Unless—
“I don’t care about a few more years,” the guy grinned, bloodthirsty. “I’ll kill you too!”
Death in Island of Saints and death in the Panopticon were two different things!
Suddenly, something descended from the ceiling—a high-pressure water cannon aimed at The Archer’s back. With a bang, it blasted him to the ground. 0416 broke free, scrambling to the door. The airlock should’ve opened to let him escape, but no chance. He had to save himself before the officers arrived.
“Cough…” The Archer was already rising from the water, his handsome face flushed with adrenaline. 0416 needed to calm him down: “You… cough… don’t you want… to find him?!”
Who? The Archer froze, dripping wet, unmoving.
“He might be one of us!” 0416 pressed against the door, playing terrified. “I’ll help you find him!”
The Archer hesitated, glancing at the window. 0416 called out: “Hey, it’s fine. They think you’re The Convert.” He stepped closer, like approaching a wild beast. “How… did you recognize me?”
The Archer wiped his face, cooling down: “I’m not deaf. I heard you guys talk about ‘silver.'”
0416 stood before him, using his own damp clothes to wipe The Archer’s face—only making it wetter. The Archer stared in disbelief, about to curse, when 0416 whispered: “You’re The Convert. They’re watching.”
The Archer froze. The moment he did, 0416’s lips brushed against his in a sudden, fleeting kiss.
“You motherf—” He grabbed 0416’s hair, but the water cannon blasted again. At the same time, the airlock hissed open. In a flash, 0416 was yanked out—by Officer A, now also soaked, shouting into his radio: “Attempted second-degree assault! Sentence under review!”
0416 rubbed his throat: “Thought you were waiting for me to die!”
“With your skills? You could’ve handled him. You were holding back.” A turned, hastily cuffing him, then gestured with his Doctrine Baton: “Move.”
0416 thought he was being taken back to his own prison pod, but no—Officer A led him to the Central Tower, took the elevator to the top floor, and without even removing his handcuffs, shoved him into a suite. The living room wall was adorned with the Party flag and insignia.
Click. The door closed behind him. He walked inside, where faint music drifted from the inner room: Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien. Ni le bien qu’on m’a fait… 1Edith Piaf – Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien. I’ve included it with the chapter to set the mood for this scene.
Rounding the corner of the narrow hallway, he saw Officer B, dressed in a peacock-green flannel pajama set, standing in the rosy glow of a table lamp as he flipped through a briefing. He had just showered, his damp hair loose, a cigar clamped between his fingers. Through the smoke, he glanced over, his eyes narrowed but bright.
“You alright?” He lifted his coffee, taking a small sip. Behind him were photos and wall hangings of various sizes, including a seal-script plaque that read Long Live the Leader. 0416 shook his head: “The most boring thing is meeting someone and then it fizzles out. Might as well not meet at all.”
“Oh?” B was still skimming the briefing, flipping to a page with bold text: Fifth Plenary Session of the Party’s Ideological Review Committee Convenes. “He said he never slept with The Listener.”
“He lied,” 0416 sighed. “It was him.”
“Why?” B set the briefing aside and sat at the foot of the bed, the scent of tobacco and cedar drifting over. “Why lie?”
“Spite, probably,” 0416 leaned against the wall, still damp. “That time… I forgot about him.”
B stared at him for a long moment without speaking. 0416 muttered under his breath: “He’s different from how he is in the game.” His tone was reluctant, almost disappointed. “Kissing him… didn’t feel like anything.”
“Come here,” B suddenly said. “Rub my shoulders.”
0416 obediently approached. The shoulders weren’t particularly broad, and with his hands cuffed, he could only work one side at a time. His large hands kneaded in a way that was hard to define—vengeful or teasing? B soon relaxed, his eyes half-lidded: “Not into him anymore?”
He meant The Convert. 0416 smirked: “He was the one who came after me in the first place.”
B tilted his head back, his half-dry hair brushing against 0416’s knuckles: “Then what’s your type?”
Every word here had layers. 0416 braced one knee on the bed, leaning down until his dry lips were close: “Someone weaker. More obedient.”
