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The dormitory had descended into hell.
Nathan was cornered, breathless and unarmed. Across from him stood Xiaobo, gripping a bent, bloodied fork in his fist. The two locked eyes.
"You’ve been dying to get your hands on me, huh?" Nathan said bitterly.
Xiaobo stepped closer, hatred seething in every line of his face. "You remind me too much of your boss."
"I’m not him, and this is not between us." Nathan growled.
"No," Xiaobo grinned darkly, "you’re worse. You’re his little whore."
With a roar, he lunged. Nathan dodged to the side, and from above, a glass bottle shattered to the ground. The pieces scattered like diamonds across the floor.
Nathan looked up, shocked to see Yan leaning over the edge of a high bunk. Her hands trembled, and her eyes glistened with tears.
Nathan grabbed the jagged bottle head, slicing his palm, but he didn’t stop. He turned and slammed it toward Xiaobo, driving him back. In a surge of desperation, he tackled him, forcing him to the ground, glass pressed to Xiaobo’s throat.
“You think I’m weak?” Nathan snarled. “Say it now.”
Xiaobo didn’t flinch. He chuckled—a low, cruel sound—and then burst into laughter. "This is cute."
With a vicious twist, he slammed his knee into Nathan’s ribs, causing him to gasp and loosen his grip. The glass fell from his hand. In a heartbeat, Xiaobo rolled them over, pinning Nathan beneath him.
Still laughing, he raised the fork high and drove it into Nathan’s neck.
The first stab was deep. The bodyguard choked, blood pouring from the wound.
"You gonna cry for him now, Yan?" Xiaobo shouted without looking up.
She covered her mouth, sobbing, frozen in place.
Xiaobo didn’t stop. He stabbed again. And again. Each motion was sharp, efficient, fueled by rage and glee. He laughed through it all, blood splattering his face, his eyes wide with manic joy.
Only when Nathan stopped twitching did Xiaobo pause. He sat there for a moment, breathing hard, covered in blood.
Then he stood, gave Yan a cold glance, and walked away—still chuckling.
On the bunk, Yan collapsed to her knees, her sobs shaking her entire body. She stared at Nathan’s corpse with teary eyes, and covered her ears from the noise of the dormitory.
***
When the lights flickered back on, the chaos slowly dimmed into a tense silence. Groans of the injured echoed off metal walls. Blood painted the floor in streaks, and the sharp stench of violence clung to the air.
The guards entered in formation, faceless and identical in their pink suits, armed and efficient. Their presence was a chilling reset—life or death had been decided, and now it was time to clean up the remains.
One of them, P3-NG, moved through the dormitory wordlessly, dragging a sleek, black coffin-like box behind him. He had done this routine countless times—pick up the body, seal the box, move to the next. Nothing was supposed to register. Nothing was supposed to matter.
But when he approached Nathan’s corpse, something faltered.
Nathan lay still on the cold floor, his face slack in death, dark blood drying across his neck and chest. P3-NG stopped, staring down at him longer than he should have.
He recognized him.
But he said nothing.
Guards were not permitted to speak unless addressed by a higher-up. Emotions, memories, thoughts—they were all irrelevant behind the mask.
With a slow, precise motion, P3-NG lifted Nathan’s body, folding him carefully into the box. Not rushed, not careless—gentle, almost reverent. A small detail no one would notice.
He sealed the lid with a click.
Then he stood, staring down at the black coffin as if something in him had just been buried with it.
No words.
Just silence.