Chapter 104
How could someone like Apathy—a figure cold and buried in a world of violence, with a background among satanic followers so often associated with rotten forms and a terrifying aura in the eyes of humanity—have once harbored a love story so precious that it could be used as currency for a promise of life and death?
Shaqar's curiosity burned, gnawing away at every assumption he had long held about the man behind the wheel.
Apathy's age, already past fifty, only added another dimension to that curiosity.
It meant the story was a memory long buried, nurtured in silence for decades, and now offered as the most valuable gift imaginable.
Shaqar's thoughts drifted, imagining that Apathy's perpetually cold face might once have softened under a different smile, or that eyes usually sharp and merciless might once have shimmered with another kind of light.
With an almost childlike urge, he wanted to know who the girl was—the one who had seen past the hardened layers and fearsome reputation of a satanic follower to find something in Apathy worth loving.
Had the story taken place before Apathy fully sank into the world of Xirkushkartum, or did love bloom right in the midst of that chaos, like a flower growing through cracked concrete?
Apathy's promise had reversed their dynamic.
Shaqar, who had begun by seeking understanding, now became the one who wanted to understand, to dig deeper into the dark corridors of his comrade's past.
Yet beneath that burning curiosity lay a profound tenderness.
The fact that Apathy guarded one beautiful story so fiercely gave him a hidden dimension of humanity.
It meant that somewhere in his past there had been softness, acceptance, a bond that might have been the only source of light in an otherwise bleak life.
The offer to share it only if Shaqar survived was not merely a transaction, but an admission that the story was the last pure fragment of his soul, worthy only of being entrusted to someone who had also laid bare his deepest wounds.
"Sometimes I forget your soul is still as curious as a teenage boy's, Captain.
Do you really want the spirit of my youth to rub off on you now?"
The air inside the cabin seemed to change, thickened by the silence born of that sardonic question.
Apathy did not turn his head, his gaze fixed on the road devoured by the headlights, but the faint smile curving at the corner of his lips answered louder than any shout.
The question was like a velvet-wrapped blade, striking directly at Shaqar's own doubts, mocking the fragility behind the mask of his burning curiosity.
It was not mere ridicule, but a forced mirror, questioning whether Shaqar possessed the same resilience as Apathy's younger self—a soul that may have been utterly shattered to give birth to the monster now sitting beside him.
The steady engine noise became an ironic soundtrack to the inner turmoil quietly exploding in Shaqar's chest.
"I'm not—"
"Easy, Captain. I will keep my part.
If you're still alive after this mission is over, I'll tell you everything.
No sarcasm, no evasions."
The air inside the cabin instantly grew tense.
Shaqar, his mouth half open with an expression caught between irritation and curiosity, froze like an engine running out of fuel.
The words about to spill out—an emotional retort, wounded by being treated like an overexcited child—stuck at the tip of his tongue.
The subtle mockery implied earlier in Apathy's tone about his vanished cowardice was now answered by an assumption that his earnest enthusiasm was childish.
That small anger simmered in his chest, a warm, familiar irritation, still unable to find form as a complete sentence.
But Apathy cut off the surge of emotion before it could spill over.
His voice, flat and controlled like the surface of a windless lake, reached Shaqar's ears with both clarification and reinforcement.
He firmly stated that sharing his past would not happen tonight, nor in the midst of this journey steeped in uncertainty.
It was a gift bound to a single, absolute condition.
Shaqar's life.
The promise to tell the story would be fulfilled only if the captain survived the hell they were about to face and returned with breath still fogging the air.
This was no longer just a promise, but a challenge and a lure.
With it, Apathy redirected Shaqar's focus from pressing curiosity to a far more primal and urgent objective.
Survival.
With a single sentence, he transformed a small debate into a far greater survival contract.
"Then at least give me one hint, Apathy.
Just one small fragment—so I know what I'm waiting for. Just the rough outline."
"I can't, Captain. A promise is still a promise, and I have no intention of tearing it open before its time arrives.
Besides, that story isn't a sweet tale to be enjoyed halfway—it requires the right moment to be understood, not merely heard."
The atmosphere inside the cabin shifted into a subtle tug-of-war between burning curiosity and ironclad discipline.
Shaqar, with the last remnants of his naïve enthusiasm, tried to coax him.
His voice might have carried a pleading tone, or perhaps playful mischief, asking for at least a glimpse—a tiny clue that could give him a rough picture of Apathy's past, which now felt far more epic and passionate than his own life story, steeped in regret and dark sacrifices.
He wanted to understand quickly, to feel a flicker of warmth from that story to heat the cold steel cabin and his weary heart.
His request was a final attempt to breach the wall of mystery that had been promised yet remained tightly locked.
But Apathy did not budge.
His refusal was gentle yet firm, delivered with the cold courtesy of a soldier who honored agreements.
He emphasized that what had been promised was final, not open to bargaining or leaks.
His principle stood straight and unyielding, much like his posture, still facing the road ahead.
More than that, his flat voice suddenly gained a new depth, a vibration almost unreadable yet felt by Shaqar, who had grown increasingly perceptive.
Apathy issued a subtle warning: what he would eventually tell was not a perfect, happy tale.
In his controlled tone, Shaqar sensed something else.
A profoundly complex emotional restraint, a pain so deep it had petrified—perhaps buried beneath layer upon layer of wounds from being left behind by that girl.
It was not merely a sweet memory, but a gaping wound of nostalgia.
That realization was like a splash of cold water on Shaqar's curiosity.
He understood that what Apathy was offering was not entertainment, but a new burden to comprehend, an old wound to witness.
And Apathy, with his bitter wisdom, chose the right time.
Not during this night's flight, inside a trembling cage filled with fear of the future.
He waited for a calmer, safer moment, a space where the story could be told without being tainted by whispered prayers or the shadows of Angels.
That choice of timing itself was a final act of respect toward the forbidden love story he would tell, and also a form of protection for Shaqar, so he would not receive such a heavy emotional burden while still fragile himself.
"One mission, one life on the line, and you still dare to play secrets with me?
That's not camaraderie, Apathy. Or is our friendship really so easy for you to hide behind a one-sided promise?"
"Don't be so sour, Captain. If you need an outlet, Thalyssra is still full of Holy Beings and Angels waiting to be cut down.
Consider every ounce of anger you feel toward me as extra motivation to bring down the city once blessed by the Great Sanse."
To be continued…