Morning in the town came without dawn.
Seo-jin woke to find the same twilight haze pressing against the window, neither night nor day. The lanterns still burned outside, as if the world had no need for a sun. His body screamed for more sleep, but his mind was too sharp—trained by years of surviving ambushes, blades, betrayal.
Across the room, Elior stirred. His first expression wasn't dread. Not prayer. But peace.
He looked around, blinking like a man seeing his childhood home. "I had forgotten… what it felt like."
Seo-jin shoved himself upright, hair sticking in sweaty tangles. "To sleep without one eye open?"
Elior gave him a faint, unguarded smile. "Yes."
They wandered the cobblestone streets.
Children—if they could be called children—played with sticks, their laughter faint but oddly convincing. Vendors called out at stalls, selling fruit too bright, fish too silver. An old man sat by a fountain, whittling away at wood that never splintered.
It was all a stage. Yet the performance was good. Too good.
Seo-jin's instincts screamed at him with every step. Nothing this clean existed in the tower. Nothing this kind lasted long. And yet the warmth of baking bread, the murmur of idle gossip, the brush of wind against his cheek—every piece chipped at the walls he'd built.
Elior bought an apple from a stall. He turned it in his palm, marveling at its shine. "Look at this. Fresh. Not dried rations. Not spoiled scraps. Fresh fruit. Seo-jin, this… this could sustain us."
Seo-jin narrowed his eyes at the vendor. The faceless woman tilted her clay-mask head in a grotesque mimicry of friendliness. He grabbed the apple, bit deep. The flesh was crisp, sweet juice spilling down his chin.
And yet… something about the taste was hollow. Not spoiled, not poisoned—just empty.
He spat the bite onto the cobblestone. "Plastic fruit. Painted smiles. Don't let it fool you."
Elior frowned but said nothing. He ate his share anyway.
By afternoon, they'd been ushered by villagers into "helping." Elior assisted in mending a fence. His hands, once raised only in prayer, now dug into the wood. Seo-jin found himself dragged to a bakery, handed a sack of flour by a faceless boy. The oven's heat washed over him.
The baker hummed as he kneaded dough. The tune was soft, gentle. Seo-jin froze, fingers tightening on the sack.
The same tune he'd heard last night.
Seo-jin glanced sharply at the baker. No face. Just smooth clay. And yet… the sound wasn't static, wasn't flat. It carried weight. Something human threaded through it.
"Where did you hear that?" Seo-jin demanded.
The baker paused. His clay-smile never shifted. "Hear what?"
Seo-jin's blood chilled. He dropped the flour and stormed out.
Outside, Elior caught up to him. "What's wrong?"
Seo-jin's voice shook despite his rage. "…They're not making that sound. Someone else is."
That night, the inn's hearth burned low. Elior slept heavily, exhaustion dragging him down.
Seo-jin sat awake again. He traced scars on his forearm, grounding himself.
And then—
A whisper.
Clearer than before.
"…Don't run."
Seo-jin stiffened. His pulse hammered. The voice was soft, unmistakably human. A girl's. Fragile, yet steady.
He scanned the room. Empty, save for Elior.
The whisper breathed again. "…Please."
Seo-jin pressed a fist against his mouth. His chest hurt. More than when blades pierced him, more than when chains dragged him.
Because for the first time in this nightmare tower—someone wasn't mocking him.
Someone wasn't commanding him.
Someone was… asking.
And it terrified him.
He curled on the bed, dragging the quilt over his head like a shield. His laugh came cracked, bitter. "You're not real. You're another trick. You're nothing."
But deep inside, the part of him that had starved for warmth clung to that voice like a drowning man to driftwood.
Days passed.
Elior embraced the town. He helped villagers, even prayed with them, though they never answered. His smile grew less strained.
Seo-jin scowled at everything. He refused to eat the food, stealing only what he needed to keep standing. He mocked Elior's efforts, spat at the villagers' empty faces.
And yet, at night—he waited. Waited for the whisper.
It came rarely. Sometimes a sigh. Sometimes just a hum. But always there. Always patient.
And with each night, Seo-jin hated himself more for craving it.
One evening, he found Elior kneeling at the fountain, whispering prayers. The water rippled unnaturally, glowing faint.
Seo-jin scoffed. "Don't tell me you think the clay-gods will save us."
Elior didn't flinch. His voice was steady. "No. But perhaps this place is not wholly their cruelty. Perhaps someone… someone else touches it."
Seo-jin's heart lurched. He hid it behind a sneer. "You sound insane."
Elior turned, eyes bright with quiet fire. "And you sound afraid."
Seo-jin froze.
Because Elior wasn't wrong.
That night, the whisper came again. Stronger. Closer.
"…Don't close your heart."
Seo-jin buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shook, torn between laughter and sobs.
He whispered back, raw and hoarse. "If you're real… if you're not another chain… prove it."
But no answer came. Only silence.
And yet—even silence felt less empty than before.
The town without sunlight held its breath. And Seo-jin, who had never begged for anything, began to crave a voice in the dark.