Chapter Text
The scalding metal butt of a rifle jabbed sharply into Councilor Zahil’s spine, making him grimace as he fumbled out of the vehicle and dragged forward a few hurried steps by rough hands.
This was his fourth day in the rebels’ custody. His sign language interpreter had been killed by a stray bullet in the chaos of the first day's crossfire. Since then, he had been forced to rely on rough gestures and hastily scribbled notes to grasp the intentions of those around him.
Yesterday, a scrawled note shoved into his hands informed him that today he would be taken to the negotiation with the government. The commander of a rebel battalion who had captured him always wore a smug smile—evidently confident that Zahil, a councilor of the Argan government, would serve as a lucrative bargaining chip.
His face was covered with coarse cloth, and he was yanked around like a piece of cargo. Turn after turn, they passed what felt like a long corridor before he was finally shoved into a room. Pushed into a chair, the cloth over his face was torn off roughly.
He found himself in a classroom. Books were strewn haphazardly across the floor, desks and chairs shoved into the corners in disarray. Above the blackboard, the sign for “Buiben Special Education School” was marred by several fresh bullet holes. In the center of the room, four or five desks had been pushed together, with chairs set up on either side. Zahil was seated on one side. Looking out the window, he saw no students or teachers—only a few soldiers with rifles patrolling the playground under the blazing sun, their barrels glinting harshly. The school was entirely under rebel control.
With parched lips and tongue, Zahil waited for an unknown stretch of time until the classroom’s rickety wooden door was abruptly pushed open. A soldier, like a jailer escorting a prisoner, shoved a young woman inside. Her eyes were covered with a strip of black cloth. Her long, black hair was tied simply in a ponytail. She had delicate features, touched by fatigue. Although she wore local attire, her face marked her clearly as East Asian. She tried to remain composed and did her best to maintain steady steps despite rough handling. But her pale lips and slight trembling betrayed her fear.
She was pulled into the seat across from Zahil, but the blindfold remained. The soldier escorting her drew a dagger and cut the ropes binding her hands, leaving deep red marks around her slender wrists. He barked a few words at her, and she nodded. Flexing her newly freed hands, she began to sign in clear, precise, and fluent international sign language toward Zahil: “Hello. I’ll be temporarily serving as your sign language interpreter.”
What kind of place was this, to produce such a professional interpreter? Zahil couldn’t help but spit, “Damn it, to capture a little girl like you…”
The young interpreter's lips twitched slightly. In such a setting, she somehow managed a smile. “Are you alright?” she asked in sign. “Still got all my limbs, so I guess I’m doing great…” Before Zahil could finish, a rifle stock slammed heavily onto the desk between them, splinters flying. The soldier roared furiously, and the interpreter immediately lowered her hands, no longer daring to move.
After another endless wait, footsteps echoed from the corridor, and the classroom door was kicked open again. A group of fierce-looking, fully armed soldiers escorted the rebel commander inside. The commander strode to the seat beside Zahil, pulled it out, and sat down with a swagger. A smug grin peeked through his scruffy beard as he turned to Zahil and said, “With you here, Mr. Councilor, we’ll have no problem getting the other side to play along. He will have no choice but to sign whatever we demand… that damned bastard.”
Zahil turned towards the interpreter. A soldier immediately shoved her, and she hurriedly began translating. The way the young girl was signing out curses in all seriousness was almost hilarious. And which “damned bastard”? Could it be…
As if to answer that question, the door swung open.
Two soldiers entered, one on each side, dragging a man between them like a pair of iron pincers. The man was in military uniform, stained with dust and sweat. His frame was tall and upright, his shoulders were broad, and his skin was tanned dark from the tropical sun. When the hood over his head was pulled off, sweat-soaked strands of black hair fell from a neatly combed style over his sharp eyes. Indeed, it was him.
Zahil tried to offer a smile, but the man didn’t notice him.
Nor did he notice anyone else in the room.
He stopped dead, his gaze locked on the interpreter’s back.