B only had to tilt his head slightly to rest against 0416’s neck, but he kept just out of reach. His hands stilled. 0416 gripped his neck, breathing hotly against his face: “Like ‘Silver.'”
The old 20th-century song continued: Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien. Ni le bien qu’on m’a fait…
With just a little more pressure, this neck would snap, and this man would go cold on the bed. But 0416 didn’t act—his cuffs were still on. Even if he fought like hell, it’d be pointless.
B trembled slightly, not from fear or anger but from a hormonal reaction. His lashes fluttered as he stared at 0416’s lips in the rosy light: “Mmm…”
But 0416 let go, utterly unromantic, stepping aside. It took B a moment to regain his composure, left awkwardly frozen, a flicker of anger in his eyes.
A young man’s game of push and pull—he understood. “Don’t go back.”
0416 watched him, waiting to see what he’d do next. Would he use his high-ranking Party privileges to force him? But B only pointed to the living room: “Sleep on the carpet tonight.” His order was malicious. “Don’t get my sofa wet.”
In front of Prison Pod 03, Officer A pressed the intercom: “Partial power failure in some pods. 0416 will be temporarily housed here for 12 hours.”
The pod door opened. 0416 stepped inside, had his cuffs removed, and came face-to-face with the occupant—a gaunt old man, hunched by the window.
0416 had just crawled off B’s carpet like a dog and was feeling sluggish. He plopped onto the bed and yawned loudly.
“Did the officer treat you well?” The old man left the window and crouched in front of him, looking envious. “Did he give you booze? Or a smoke?”
0416’s heart skipped, but his expression didn’t change: “How’d you know?”
The old man acted like it was nothing, tilting his head proudly: “I’ve been here for years.”
Even a lifetime here wouldn’t grant knowledge of other prisoners’ affairs. 0416 chuckled: “You’ve had the officer’s cigarettes?”
“Years ago,” the old man scratched his head, almost embarrassed. “I was good-looking back then, people liked me. Not anymore.”
0416 didn’t reply. After a silence, the old man observed his expression and said, “Only those the officers trust get sent to ask questions.”
0416 arrogantly lifted his chin, staring at him, then patted the bed: “Your legs must be numb from squatting. Come sit.”
The old man hunched over and sat beside him. Without needing to be asked, he volunteered: “I didn’t lie. I never crossed anyone in Island of Saints. You can rule me out.”
A real old-timer—sharp as a tack! 0416 slung an arm over his shoulder, the way a gang leader might with a subordinate: “Tell me, then. Island of Saints isn’t just angels fighting demons. What is it?”
The old man was compliant. At his age, he had no energy to argue with the young. “I only know bits and pieces. Overheard The Flagellant mention things.”
His description of Island of Saints wasn’t what 0416 expected. Three hundred years before players logged in, the island didn’t exist. The massive faction of angel-fighters had an internal schism. The orthodox faction sought help from demons and launched a nameless battle at the Edge of the World, where sky met sea. But the battle failed. The Archangel and the Demon King were captured together. The revolutionaries built Island of Saints overnight, commanding monks to imprison the sinners and guard them for generations.
“So,” 0416 inferred, “the legends of the King and the Female Saint don’t exist?”
“Right. The whole Island of Saints is a lie. Only two of the seven Saints’ Tombs are real—one holds the Demon King, the other the wingless Archangel.”
The angel was imprisoned in the Female Saint’s tomb. “Then the Demon King is in…” 0416 asked.
“The King’s Tomb,” the old man answered.
Just as he thought. 0416 understood now why The Flagellant and The Ascetic always lurked near the King’s Tomb. And the cloaked figure on The Thief’s horse must’ve been the Demon King.
“How did The Flagellant know all this? Was it a quest message?” he pressed.
“Probably,” the old man said uncertainly. “He had a map and a whistle as soon as he logged in. He also knew about The Penitent luring The Listener to find The Convert.”
“Luring?” 0416 was startled. “It wasn’t The Listener’s own idea?”
