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“Hey, what’s with this Gorilla being so pissed off today?” Uno asked, sitting right there on the floor of their cell 13, rubbing the back of his head where it still burned from a punch so hard he’d actually thought he was gonna black out for a sec. “Jyugo, did you sneak out of the cell again while we were sleeping? If you don’t care about yourself, at least think about us — we’ve gotta put up with his shitty mood all day now!”
“I didn’t do anything! Like I’d even have the energy to try sneaking out after yesterday’s hell of a training session. I can barely move my arms and legs as it is,” Jugo shot back, lying on his back and rubbing his neck just below the shackle, where his own jumpsuit had just betrayed him by cutting off his breath where Hajime had literally hauled him back to the cell by the scruff of the neck, ignoring all his complaints about not being able to breathe. “And anyway, this whole mess is your fault. I told you from the start he’s been in a mood all week.”
“If you were so against the idea, why’d you unlock the cell for us?” Uno drawled, his lips twisting into something that looked more like a snarl than a smile, his free hand already balled into a fist, hovering in the air to keep himself from suddenly banging his newly wise and responsible friend on that bright head, just to wipe that smug look off his face and bring back the usual dumb expression.
“Because it was a reflex! And besides, you guys would’ve forced me to do it anyway…” Jyugo mumbled under his breath, quickly turning away — and then yelped and hissed as his friend’s fist landed on the top of his head.
The whole cell 13 felt pretty glum after that morning. Not only had the escape attempt failed, but instead of any thrill, it had left them with nothing but aching pain and bruises that’d soon bloom — even if they were on the guys’ heads, where no one would see them. Nico had just come to his senses; unlike the rest of the cellmates, his health was a bit more fragile, and that directly explained his slight build. So today, when Sugoroku’s fist connected with the top of his head as punishment for the escape, he’d actually blacked out for a couple of seconds, lying flat on the ground — but he came to pretty quickly, so the mini‑faiting didn’t draw much attention. He rolled onto his back, raising his hands and feeling around under his mop of green hair for the bump that was already starting to form. He sniffed, whining pitifully: “Hajime’s really been so angry lately… I was sure he was gonna kill me yesterday, and all I did was start telling the lore of this awesome manga I started reading…”
A loud rumble from someone’s stomach cut off not just Nico’s words but every other noise in the place. Jumping to his feet, Uno looked around in a panic, his head still a little spinny from the punch. “Did you hear that?! It sounded like a monster’s roar… or an enraged gorilla… Damn, why do I keep thinking about them?” He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his fingers to his temples, probably trying to meditate, to erase the image of that primate that sent shivers crawling from the top of his head down to the tip of his braid and back up again.
“Rock, when’s the last time you ate? Breakfast was an hour ago, sure, but knowing your appetite, you should be munching on something by now…” Jyugo, though he’d also jerked upright from his spot on the floor after this sound, figured out a bit faster than his cellmate where the sound had come from. Now he was looking at Rock with the kind of sympathy you’d give a starving kid, no less. The guy was sitting cross‑legged next to his buddies, hands folded over his stomach. His eyes were closed, like he was trying to meditate and tune out reality — which wasn’t working too well, judging by his twitchy, trembling eyebrows.
Swallowing hard, he opened his eyes like it took all the strength he had left. “Last time I ate was an hour ago, at breakfast… Have you seen Hajime? I’m not even thinking about food — I’m scared to breathe wrong around him. But the hunger’s getting the better of me… Nico, are the pages from your manga edible? Don’t worry, I’ve got a strong stomach, I can handle it… I’d take even a crumb, I just can’t stand this anymore…” Rock said, swallowing loudly and lifting a hand to wipe a little drool from the corner of his mouth at the mere thought of any food — even if it meant chowing down on leaves from the precious literature his cellmate cherished. Nico immediately jumped up and scuttled crab‑like to his corner, moving like a dragon whose treasure was about to be taken away.
Truth was, the supervisor of the infamous bulding 13 really had been in a foul mood all week. Starting with Mitsuru, who’d stupidly barged into the warden’s office, yelling his head off early in the morning, only to have his body promptly slammed into the nearest wall and ending with cell 13, which couldn’t seem to sit still no matter how much they wanted to, and so ended up getting more bash on the bonce than ever before. Everyone got caught in the crossfire to some degree: Tanabana, who’d been stuck in Kiji Building longer than usual (and not by choice), and Yamato, who now had to walk around the prison with a navigator specially made for him in Building 1, because Hajime had been ready to strangle him after yet another bout of getting lost. Even the dread that used to grip him at the thought of facing the warden had dulled a bit — though it still crept back in rare moments, especially right before he reached her door.
For the first time in his life, Hajime Sugoroku found himself exhausted. Not burned out, not depressed, as any self‑proclaimed psychology buff might label it. He couldn’t have found a better job if he tried, and the weariness that had seeped into his bones over the years felt different from what he was experiencing now. This was pure fatigue.
He was used to sleeping in short bursts; keeping an eye on an entire block full of hardened criminals wasn’t easy, and keeping records on them was even harder. He was used to cell 13 trying to drive him to an early grave, knowing that any of their escape attempts could be that one, but fatal nail in the coffin of his career. He’d even gotten used to the ever‑rising cost of cigarettes, which seemed to climb exponentially every month.
What he couldn’t get used to was the way sleep — the only place where he could find peace for a couple of hours’ — had started to betray him. It kept waking him up in the middle of the night, for his mind to stay calm but his body unable to go bacl to sleep until he got up, smoked a few cigarettes, and lay back down — only to hear the alarm go off. This had been happening for several days now. He’d noticed these sudden nighttime wake‑ups for a while, but usually he fell right back to sleep afterward. They’d never been this… bold and persistent before, like his entire being was rebelling against the simple human need for rest.