In that fleeting moment, if not for the unaffected expressions of those around him, Zahil would have thought a bomb—inaudible to him—had gone off in the classroom. The man’s gaze radiated with a look as if his soul had shattered.
But it only lasted an instant—so brief it seemed nothing had happened. Then the man abruptly bowed his head and resumed walking, his heavy steps almost mechanical as he marched forward step by step.
The blindfolded interpreter was clearly drawn by the man’s footsteps. She tilted her head slightly, her brow furrowing as if trying to recognize the sound.
The man silently pulled out a chair and sat down across from the rebel commander, next to the interpreter. His eyes remained fixed on the desk, as if trying to burn a hole through it.
Negotiator Baek—that’s what they called him. He had arrived in this war-torn region about six months ago. No one knew his real name. Rumor had it he had worked here as a war correspondent nearly a decade ago. Though the situation had since changed drastically, with new players on both sides, he navigated the chaos with the ease of someone returning home. Somehow connected to the upper ranks of the government, he quickly became a key figure in the government’s negotiation team. But it was his capability and record that silenced all skepticism: he was, without a doubt, a genius at the negotiating table, with the sharp, piercing eyes of a hawk and a tongue that could shift from a gliding serpent to a sculptor’s chisel.
Yet outside of work, he seemed to collapse into an empty shell—silent, solitary, with hollow eyes, barely resembling a living person.
Until that fleeting moment just now, when a flicker of humanity broke through.
Zahil immediately sensed an extraordinary connection between the man and woman with the same Eastern features sitting across from him. And just as quickly, he realized how dangerous that could be if this connection was perceived by the enemy.
The man on the other side had clearly come to the same conclusion. He abruptly looked up and nodded curtly at the two across the table, face blank as if a mask was put on—but Zahil noticed his eyes were entirely red.
The rebel commander muttered something. The interpreter hesitated for a moment before raising her hands uncertainly. Slowly, she signed: “Have you considered the terms we gave you,” her hands froze in the air for a few seconds, “...Mr. Baek?”
The negotiator’s throat moved—he opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. He frowned, shut his eyes, cleared his throat with two dry coughs, then opened his eyes again and managed two low, hoarse syllables, “Of course.”
All eyes were locked on the two sides of the negotiation—except for Zahil’s. He looked at the interpreter. Her lips trembled. Then her shoulders, her arms, began to shake as well. Her hands clenched together, nails digging deep into her skin. From beneath the black blindfold over her eyes, two streams of tears slid rapidly down her cheeks.
“At your request, we’ve brought the esteemed councilor here and even arranged a translator for him. Given his status, we don’t want him dying for nothing.” the commander said, twirling his gun while turning to Zahil. “Councilor, we’ll need your cooperation too—to ensure these talks go smoothly. Otherwise, your life—and those of the dozens of adults and children here—are at a risk.”
The interpreter sat motionless, tears kept streaming down like rivulets. The negotiator remained silent too, only his chest rising and falling. In the quiet of the classroom, the soft patter of the interpreter’s tears hitting her hands became unnervingly clear.
A nearby soldier noticed that something was off and marched over, lifting the interpreter’s chin up with his rifle, “Hey. What’s your problem?”
With a screech, the man sitting beside her bolted upright, his chair scraping harshly against the floor. Zahil hurriedly shouted at the soldier, “Enough! She’s just scared.”
The soldier jabbed her cheek warningly with the barrel before stepping back. The interpreter took a deep breath and roughly wiped her face with her hands. Then, clenching her teeth, she began translating the previous exchange—her fingers still trembled, but her movements gradually steadied.
The negotiator still wore that emotionless mask, though his face had grown even paler. In a voice that was almost mechanical, he began, “First, allow me to reiterate that the government takes this situation seriously and has appointed me as its full representative, with utmost sincerity to seek a peaceful resolution.” He turned slightly toward Zahil, then slowly back to the rebel commander. “Before we begin negotiations, I need confirmation—are the hostages safe or not?”