“No,” the old man glanced at him, puzzled. “Without The Convert, The Listener couldn’t rescue the angel. Even if he did, he couldn’t clear the game.”
0416 fell silent for a long time, goosebumps rising on his arms. Finally, he asked one last question: “What’s the endgame of this game?”
“I don’t know,” the old man seemed numb. “None of the Flagellants I’ve followed have made it to the end.”
Of course. Even The Listener’s side quests were perilous, let alone The Flagellant’s main storyline. The randomness of player actions, the interference of multiple factors, the countless possible permutations—a mere human mind could never exhaust them all. Letting go of the old man’s shoulder, 0416 sank into thought.
0416 entered the next pod—The Firehand’s. Surprisingly, the guy had made his bed and kept the toilet spotless.
“I’ll cut to the chase,” 0416 said bluntly. “They sent me. Anything you need to confess?”
The Firehand smiled mildly: “No. I told the truth.”
0416 nodded, walked to the window, then turned back, visibly irritated. The Firehand watched him guilelessly: “You’ve asked a few people already, huh?”
“Yep,” 0416 acted like he’d lost interest, sprawling on the fiber chair by the access terminal. “You’re the fourth. Two more to go.”
The Firehand turned to straighten the slightly wrinkled bedsheet. 0416 jiggled his leg idly, then suddenly asked: “Hey, wasn’t it you who said there’s no shortage of oil in Island of Saints? What’s the trick? Spill it.”
The guy’s movements noticeably faltered, but he said, “No, you misheard.”
“Really?” 0416 feigned disappointment. “I’m so sick of that damn dry bread and slop in there!”
The Firehand didn’t take the bait. After a pause, 0416 asked again: “Hey, did you ever hook up in there?”
The Firehand laughed helplessly, still refusing to turn around: “Why ask such useless stuff?”
“Food and sex are human nature,” 0416 stood, walking up behind him. “Did you or didn’t you? Huh? Did you?”
“Who’d hook up with me?” The Firehand finally snapped, turning with a complaint. “I’m just a blacksmith. Don’t even get to watch others hook up.”
0416 watched him calmly. He’d heard from The Listener that The Firehand and The Keeper were a pair.
True silence filled the pod—an intangible force that unsettled The Firehand. He wondered if he’d been exposed, then dismissed it. Just a few harmless questions. But then again, the smallest details could betray you…
Suddenly, 0416 stopped his chatter and paced to the door, lost in thought. What was he thinking?
The Firehand’s expression shifted—from honest and simple to vicious and cunning. He grabbed the semi-enclosed helmet of the access terminal, aimed at the back of 0416’s head, and swung with all his might.
Before the intercom could issue a warning, 0416 dodged with a tilt of his head, spun around, and closed the distance in a blink. A knifehand strike to the throat left The Firehand red-faced, collapsing over the parallel bars and cracking his skull.
“Prisoner 0416, maintain distance!” The Central Tower barked. “Prisoner 0416, retreat to the door and await officers!”
0416 didn’t press the attack. He yanked The Firehand’s bloodied hair and whispered, “Hey there, Mute.”
By the time 0416 entered The Thief’s pod, it was likely midnight. The guy was asleep, groggily crawling out from under the covers to greet him: “Oh, Listener. Climb up.”
He was the first to invite 0416 onto the bed. The single bed was too small, so 0416 waved him off: “Nah, I’ll make do on the floor.”
“It’s fine,” The Thief threw back the blanket. “We can sleep head-to-foot. Plenty of space.”
0416 thought about it, then climbed up and lay down under the covers. Despite the bright light outside, sleepiness came quickly. He was exhausted—body and mind—too tired to speak.
The Thief didn’t talk either. In the quiet night, 0416 dreamed a lurid dream—him and The Listener tangled together, slick thighs, tightened nipples, flushed lips… Overcome, he pinned the other’s wrists, panting heavily as he pressed down—only to find it wasn’t The Listener beneath him, but 0933. Damp hair, glasses askew, a shy, blushing face.
“Ah—” He shuddered and woke with a start.
