Elian's second sunrise in the fortress began the same as the first: a bucket of ice water ripped him from sleep. Escorted by guards, he was herded back into the theater and forced to sit.
"GOOD MORNING, MY DEAR PIECES OF SHIT!" S screamed, kicking aside a prop door for theatrical effect. "Today I won't split you into groups. Today you—the forty-nine brats out of the one hundred and thirty-seven who arrived… you who survived day one…"
He vanished.
He reappeared, this time sitting next to Elian with his feet propped on the seat in front. Elian flinched.
"Today we'll play hide-and-seek," S said, then clapped once.
Every light in the theater snapped on.
For the first time the children could see the place for what it really was: an old, ruined playhouse, its walls stained with dried blood. Then they understood—they were not the first.
Elian felt a wave of nausea. S clamped a hand over his mouth.
"1317," he hissed into Elian's ear, "if you spit on my hand, I'll make you eat your own puke."
Elian swallowed the reflex. Fear left a metallic taste in his throat.
"Right, moving on," S said from the stage, his smile stretched grotesquely. "These particular hide-and-seek rules will be… different." His tone went calm, cruel.
"Each time a child is found, the seeker has two choices: spare the found child and drag them to the center of the stage… or kill them." He chuckled. "If the seeker chooses mercy, they'll die the moment they hand over their victim." He laughed again. "Of course, the found can fight back. If one of them kills the seeker, they take the seeker's place."
He tilted his head at a wrong angle—nearly ninety degrees.
"So, my little dogs… will you give your life, or will you take others'?"
He snapped his fingers. Several rusty weapons—knives, blades, axes, picks—materialized in the center of the stage.
"START!" he yelled, ecstatic, then vanished.
For a few seconds there was stunned silence. Children looked at one another, uncertain who would be first. Then one cried out, pointing at Elian:
"IT'S 1317! HE'S GOT A PAPER ON HIS BACK!"
Elian turned. Stuck to his jumpsuit was a sheet printed in red letters: I'M THE SEEKER, IDIOTS.
Chaos erupted. Some kids dove to hide; others ran for the weapons. A few of the oldest set off in hunting packs.
Elian ran.
For five minutes he darted between broken seats, behind curtains, through dusty boxes and shadowed boxes. He hid beneath the stage and bumped into someone.
"W-w-who are you?" a trembling voice asked.
Elian didn't answer—fear had stolen his tongue.
"I'm Arthur… or well… 1289," the other boy stammered. "What's your name?"
"Elian… Graves… 1317," he whispered.
They breathed in silence for a moment, shaky and small.
"You're the seeker, right?" Arthur asked, swallowing.
"Y-yes. But I won't hurt you. If I wanted to, I would've already done it… right?" Elian said honestly. He couldn't bring himself to harm anyone—his mother had taught him that violence was the last resort.
"I still don't trust you," Arthur said, raising a rusty knife.
"I get it. Just help me get out… if I make it out, they'll probably kill me. But—" Elian trembled, unaware the knife pointed at him.
Arthur hesitated, then offered his hand.
"Okay… take it."
Their palms met clumsily. Arthur squeezed—hands shaking together.
"You're shaking too… right?" Arthur asked.
"Y-yeah," Elian answered.
"I'll follow you then… At least if someone has to kill you, I'll be the one."
They laughed—brief, brittle—a small relief in hell.
For two hours they crawled through back corridors, hiding, slipping past other children. In whispers they exchanged tiny things: same games they loved, the mothers they missed, how they both felt older than their years. Unknowingly, they became friends.
Then S's voice crackled over the loudspeakers.
"This is boring," he drawled, voice languid though his grin remained fixed. "So you have ten minutes to cause at least one death. If not—everyone dies."
A spotlight switched on and tracked Elian wherever he ran.
"And to make things tasty," S added, "there's the seeker's location. If the one who dies is him, you'll all get food and nicer bunks." He laughed with malice. "I would never lie to you about that."
Children surged toward the light. The spotlight followed, relentless. Arthur shoved, blocked, threw objects at attackers. Both boys ended with cuts and blood on their arms and legs.
"FINAL TEN SECONDS, YOU SONS OF BITCHES!" S barked through the speakers.
"TEN!""NINE!""EIGHT!""SEVEN!""SIX!"
Elian and Arthur reached the center of the stage. A ring closed around them—children with knives, sticks, scrap metal.
"FIVE!""FOUR!""THREE!"
A boy of maybe twelve lunged toward Elian with an improvised spear. Paralyzed with fear, Elian didn't move. Arthur shoved him aside and deflected the strike. The spear plunged into the floor; the attacker pitched forward—and, in a grotesque reflex, fell onto the blade of the knife Elian held.
A wet, gurgling sound.
Elian dropped the knife, horrified, stumbling back in convulsions. The boy lay collapsed with the blade lodged in his throat.
"TWO!"
Elian sobbed, shaking his head—denial ripping through him.
"One!" S appeared in the center of the stage, the dead boy's blood spattering his black boots.
"Well… the seeker didn't die, but someone did," S said, smiling with satisfaction.
Arthur turned to his friend. "1317… are you okay?"
Elian mouthed, ghostly pale: "I-I… I killed someone…"
"No, 1317… you didn't kill him. You survived. It's not your fault, Elian. If we stay together, nothing will—"
He never finished.
S materialized behind Arthur and, without changing that serene smile, drove his hand through Arthur's neck as if his fingers were a blade. Arthur's head toppled. Blood rained onto Elian.
"128… ARTHUR!" Elian screamed, frozen as his friend's blood drenched him.
S lifted Arthur's hair by the scalp, studied the head with delight, then hurled it against the wall—brain and skull shattering across the plaster.
"Don't think I didn't notice," S mocked. "While I watched you, two of you were calm—one was my unlucky number, 1317. Shame about 1289. Useless—an idiot for thinking he could have a friend here… especially with this shit." He pointed at Elian.
Elian lay curled on the floor, trembling, staring at the ceiling. He wanted to die.
Something else, though—something unknown—was burning inside him. For the first time in his nine years, he felt hate. Driven by fear, the feeling grew, beating like a foreign heart. Amid fear and pain, a spark of ugly admiration flickered too. S was a monster—but he was strong. If Elian had that strength, neither his mother nor Arthur would have died.
S laughed, high and manic. "HAHAHAHAHAHA! With these two deaths we'll close today's session, little shits. Now sleep—or do whatever the hell you want. The rest of the day is yours."
He snapped his fingers. Guards hauled the children away, one by one.
They dragged Elian along. He tried to turn and look at Arthur's body one last time but couldn't. They threw him into his cell. S lingered amid the corpses, smiling.
Curled on the metal cot, Elian whispered through chattering teeth:"S… I… I swear I'll kill you someday."