A muffled chuckle rumbled from the rebel commander’s chest. “This isn’t the first time we deal with each other, Mr. Baek. But it is the first time I’ve seen you look scared.”
A twitch pulled at the corner of the negotiator’s eye—like a crack in his mask. He bowed his head, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. “Yes, I’m very scared.” he said in a voice laced with strain and pain. “Please, tell me—Are the hostages injured? Do they have enough food and water?”
Zahil glanced across. The interpreter, seated beside the negotiator, was now translating their exchange in sync. She bit her lip hard, but her hands no longer shook. Once again, her movements became clear, precise, and fluent.
She was now translating the commander’s response, “All you need to know is they’re still breathing...It’s okay.”
That final sign, a flick of her pinky toward her chin, came after a slight pause and was slightly out of place.
The negotiator’s brow twitched. He gave a short hum, pushed his chair back slightly, and leaned against the backrest. He continued, “I need confirmation of your sincerity. We have shown ours. As for your first demand—releasing the prisoners—according to the list you provided, forty-six prisoners at Ironrock Fort will be brought here by noon today.” He paused, “In exchange, we hope you can release some hostages in advance—especially the children, women, and the wounded.”
The interpreter seemed to have fully regained her composure, and her movements now flowed like water. As if her gestures had a soothing effect, the negotiator’s voice gradually regained its usual calm. The rhythm of the two were now perfectly in sync—the moment his mouth closed, her hands stopped too, as if they had rehearsed it many times.
The rebel commander crossed one leg over the other, fingers drumming lightly on the table. “Sounds like a decent start. But releasing anyone early is out of the question… not that we lack sincerity,” he said with a grin, “we just don’t want those let go running their mouths.”
The negotiator frowned but didn’t seem surprised. He continued, “The second item—the ransom—we’re also willing to cooperate fully. But it’s a significant amount; we’ll need some time to gather the funds.”
The commander snorted. “You’ve got twelve hours, max. No stalling—” he narrowed his eyes, “or trying to stage a rescue.”
The negotiator sighed. “Commander, you must be joking. So many buildings, and we don’t even know where the hostages are held—how could we even begin to mount a rescue?... Now, the third condition: that we withdraw from the Graywater Estuary post…this is the most difficult one. Abandoning a military stronghold under coercion is unprecedented. The government won’t accept that easily…”
The interpreter’s hands never paused, slowing to match the negotiator’s hesitant cadence. Just as she was about to finish the sentence, Zahil clearly saw her make a sign for “Second Teaching Building”.
His heart jumped. He stole a glance around. The soldiers were all watching the speakers, the commander’s eyes was locked onto the negotiator, and the negotiator, clenching his jaw tightly, stared straight ahead—no one looked her way.
“Cut the crap,” the commander growled, “If any condition is watered down, these people’s lives—” he jabbed a finger toward the two captives, “are going to be watered down too.”
The interpreter, tear tracks still wet on her face, now showed no expression. Her movements were clean and precise. At the end of that sentence, she quietly added one more phrase, “third floor”.
A glint sparked in the negotiator’s eyes as he leaned forward, his tone sharpening, “I must remind you—any harm to the hostages will bring the government’s harshest retaliation. It’ll also cost ‘Argan Independence’ any shred of international sympathy and support.” He leaned back again, his voice calm but firm, “Surely you know this very well—living, healthy hostages are your most valuable leverage. They are the foundation of these talks.”
The air was hot and stifling. The soldiers stood around, expressionless, breathing heavily, their weapons shifting with occasional clinks. In this quiet, oppressive battlefield, a strangely unshakable aura seemed to envelop the two sitting side by side. The interpreter’s face now showed no trace of fear; she was fully immersed in her work, her expressions mirroring the negotiator’s shifting tone. Without a pause, she slipped in “east end” at the sentence’s end.
Tracking the commander’s reactions, the negotiator’s tone shifted again. “The demand to abandon Graywater—surely that’s not your idea, right, Commander? If that post falls, the Northern Pass becomes exposed. Further south lies the Sandridge region, and eventually, the entire defense line would fall under the Marshal’s control… How would that benefit your Third Independent Battalion?”