His legs were damp, and there was a shameless hand groping between his thighs. He jolted awake in fury, rolling over with a snarl: “You fucking asking to die?!”
The Thief didn’t make a sound, pretending to still be asleep with shameless audacity. 0416 kicked him hard: “I’ll count to three—if you don’t get up, I’ll fucking kill you!”
The Thief finally sat up, shrinking back with his head lowered. He was muscular, his tattoos accentuating his physique. 0416 noticed his hands were still hidden under the blanket: “Hey, what the hell are you doing with your hands?!”
Caught red-handed, The Thief actually grew bolder, his wrist moving rhythmically: “We’re all in the same boat here, just helping each other out,” he muttered under his breath. “Besides, you were enjoying it too.”
“Enjoy your fucking ass!” 0416 yanked the blanket off, about to get out of bed, but the guy lunged from the other side, pinning him down with rough kisses and groping. “Fuck me once, please!” he begged between touches.
The guy was freakishly strong—not easy to shake off. 0416 was momentarily stunned, cursing blankly: “Fuck—fuck you—”
Suddenly, The Thief let go, straddling him to yank his pants down. He flipped over, presenting a round, tattooed ass with a beast’s head inked on it: “Come on, fuck me!”
Even like this, the intercom didn’t issue a warning. 0416 was speechless—apparently, the Central Tower didn’t care about this kind of thing. Now calmer, he gave that plump ass a firm slap: “Where’d you get hooked on this? ‘Outside’ or ‘inside’?”
“Outside” meant before The Panopticon, “inside” referred to Island of Saints. The Thief kept squirming impatiently, his tattoos shifting with his movements: “Why ask so much? Just try it already!”
He said “try.” 0416 quickly deduced he’d gotten addicted in Island of Saints. But how would The Thief have so many chances to hook up? The only one with that kind of privilege was The Convert.
“‘Inside’ is virtual,” 0416 said, half-advising him. “A nice ass like this—you’ll tear it up.”
“I don’t care,” the guy insisted eagerly. “I’ll take it. Hurry up!”
“People are watching,” 0416 pointed at the window, hopping off the bed. “I don’t have that kind of exhibitionist streak. See you later.” With that, he grabbed the fiber chair and slammed it against the airlock door. The intercom immediately blared: “Prisoner 0416, cease disruptive behavior! Prisoner 0416, retreat to the door and await officers!”
When Officer A came to retrieve him, he’d clearly been woken up mid-sleep—his hair wasn’t slicked back, and his shoes hadn’t been polished. 0416 smirked smugly: “One more to go, and we’re both free.”
A didn’t respond, leading him into the elevator to the 19th floor. When they stepped out, 0416 saw the doors on both sides were numbered with the prefix “09.” He’d entered the high-security block.
“Prisoner 0933, partial power failure in some pods. 0416 will be temporarily housed here for 12 hours.”
Oddly, this time A didn’t make 0933 cuff up first like he had with 0777. Instead, he carelessly opened the airlock and shoved 0416 inside.
The blanket was thrown back, still warm. 0933 stood awkwardly by the window, as if he’d scrambled out of bed in a panic. His glasses weren’t on, his head bowed, making his bangs seem even longer.
“Why do you act like a scared cat?” 0416 sat directly on the bed, speaking bluntly. “Come here.”
0933 didn’t move, stubbornly shrinking into the corner. 0416 touched the bedsheet—still warm. “I’m gonna throw something at you. Don’t be scared.”
With that, he grabbed the hard pillow and hurled it at him, snarling: “I fucking told you to come here!”
0933 was still frightened, pressing against the wall as he inched closer. His back was to the window, his face—how to describe it?—flushed red like a girl’s. 0416 knew why he was blushing and wanted to laugh smugly, but he held back, his expression cold and almost terrifying.
0933 finally approached, wringing his hands in front of him, head still lowered with a shy air.
“Hey, isn’t it a little late to be shy now?” 0416 groped him under the pretense of finding fault—really just wanting to touch him. “When you had me pinned against the carriage, going at it nonstop, why didn’t you—”
“Stop talking!” 0933 hissed, barely above a whisper.
