The next morning, my body felt heavy, like I'd slept under water. I dragged myself to the dining room because skipping breakfast wasn't an option—not unless I wanted another bruise. He was already seated, eating calmly, like nothing happened last night. His clothes were neat, his expression composed, his eyes quiet.
I sat opposite him, fingers curling around the edge of the chair to keep them steady.
He didn't look up.
"Eat."
The clink of cutlery echoed too loudly in the silence. I stared at my plate, unable to swallow anything. The image of the white-haired girl falling, the burst of red on the grass, her stitched skin—
It wouldn't leave me.
I lifted my gaze slowly.
"…Why did she die?"
His fork paused for half a second—barely a flicker, but enough to tell me he heard me. He resumed cutting his food, voice flat.
"You don't need to know."
My chest tightened.
"You told me that on the first day," I whispered. "But I want to understand. Why am I here?"
He still didn't look at me.
"Why her? What did she do?"
This time he raised his eyes, very slowly, like he was studying a noise rather than a person.
"And why," he said quietly, "are you interested… instead of terrified?"
I swallowed.
"I am scared," I said honestly. "Every second I'm scared. I wasn't even able to sleep last night."
My fingers dug into my lap.
"But fear isn't enough anymore. I need to know if you're doing this for your own enjoyment… or if there's a reason behind it."
His expression didn't change, but something in the air tightened.
"So I can hate you properly," I finished.
A faint amusement touched the corner of his mouth—nothing warm, nothing human, just a small acknowledgement of how ridiculous he found me.
"You really think," he murmured, "that your hatred matters."
He leaned back in his chair, arms folding.
"You're all the same. Asking why. Asking what purpose. Asking for meaning where none exists."
He tilted his head slightly, eyes half-lidded.
"I do what I want. Because I want. Not for pleasure. Not for pain. Not for justice or cruelty or reason."
His voice dropped to a cold hum.
"I don't care what you think I am."
The words hit something inside me—something fragile and angry and exhausted.
He didn't care.
About her.
About me.
About anyone under this roof.
We were pieces. Objects.
Pawns on a board he flipped whenever he felt like it.
Pawns that bled.
He resumed eating as if the conversation was over.
But in that moment—between one heartbeat and the next—something settled quietly inside me.
A single, sharp, final thought.
He should die.
Not for revenge.
Not for justice.
Not out of fear or hatred.
But because the stitched girl deserved peace.
Because I deserved peace.
Because everyone here—every prisoner he collected and broke—was just waiting for a moment where breathing didn't feel like a privilege.
Because he would never stop.
And someone had to.
I lowered my gaze, hiding the storm forming in my chest.
He didn't notice.
Or maybe he did—and simply didn't care.
_______
He leaned back in his chair after finishing his breakfast, his eyes traveling over me with that detached curiosity he always had—like he was inspecting something delicate but replaceable.
"You're so fragile," he said calmly, wiping his mouth with a cloth. "You can't clean. You can't work. You can't even follow simple rules."
His gaze lifted, sharp enough to pin me in place.
"You're just living here for free."
I clenched my hands in my lap.
He continued, voice low, smooth, indifferent.
"And yet… I want you here."
He tilted his head slightly.
"So tell me. What are you good at?"
Panic scratched at my throat.
I needed something safe. Something that made me seem harmless. Something that delayed any interest he might have beyond control.
And something that could help me kill him later.
"I'm… I'm a minor," I whispered.
A lie. A desperate one.
His eyes didn't change. Not even a flicker.
He simply exhaled through his nose, slow and unimpressed.
"Really?," he murmured. "Your identity card told something different."
Cold rushed through my skin.He checked my bag, that's why I couldn't found my bag on the cell.
His fingers tapped lightly on the table.
"So," he repeated, "what are you good at?"
I forced my shoulders to relax, forcing myself to look down, pretending shy embarrassment rather than calculation.
"…Cooking," I said softly.
He paused.
Just for a second.
Then an amused breath escaped him.
"Cooking."
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table.
"That's convenient."
My heart thudded once—hard.
"From now on," he said, "you'll cook for me."
I swallowed and nodded.
"Alright."
He watched my face carefully, as if waiting for a flinch that didn't come.
Then he stood up.
"Good timing," he said lightly, grabbing his coat from the chair. "The chef left yesterday."
I froze.
Yesterday.
One person disappearing every few days.
One more space to fill.
One more pawn removed from the board.
I lowered my gaze before he could see the tremor running along my spine.
He walked past me, his fingers brushing lightly over my shoulder as if claiming me in passing.
"Don't disappoint me," he murmured.
The door clicked behind him.
And I was left there, standing in the quiet dining room, pulse pounding, the word chef echoing in my head.
This wasn't a chance.
It was an opportunity.
A dangerous one—deadly if I failed.
But if I played it right…
He'd eat whatever I put in front of him.
And maybe—just maybe—he wouldn't walk away from the table next time.
________
I had just stood up from the chair when suddenly his hand wrapped around my arm—tight, unyielding.
I gasped as he pulled me closer, his shadow swallowing mine as he leaned in.
"If you disobey me," he whispered near my ear, "or if you try anything funny…"
His fingers slid from my arm to the back of my neck, gripping it with quiet warning.
"You should know what happens."
My stomach twisted.
Before I could speak, he guided—no, dragged—me through the hallway.
Not violently.
Not loudly.
Just firmly.
As if he already knew I wouldn't dare resist.
We stopped in front of a wide door at the far end of the corridor.
I had seen this door only once before: the guards always avoided it; he never let me walk anywhere near it.
Heavy wood. No handle from the inside.
He pushed it open with a key.
"Come."
My breath caught.
I followed him inside.