In a few words, the man steered the conversation to the sensitive subject of internal rebel rivalries. And the young girl beside him, not at all fazed by names, places, or military jargon, deftly added, “activity room”.
Zahil couldn’t help but marvel quietly.
The rebel commander’s face stiffened, then he sneered, “That’s none of your concern.”
The negotiator’s steady voice continued as the interpreter’s hands danced, “The point of negotiations, I think, is to maximize mutual interests. How about this: give us twelve more hours, and we’ll pay double the ransom. That’s a more concrete benefit to you, don’t you think?”
The commander scoffed, “Don’t play tricks. We’re the ones setting terms. Stalling for time—what are you trying to pull? Planning a rescue?”
The negotiator sounded weary. “These buildings are locked down like a fortress. No weak points, and no information on the hostages’ condition. We wouldn’t dare act recklessly. Besides,” he turned to Zahil, “you know the main government forces are moving north. No one’s free to launch a rescue right now.”
The interpreter’s movements slowed slightly, as if pondering something.
Zahil quickly interjected, “That’s true. The defense realignment has been in planning for over a week. Troops were already preparing deployments in the northern valley—you must have intelligence confirming this.”
The negotiator picked up, his gaze subtly sharp. “So, I believe you want a deal quickly. A stalemate benefits no one. As far as I know, your rear isn’t secure either.”
At the sentence’s end, the interpreter gestured the shape of a roof, then pressed together her thumbs and pinkies—the sign for “skylight.”
A spark flashed in the negotiator’s eyes, and he quickened his pace, “This morning, we got word that the Marshal’s troops suddenly moved a reinforced company to the north bank—but from what I know, that’s your Bazan Division’s turf, isn’t it?” The interpreter followed with a swift gesture, “southwest corner”.
Shock flickered across the commander’s face, quickly masked by a grim smile, “That’s routine redeployment.”
“The Third Battalion’s tied up here, so maybe the Marshal is worried about an exposed rear and moved to cover it. Understandable...” A faint smile ghosted across the lips of both the negotiator and the interpreter.
The commander grew visibly agitated, fingers drumming the desk restlessly. “Enough with the side chatter. Return to the terms.”
The negotiator nodded. “Of course. We want an agreement as quickly as possible. You’re short on time, too, aren’t you? With an unstable rear, a stalled negotiation is not ideal… But even if the government agree to withdraw, that’s not something that can be done overnight.”
In those few sentences, under the enemy’s nose, the interpreter slipped in “nineteen total”, “fourteen children”, “two injured”.
The rebel commander fell silent for half a minute before finally speaking, “…Five times the ransom.”
The negotiator’s brows knit. “That’s an astronomical figure…”
“I’m the one compromising. Isn’t a councilor life worth that much?” The commander pointed at the interpreter. “What about them?”
Zahil spoke up, “The new president puts high value on public image. If we leak word to the media… the government can afford it.”
The negotiator pondered for a moment and finally said, “We will do everything we can to meet your demands for the hostages’ safety. If we commit to the ransom, can you guarantee all hostages will be released once it’s paid?”
The rebel commander crossed his arms, sneering coldly. “Don’t you know basic rules? They stay with us until we retreat to safe zones. Then they go.”
The negotiator lowered his head, voice heavy, “Understood.”
It took another twenty minutes to hammer out details on prisoner releases and ransom payment.
“Listen carefully. You have twenty-four hours. This time tomorrow, we expect the money.” The rebel commander signal to his men, and soldiers stepped up behind the negotiator.
The interpreter had already stopped signing, knowing the negotiation was over. Head lowered, a tear slid from the tip of her nose.
The negotiator remained seated motionlessly, until a gun barrel tapped his shoulder. He rose, “It’s a deal.” His gaze finally—uncontrollably—fell on the figure beside him, then tore away and dropped to the floor. Slowly, he spoke again, word by word, “I heard every word you said, Commander. Please… wait for me.”