So now he was running on just a few minutes of sleep here and there — moments when he’d close his eyes at his desk in the guard room, which amounted to little more than slow blinking, fueled by cups of coffee and cigarettes. The amount of caffeine and tobacco he was consuming, especially combined, would probably be enough to put an ordinary man in the grave, but this was Hajime Sugoroku, who, for a human being, was…
Too strong.[1]
The man didn’t flinch, but he exhaled a sharp stream of smoke, staring at the wall in front of him in the smoking room. He straightened up, letting out a stifled breath that came out more like a short growl.
His gaze dropped to the cigarette in his hand, and he closed his eyes for a second. This was getting annoying. Looking around, he, of course, found no one — he was sitting there all alone, just like all the other times when a phrase popped into his head that didn’t feel like his own voice, his own thoughts, his own will. That voice was getting bolder and more persistent, and it was the main reason he could barely sleep at night anymore. He didn’t remember the content of the dreams that now came to him every night, but he remembered that someone in them clearly wanted to bother him, just like they were doing right now.
Hajime, starting to lose his temper and muttering under his breath, got up from the bench, taking one last drag of his cigarette. That must be what that pompous Sauzando had been talking about after the meeting. How considerate of him to warn about it without giving any details, even though Shin had all of Enki Gokuu’s notes on him. The whole situation did nothing but stir up a burning irritation in the man, because right now he felt helpless — and he hated feeling helpless. He couldn’t even punch that little pest who seemed to have moved into his head and was now taking an interest in pushing his buttons.
Which the pest managed… rather poorly. After all, the warden dealt with far more irritants on a daily basis than just some sleep issues and a nuisance who mainly bothered him with snickers and throwaway lines meant to toy with his mind. Oh, and that scar on his palm sometimes acted up too, itching and throbbing when he was busy with work or simply couldn’t satisfy the urge to scratch it in this moment. The wound had gone from tightening the skin around it, as if healing, to a nagging ache in his wrist, and now it pulsed along his whole arm from time to time, from shoulder to fingertips. Sometimes it felt like his hand moved without his command or purpose, twitching and knocking things off surfaces. These small but increasingly frequent annoyances kept grating on his nerves.
Just like now, when his right hand, holding the cigarette, jerked as he lowered it, and the glowing butt brushed against the carelessly exposed wrist of his other hand, leaving a slight burn. Hajime didn’t flinch or even raise an eyebrow, but his whole face twitched with irritation, looking no different from a snarl. His hand crushed the cigarette with force and tossed it into the trashcan.
This day was shaping up to be a long one.
Work dragged on in its usual rhythm. Documents — papers — filling out reports — cell 13 escape attempt — documents — papers — cell 13 escape attempt…
Today Hajime was staying for the night shift, but before lights‑out, he’d made it very clear to certain inmates what would happen if they dared stick their heads out of the cell even once that night: they’d sleep the sleep of the dead — only once, and forever. Even though he didn’t trust them to behave, he wasn’t thinking about them right now; his focus was on the papers in front of him. Stacks of unnecessary paperwork covered the desk and seemed never to shrink, no matter how much he filled out and sorted through them, but the man still dutifully checked, signed, and organized them without batting an eye, sipping what felt like his fourth cup of coffee since he’d started the shift.
Time was dragging especially slowly today; the ticking of the clock was the only sound in the dead silence of the Building, aside from the faint rustle of paper and the scratch of the pen on it. To Sugoroku, it felt like an hour had passed, while the clock hand had only moved ten minutes since the last time he’d looked at it. Putting the mug down and running a hand over his face, he closed his eyes for just a second — and immediately felt an overwhelming wave of drowsiness and fatigue, as if he hadn’t slept since the day he was born. He tried to open his eyes right away, regretting the careless gesture, but he’d already slipped into a doze.
It was cold and dark all around; under his feet was still water, murky and littered with scraps of something. It felt like there was no sound at all, but the moment Hajime shifted his foot, a splash rang out with a volume that shouldn’t come from such a tiny movement. Frowning and cursing under his breath, he shoved his hands into his pockets and looked around. The place felt completely unfamiliar, and yet, at the same time, like he’d been here hundreds, thousands of times. With a sigh, he stepped forward into the darkness, wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible.
No matter how long he wandered, nothing seemed to change. Whether he stood still, changed direction, ran, walked, or froze, the place felt frozen, as if nothing could alter it. Slapping his pockets out of habit, Hajime felt his irritation spike when he realized his cigarettes weren’t there, and it hit its peak at the sound of a nasty, high‑pitched laugh that seemed to be both inside his head and all around him.
“How long are you gonna keep messing with my head, you little shit?” the guard said without even looking around, as if he knew he wouldn’t find anyone there. The laughter grew louder, and the migraine that had been creeping up on him suddenly exploded in his skull, threatening to split it in two. Along with it came a wave of nausea, his joints ached, and his ears rang with that awful, unceasing laughter. The only thing that snapped him out of his daze was an unexpectedly appearing hand that gave him a flick on the forehead before he even registered the threat.
Hajime lurched forward in his chair, feeling a sharp pain in his right arm as he straightened up. The limb jerked unnaturally, swinging across the entire desk and knocking over the mug of lukewarm coffee onto the stack of completed documents. The man glanced at the clock. He seemed to have dozed off for just a couple of minutes, but he couldn’t remember if he’d dreamed anything. The supposed dream’s aftermath was just a nagging sensation in his palm, a throb at the back of his head, and a spreading stain on the documents and his uniform.