You smelled porridge, again.

It had been a week since you had last seen a morning in the shape of a rising sun. The soft clink of the tray with your breakfast was now the only sign of the day's start. An alarm to wake you up, as well. Your profession had made you a light sleeper, so the faint sound, as well as the footsteps and the opening and closing of the door altogether, were more than enough to stir you awake. Coupled with the stress of your current circumstances, the productivity of your rest was a questionable topic. Never mind that – undoubtedly, food would give you energy!

Before opening your eyes, there was a repeated, pitiful hope that you would not see the same ceiling. Much like insanity, even if proved wrong for the umpteenth time, your hope reiterated. The present was no exception. Your sight was subjected to the pale tedium once more, the only heavens you'd known in this place.

Somehow, living from hope to hope was sustainable. You whisked the sheets away from your body and rose. Insanity, for you, would occur when you could no longer leave the bed. Weighed down by the defeat of your spirit, your muscles immobile due to the atrophy of the will... you would become incorporeally dead. Nothing more than a tint of pallor mortis in the swatches of monotony.

If defying this meant perpetual hope and disappointment, you could bear it. You stretched, moving your feet to the forever cold floor; it sent a shiver through your body, and you immediately pulled your feet up. Why did you do this, again? Apparently, you weren't fully conscious. You quickly slipped on a pair of warm socks and made your way to the bathroom, finishing whatever business you could. With that over, you returned to the main room. The only other room, hah.

You sat next to the tray, your butt on the floor, and lifted the bowl of porridge. It was cold. Unlike most containers you got so far, this one was made out of plastic. You liked that. When ripped, it could be sharp. Those soft paper plates you mostly received were of no offensive use. The tray always was good for smacking, but just like any other weapon, you couldn't use it. So why even entertain the weapon that was the plastic bowl? You liked imagining it. Smashing the tray against the guards and Fyodor, their heads and faces; slashing with sharp plastic, stealing guns, blinding anyone on your path, making a daring escape with no consequences, back to life – your consequent giggle was cut off by the pang in your chest.

Your mental escapades satisfied you, even if for a little. But reality was too damning for you to ignore it. Conscience, although strained as it was, didn't allow you to fantasize much. So, you focused back on your reality: the same breakfast you'd had for a week by then.

No matter how much you liked porridge, its cold, sticky consistency worsened the experience. Even dipping the spoon inside and taking it out was difficult! You pouted, opting to complete a new addition to your morning routine, thus postponing the labor that was eating.

Upon plunging your index finger into the cold mass – the substance enveloping securely around your digit – you extracted a solid clump of porridge. With it wobbling on your skin, you rushed over to a wall, where you'd been penning a record with dried oatmeal.

The method was inelegant, yes, the method was ridiculous, yes, but you'd rather use the daily arrivals of porridge over your possibly limited toothpaste. You also feared mechanical indentations would cause you trouble. Bugs weren't exactly attracted to the deformed oats, luckily. In all honesty, you couldn't see where the bugs would even come from. You were yet to discover cracks, even where the pipes in the bathroom met the walls. The meticulous conditions only strengthened the experience of this place, claustrophobic in nature.

You added several strokes to the wall, their amount corresponding to the number of people gone from the operating hall the day prior. In other words, people who were killed. You feared your often rabid mind wouldn't be able to keep track of the deceased, so you 'wrote' them down. You had a saying that a dumb person remembers everything, while the smart person pens it. Not that you considered yourself too smart in this situation. Especially not around Fyodor.

Fyodor who once commented about this. It was more of a tease, really. "Numerizing sins, doctor dear?" If only he knew it was so much more than that.

You stepped back. Thirty-three markings on the wall, in addition to seven more on the floor, made up forty dried-up porridge stains. The division to wall and floor was made so: the wall represented the victims you and Fyodor were responsible for, and the floor represented the victims who mysteriously vanished, people you did not operate on. Fyodor negated knowing what happened to them and assumed they were the runaway patients. You believed the lively voice you'd hear every once in a while was involved, but you never encountered its owner. Neither did Fyodor. "I do tamper with sanity... and I suppose some of the people I operate on don't like it..." he'd allege about it, almost absent-minded. It was the classic from him: disrespecting basic human rights. To prevent further headaches, you'd stop talking and accept his answer as the end of the conversation.

