Chapter Text
The quiet of the night came as the moon told stories of what hid within human eyes.
Of eyes that slept,
and others burdened by sleepless nights...
Crying eyes... laughing eyes.
Grateful eyes... resentful eyes.
Eyes that hid things... and eyes no human could ever truly understand.
But among all of them, what kind of eyes did seven-year-old Atsushi Nakajima possess?
Once, she had tried to look at them herself.
She sat on the cold floor with iron shackles wrapped around her wrists as though she were a criminal. Pulling out a small mirror she had hidden away, she stared into her reflection.
What looked back at her were tired eyes surrounded by dark circles. They were so empty she barely recognized herself.
Atsushi wondered how her eyes had become like this.
When had her life turned into this hell?
Countless questions circled endlessly inside her head, yet none of them had answers. The one that returned more than any other was simple:
What had she done to deserve living like this?
She pulled her knees against her chest and buried her face between them, trying to make herself as small as possible.
For a moment, she wished she could disappear.
Wished no one could see her.
Wished she had never existed at all...
Suddenly, cold sweat rolled down her face.
Footsteps.
Someone was walking toward her cell.
Her heartbeat quickened, breaths growing uneven and sharp. There was only one person who ever came at this hour.
The footsteps stopped.
Atsushi felt the presence outside before the cell door slowly opened.
The orphanage director stepped inside carrying a bag in one hand and a plate of food in the other.
He smiled warmly.
“Good evening, Number 67. How are you today? I brought your meal.”
Atsushi tried to force out words of gratitude—anything at all—but something tightened around her throat and refused to let her speak.
She had trained herself over and over to control her expressions. To show people exactly what they wanted to see.
So why—
Why could she never speak properly in front of the director?
The man stepped closer until he stood directly before her.
Then, in the same warm and gentle voice that made Atsushi want to vomit, he repeated himself.
“Good evening, Number 67. How are you today? I brought your meal.”
Atsushi tried again to speak, but no sound came out.
Instinctively, she attempted to move away.
But before she could, a violent kick slammed into her stomach and threw her across the room.
A little blood rose into her throat. She forced herself to swallow it back down immediately.
Her eyes darted around frantically, desperately searching for an escape.
But unfortunately, Atsushi still didn’t understand yet.
There was no escape from this hell.
The director approached her again and grabbed her harshly by the hair, forcing Atsushi to look up.
This time, the man’s eyes were cold.
Terrifyingly cold.
“Didn’t I teach you that when someone greets you, you greet them back?” he asked quietly. “Didn’t I teach you to thank people when they give you something?”
His grip tightened.
“And yet you just sit there staring at me with those cursed eyes.”
After that, Atsushi could barely remember what happened.
Only that wounds which had not fully healed split open once again.
And new injuries joined them.
Once more, her clothes became soaked in blood.
Eventually, the director stopped.
He calmly pulled a small first-aid kit from his bag and began disinfecting Atsushi’s wounds before wrapping them carefully with bandages.
His touch was gentle.
Almost tender.
As though Atsushi were made of fragile glass that might shatter beneath too much pressure.
The contrast terrified her more than the violence.
The director felt completely different now.
Slowly, hesitantly, Atsushi leaned her head against the man’s body, searching for even a little warmth.
The reaction was immediate.
The director’s entire body froze.
Then he shoved Atsushi away with all his strength.
The back of her head slammed against the wall, and something warm trickled down her skin.
She collapsed onto the floor, gasping for breath.
Meanwhile, the director stared down at her with visible disgust while wiping the part of his clothes Atsushi had touched.
“You filthy thing,” he spat. “Don’t ever touch another person. You’ll contaminate them.”
Then he left.
Leaving Atsushi bleeding alone on the freezing floor.
Minutes passed before the pain dulled enough for her to move again.
With difficulty, she forced herself upright against the wall, breathing unevenly.
Yet despite everything, not a single tear fell from her eyes.
She remained there for nearly two hours, weakly leaning against the wall until her ability slowly healed enough for her to move.
When she finally stood, she noticed the director had forgotten the first-aid kit.
There was also a small bowl of water and a towel nearby.
Not because the director cared.
Tomorrow, Atsushi would leave the cell and interact with the other children and teachers in the orphanage.
The director simply didn’t want the children to see blood.
Didn’t want them traumatized.
The irony almost made Atsushi laugh.
The man feared the children would be psychologically harmed by seeing blood...
Yet he had never once worried about the mind of the child the blood belonged to.
Atsushi pulled the bowl closer beside the first-aid kit.
She removed her shirt and tossed it onto the floor before soaking the towel in cold water and cleaning the blood from her body.
Pain burned across every inch of skin the water touched.
Still, she swallowed her cries and continued.
Afterward, she washed her clothes in the remaining water and wrung them out as best she could before putting them back on.
She had nothing else to wear.
Wet clothes were still better than none at all.
Finally, she lay down on the cold floor and closed her eyes.
1... 2... 3... 4... 9... 20... 42...
She continued counting until she reached 2,722 and eventually fell asleep.
This was how she always slept.
She counted numbers until exhaustion finally forced her body to surrender.
It helped silence unnecessary thoughts.
When she counted, her mind became empty.
No screaming.
No crying.
No laughter.
Only her own voice quietly reciting numbers in the darkness.
The habit had begun after her body stopped sleeping properly.
Once, she overheard a caretaker telling a child that if they couldn’t sleep, they should count sheep.
One sheep. Two sheep. Three sheep...
So Atsushi tried it.
She counted for more than two hours that night, but eventually, she managed to sleep—even if only for a little while.
Over time, sheep turned into numbers.
And every time she used the method, it worked faster than before.
Hours became minutes.
Now, it only took her forty-two minutes to fall asleep.
She had relied on the habit for so long that she no longer believed she could sleep without it.
Atsushi slowly opened her eyes to sunlight spilling through the small window.
Her clothes had dried, though they smelled damp and stale.
Which made sense.
Pushing herself upright slightly, her gaze wandered across the cell before settling on the door.
She stared at it silently for a long time.
Then came footsteps.
But this time, they didn’t belong to the director.
A guard entered carrying a black bag.
He looked down at Atsushi with visible pity.
New.
He must be new to this job.
His back was slightly hunched, and his eyes kept drifting toward the bloodstains scattered around the room. Atsushi noticed the subtle tremble in the man’s body at the sight.
Yes.
Definitely new.
A small smile formed inside Atsushi’s mind.
This guard would be easy to deal with.
The guard approached nervously and unlocked the shackles around Atsushi’s wrists with trembling hands.
The chains clattered loudly against the wall as they fell away.
Atsushi looked up at him with tears gathering faintly in the corners of her eyes.
In the weakest, most pitiful voice she could manage, she whispered:
“Th-Thank you, sir... those things really hurt my wrists...”
The guard’s expression softened immediately.
He gently patted Atsushi’s head.
Atsushi froze for a split second before deliberately making her body tremble, cold sweat forming against her skin as though even the slightest touch terrified her.
The guard quickly pulled his hand away once he noticed the reaction.
What kind of suffering had this child gone through?
And why was someone so young locked away in a place like this?
The thought lingered only briefly before the guard forced himself to suppress it.
He was here to work as a night guard for this prison cell—not to help the prisoner inside it.
There had to be a reason this child was locked up here.
And whatever that reason was...
It was none of his business.
To be continued...