“Can’t even say a word now?” 0416 still looked fierce, but his tone was soft, almost clingy. “Never thought you’d be so…” He eyed him up and down. “…So obedient.”
0933 seemed tense, almost ashamed of the stark contrast between himself and his in-game persona. 0416 noticed and yanked him roughly onto the bed: “Business first.” Spotting the pale feet peeking from his pant legs, he guiltily averted his gaze. “Officer B is Silver.”
0933’s eyes widened in shock. Then, suddenly, he covered his mouth, his face turning even redder. 0416 knew what he was thinking: “Back then, groping his dick, kissing him all the time, even—”
0933 lightly punched him—more like a lover’s playful tap. 0416 immediately tensed: “Hey, they’re watching.”
0933 pursed his lips carefully, asking with concern: “They… don’t know you lied, right?”
His voice was incredibly gentle, like a sweet summer watermelon with just a hint of grit—surprisingly pleasant. 0416 felt heat rush to his head, making him oddly flustered: “Relax. They’re no match for me.”
“Then…” 0933 hesitated, torn, but couldn’t resist asking, “How did you know Silver was the angel?”
“Guessed,” 0416 answered smoothly, prepared. “Those stunted things on his back were obviously wings.”
0933 looked at him and shook his head: “In that situation, in front of those officers, you wouldn’t have risked saying that unless you’d seen it yourself.” He probed further, “Did you… do something later?”
“No,” 0416 denied immediately. “What could I do? I just kept looking for you.”
0933 didn’t believe him. He couldn’t fathom Officer B going to such lengths just to find The Listener—their bond wasn’t that deep. “What’s next?”
“Don’t worry about it,” 0416 said firmly. “I’ll handle it.”
0933 didn’t press further. Something stood between them—perhaps the unfamiliarity of the real world and the insurmountable distrust of a first meeting. “Did B let you out of your pod?”
Of course, they’d circle back to this… 0416 dodged: “Enough. Let’s sleep. It’s the middle of the night.”
He pulled up the blanket. For a moment, their heads were shrouded in its shadow as 0416 pushed 0933 down, suddenly planting a kiss on his cheek. 0933 panicked, covering his face and trying to squirm away, but 0416 gripped his waist and held him firmly in place.
“Where you gonna run on a bed this small?” 0416 whispered hotly against his ear. “Bet you anything they don’t care about this kind of thing.”
Just as he’d said in the game, 0933 had never been intimate with anyone. His reactions were so exaggerated it was tempting to tease him further. 0416 twisted his wrist playfully, panting as he asked, “Hey, how old are you?”
Groped roughly, nuzzled against his temple, 0933 stubbornly refused to answer. 0416 pretended to think: “You’ve been here a long time… Forty? Forty-five?” He was teasing, but 0933 took it seriously, blurting out defensively: “I’m thirty… or thirty-one.”
“So you’re four or five years older than me,” 0416 sniffed at his chest like a wild dog—who knew what for. “Lucky you.”
The idea of taking advantage of a younger man made 0933 ashamed. He stopped resisting out of guilt. 0416 hadn’t expected him to be so easy to fool. Licking his nipple, he asked, “How long have you been in here?”
His shirt was pulled up to his neck, pants caught on his hips. 0933 answered awkwardly: “About thirteen years.”
Thirteen years… 0416 was stunned: “You were barely an adult when you got in?”
0933 didn’t reply, his face red as he tried to tug his pants up. 0416 snapped the elastic waistband and firmly grabbed both cheeks of his ass. A thin, small ass, pitifully lacking in meat. His ring finger probed the cleft—warm and dry. 0933 shuddered, staring at him in disbelief.
“What?” 0416 growled, pressing his body down, their hips grinding together. “With a body like this, you still thought you could top me?”
0933’s eyes welled up in fear as he struggled weakly. 0416 simply spread his cheeks, middle finger pressing against the tight furl: “The Listener’s pretty big too,” he murmured against his lips. “When you fucked me senseless, I could barely breathe. Now it’s my turn—what’s the problem?”