This was one of the many situations where your feelings and thoughts remained repressed. One of the rare outlets was exactly that record of the victims. It was legacy and honor in one, though the nobility you carried was that of a caveman setting his hands in a cave wall. Laughable, but relatable. Irrational, but insolent. Existent, but insignificant. And to you – essential.

There was something about these proofings of free will (both notions being farces, but oh well!) that, regardless of their reasonableness, relieved the deep itching of the soul. That wasn't to say yours got free of torment; it was full of cracked scabs bleeding and overflowing like egg and their yolks, if one were to visualize it.

You did. You blinked at the strange mental image, reminded of your food, but not being disgusted by it. On the contrary. It stoked your appetite.

After having breakfast and getting ready, you stepped outside, winding up inside the hallway. Its green was the only semblance of nature you could witness, but unlike the outdoors, this green corresponded vomit with its hue, and fittingly, prompted nausea. Just the usual! Looking around for the typical guards (or even Fyodor) to be there to guide you, you saw exactly no one and heard nothing. Your brows knitted together. How peculiar.

Had there been anyone else, at least one person, you'd dare call for Fyodor. You shivered at the codependence, disgusted with yourself. However, the thought was an incentive, and it had you desire to find out what happened all on your own. But, you were not stupid. You wouldn't wander far off. Instead, you walked as quietly as you could to the closest divergence of hallways. Once there, you looked down the new hallway in one direction and then turned your head towards the other. What you observed was vacancy, all over again.

Did everyone leave? There were no signs of struggle, blood, violence, or anything that would indicate there being any police or military involved. Not even on the floor! Some dirt was there, yes, but it had always been there... truly, aside from the emptiness, nothing was out of the ordinary! So, did they leave out of their own volition? You squinted, mentally backtracking. Did Fyodor ever imply this would happen?

You decided to return to your room. There, you would think this through and hope for the best. You'd prepare the tray as your shield, smash the bowl as your knife, and stay behind the closed door. With some mindly pep talk, you crept back towards your room, until you heard it. Japanese, right behind you. "Don't move." Familiar. The voice was familiar, you realized as your breath hitched.

Your body, as if estranged from your mind, stood paralyzed. All dread you possessed was unfettered, now rampant, known and felt as panic.

"You're terrified, already? And you have no idea what has befallen you!" Wrong. You knew exactly who stood behind you. "The Hunting Dogs have ended this operation, and you're done for." In spite of the danger, you were beyond lucky it was him of all the Hunting Dogs.

Jōno Saigiku was a curious case with his super-hearing. He was the one your involvement was mostly needed for, as it was applied in one aspect of the Hunting Dogs' monthly surgery. Many of the physical enhancements needed a correction in their control points, be they local, or in the peripheral or central nervous system. That was where your research came in, altering some of those control points. It was something eerily similar to Fyodor's own ideas.

What made Jōno's case slightly different were his heightened senses. A thing your knowledge, though rarely and indirectly as part of his Concilium, was mostly wanted for. You only joined it because you wanted to oversee these beasts. The one beast you could, at least.

But even without your special involvement, Jōno's blindness and heightened hearing were something you'd have known. Something that right now could prove to be your rescue, allowing you to get your fate back into your hands. Because, because he could hear the truth that...

"I'm innocent!" you declared as you turned around, and the chuckling he let out was far too merry. His closed eyes expressed a smile, the usual one you'd seen in photographs of him. Though always eerie, it became truly terrifying now that you were the cause behind it. Owning white hair with tips as if dipped into blood, and wearing the richly crimson uniform that so strongly contrasted the sickly green walls, he looked like no relief. He evoked bloodshed.

And spilled life, he did. "It's such a shame that I can sense lies." Years of doubts were confirmed in a single sentence. "I can sense distress too, now that you've been caught red-handed."

The silence beyond his voice was deafening like your realization: the Hunting Dogs were all just as you thought. They served not justice, but the fickle government, fickle military, and whichever shady faction that would meddle. In that moment, you tasted, bitter in your gut; disappointment mixed well with fear.

Then, if he was against you, you would return the favor. On one strong whim, you used Spiteful Intervention to deafen him completely and totally, and so, rid him of his most useful asset.

You watched as his face contorted into that of confusion. "What?" he whispered, and as if he disliked the mute answer, he frowned. In the corner of your eye, you noticed his hand reaching after his sword, a sign for you to move. So you squatted and began crawling away, assuming he'd stab the air above you. However, none of the like happened.

He barked instead, "You're lucky you're wanted alive, you know?!" What piss of life would that be? He was already fabricating the narrative that you weren't innocent in this insane crime, and you wouldn't suffer the consequences that weren't under your terms. Jailtime was easy for what you had done. But if you escaped, you could go to some foreign land, some rural spot in it, and repent. You'd live. You'd toil. And you'd find Fyodor. You didn't care. You'd run, you'd crawl, sneak your way into it the same way you were sneaking now, and –

A sharp pain pierced your left calf. You fell to your elbows, your shriek in your ears before you knew you'd unleashed it.

"Because if it were up to me, you'd be dead now." So, being alive it was, no matter the state? If that's how things were... you used Spiteful Intervention again, this time, to turn off his proprioception. With the awareness of his body's orientation gone, and no visual information to make up for it, Jōno fell. A myriad of protests accompanied the fall, and you watched him disperse into his glimmering Ability before he reached the ground.

You weren't relieved.

You had to work quickly to escape, but the sword remained stuck in your leg. You twisted your back so that you could pull it out, yet in doing so, earned more pain; you hissed and flinched at the sensation, halting for a bit, only to continue reaching after the sword's hilt. Grabbing it, pulling it, you subjected yourself to more searing aches. You gritted your teeth, your bicep tense, arm shaking as it pulled, and pulled, and –

Did nothing. The blade was, you concluded with terror, too deep in the ground. And you, you had nowhere near the strength of a Hunting Dog to get it out.

Your heart pummeled against the ribcage, delirious. There was no stopping yet! Desperate, abused for too long, you clenched once more to pull once more, and – it budged. You wheezed a sigh of relief... then cut it off as soon as you heard one gleeful,

"Beautiful!"

You whipped your head towards the source of it, looking to your right in doing so, to see Jōno's own head amidst the whirlwind that once had been his body. Shining in his Ability's cool gleam was his wide smile, through which he rejoiced,

"Thank you for the final act of your symphony." The hairs on the back of your neck stood up, not merely from his words, but from the delicate breeze coming from behind. Your eyes widened as you turned around, and there, you saw your demise.

Tetchō and his elegance, prospering, his sword winding down to stop right in front of your face.

You swiftly considered your odds. Any sense you could snuff out would be compensated by another, and as for proprioception, you were scared that his sword would go haywire. It was too close to risk it. "I surrender," you admitted, displeased. You returned Jōno control over his body, and you heard his feet thump, back on the floor and stable.

"What happened here?" Tetchō questioned, looking first at his teammate, then back at you. Your gaze slipped away from his, falling towards the ground, then sliding towards your penetrated leg. "Why did you hurt this person?"

"They've turned me deaf, and later made me lose my balance, completely. I presume their ability has to do with turning off the senses, however, if the Ability works in gradations, then that leaves room for sensory manipulation. However, I'm leaning towards the former, since that's what I've experienced, and since it would be more useful for them to selectively block my senses. I wouldn't have been as aware of the issue if they did so." Cunning Hunting Dog, living up to his reputation.

"You could check in the government records? Surely, you have access," you suggested, eager to paint yourself in a positive light, now that you were at their mercy. Tetchō removed his blade from your face. Your long-interrupted sigh of relief could continue.

Yet Jōno disapproved, "You're doing the most to ensure good treatment. But alright." He pulled the sword out of you, causing you one pained shriek and an abundance of heavy breaths. You gazed at the gaping black hole in your lower calf, its walls glimmering wet; blood abandoned it in a steady stream. Your heart sank, realizing the danger your limb was in.

His sword hovered nearby, slick and warm with your blood, cruelly unbothered by your state. "I could stab you again for the trouble you've caused me..." he told you, and you moved your legs closer to your body, further away from him, hugging them. Luckily, Tetchō told him to quit scaring you. "They've already surrendered. There's no need for torture," he stated, peace in voice, peace in his mien.

It wasn't simply out of gratitude and this evident good cop bad cop ploy that you would say your next lines, however. It was out of the very urgent need for survival. "I presume you want me alive because of intel. So, what would you like to know?"

"Everything about this operation."

"I'll spill everything I know, gladly. Just, would you please let me prevent further blood loss? I'd rather not faint," you pleaded as nicely as you could.

"No," Jōno said, only to be reprimanded by Tetchō for his viciousness, again.

"I only wish to lift my legs up! The most textbook thing one could do," you also explained yourself.