“N-no…” 0933 frantically pushed at his face. “Don’t sodomize me, I—” He lied desperately, “I have hemorrhoids! I’ll bleed!”
“Oh?” 0416 nipped his chin, fingertips teasing the tight ring. “No, you don’t,” he pushed in slightly. “Very clean.”
0933’s face burned crimson, whimpering as his legs kicked harder the deeper the finger went. One sudden jerk sent the blanket sliding off, exposing their tangled, sweaty bodies.
“They—they can see!” 0933 covered his face. The Central Tower was definitely watching—maybe even recording. But 0416 shamelessly continued: “Let them watch. When you were fucking me, Silver was watching the whole time.”
0933 had no fight left in him. He didn’t want to look like a pitiful, violated woman on camera either. 0416 kept whispering in his ear: “I let you fuck me so many times. Don’t you feel guilty? Sacrifice a little, let me have some fun too, okay…”
It was too much. 0933 panted heavily—he was about to give in, his ass about to be breached—when the intercom crackled with static. A cold voice rang out:
“0416, get off the bed. Move to the door.”
It was B.
0416 weighed his options, then propped himself up on one arm, looking down at the sweat-drenched 0933. Reluctantly, he withdrew his finger: “I’ll come back in a couple days,” he rasped, pinching the thin flesh of his inner thigh. “Get ready. Relax. Wait for me.”
With that, he brought his middle finger to his nose and sniffed—a faint, intimate scent. 0933 watched his brazenness, blushing as he clenched his thighs.
When he stepped out of the pod, Officer A was waiting. 0933 stared at the alloy cuffs on his wrists and asked, “If these explode, what happens to the person?”
“Don’t know,” A yawned. “No recorded explosions yet.”
He took him to the Central Tower. It was early morning. The same office as before, where B sat in a high-backed chair, legs propped on the desk, his black shoes gleaming as if polished with spit.
A tactfully left. 0416 stood sullenly in front of the desk. B studied him—no suspicion or anger, just calm indifference. He nudged the cigarette box and matches on the table, signaling him to light one.
0416 acted impatient. B smirked: “Still hard?”
0416 stuck the cigarette between his lips, striking a match with his cuffed hands: “You offering to suck me off?”
B took the cigarette from him, putting the saliva-damp filter between his lips for a deep drag: “Come here.” Leaning over the desk, he spread his legs and mimed unzipping his pants. “Your little show was quite entertaining.”
0416 turned his face away: “I did what you asked,” he said meekly. “I’m sure now—The Swordsman and The Ascetic are clean. The Firehand lied. He’s The Mute.”
B didn’t react. 0416 pretended to be cowed by his presence: “The others… need more time.”
“You and 0933…” B exhaled smoke. “You knew each other in Island of Saints?”
“Who the hell remembers him?” Through the haze of smoke, 0416 met his gaze boldly. “That kind of ‘girl’—if this weren’t a prison, he’d have been passed around a long time ago.”
B laughed: “You seemed pretty ‘interested’ in him.”
“The Thief got me all worked up. If you’d been next,” 0416 grinned, “I’d have been ‘interested’ in you too.”
B’s gaze was unreadable, lingering on him as if torn between fondness and disgust: “Doubt it,” he said softly. “You like that type—weak, obedient.”
His tone carried a hint of pettiness, like a sulk he couldn’t shake. 0416 immediately dropped all pretense of respect: “Come on, unzip,” he leaned on the desk, whispering, “Turn around and let me fuck you. I promise, my eyes’ll be only on you!”
B held the cigarette, watching him until, suddenly, he burst out laughing. It was a beautiful laugh—no uniform, armband, or Party insignia could suppress its brilliance. He did pull up his zipper, then pointed at 0416’s forehead, his voice firm but trembling:
“Who the fuck do you think you are? Keep dreaming!”
Whose dream was this, really? 0416 mused. Conquering this lonely elite seemed like only a matter of time.
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