"Fine! Have it your way," he grumbled. You hoped this was Jōno's usual... unorthodox... approach to his targets, and not something more personal because you stood your ground. Christ, you really chose the best Hunting Dog to be on bad terms with!

With his permission, you lifted your wounded, aching leg against the wall, and you crossed your arms, gazing up at them both. They looked odd from that angle, especially Tetchō with that strange hair of his. "Pardon, I didn't get to finish, you were right," he calmly said out of nowhere, eliciting a 'what?!' from his teammate. "Indeed, we ought to bring all captives to one place."

There was hope in your voice when you asked, "Have you captured Fyodor Dostoyevsky?"

"Ha! You'll love the answer! No," the white-haired Hunting Dog replied, and this hope you had was immediately crushed. He went on to argue with Tetchō, asserting that there was a reason why he told you not to lift your leg, after all; as Tetchō said, you were meant to be carried to the commander and the rest of the captives.

You, however, were left to speculate that, if Fyodor escaped unscathed, then he certainly pulled some strings in the government to know of this attack. Either that, or he was responsible for the Hunting Dogs' arrival, inviting them there and pinning the blame on you. In any case, very unfavorable, because you wanted to see that bastard dead. Amidst your pondering, you were interrupted by a shadow looming over you, and you looked up.

Tetchō didn't seem to be all that... bothered by his comrade's attitude, who was still grumbling at him. His copper eyes were focused on you, and yours were focused on the handcuffs he was pulling out. You extended your hands for him to place them, something he thanked you for, and did as intended. The metal was cold around your wrists.

"You don't think you could walk like that...? We can carry you," he also offered, and you could not believe your ears. The constant politeness was a staggering contrast when compared to his partner! "Right, you just make offers on my behalf," you heard said partner in the background, only reinforcing the disparity.

Regardless, he agreed to do it, and both of them helped you outside the maze. In time passing, each heartbeat meant a little push of blood outside of your wound, irrevocably lost. Your heart acted as a timer again, counting down moist ticks until your loss of consciousness. You warned them that it would happen. To your shock, they quickened their pace.

The echoes of their footsteps interlaced, a cacophony for your anxious self. Among other fears coursing your body, the fear of losing your limb was somehow a torrent not too strong; in your cataclysmic mindset, there was one thought flooding the rest, drowning yet invigorating: it was the fear of losing control not over your life, but death.

Mazes channeled your fear into one exit.

They opened the door you had previously known as locked, and introduced you to an area wholly alien to you: a hall. Unlike the ones you'd seen before, this one was equally as ancient as the rest of the building, also painted in that glossy green paint, also tiled with the grey flooring, and also owning barricaded windows that halted any and all sunlight. Once again, it was illumined by LED lights. It was like one massive widening of a  hallway, but with two main differences.

First being the ceiling, far higher than before; you had to tilt your head to observe it. Second being the addition of many persons, all familiar.

Sitting like sacks of potatoes were your old guards, their arms behind their backs, likely in handcuffs like yours. It didn't escape your notice that none of them appeared to be wounded.

There was another person, one you knew from the screens. Now, he was not light and color but flesh and breath, draped in a bloody red and underneath it, vigorous with all the lives he'd taken. One hand on his hip, the other resting atop his sword's hilt, he turned his scarred face towards you, lifting both of his arms to greet you.

His grin accommodated an insult as he spoke, "Hello there! Who do you bring?" So jolly, as if lives hadn't been at stake. Your profession accustomed you to death but taught you to respect it, yet when it came to his, teaching him...

A warrior in build, a veteran in smarts, and something of a global superstar, Ōchi Fukuchi was the final filter before these horrors would be unleashed to the world. You prevented death, and he sowed it. You had no faith in him.

You could easily imagine him at a podium, with an attitude far more serious than this one here, as he retold the horrors of this place and brought everyone at the press conference to tears. He had that talent in him, you'd seen for yourself, not once imagining your name would be uttered in his statements, so skilled and so trained you'd call them rehearsals.

For ages, you were convinced of this performative appearance he'd so often donned. He wasn't even trying too hard, no, he had integrity in his speeches. Your belief actually stemmed from the knowledge of his roots, them being the war. One would think a man with such a past would be... more subdued, or make himself less sensationalistic...

You couldn't quite place it, now that you thought of it. But your intuition was almost sure of it: he was a masked man.

You were set down next to a wall, and immediately, you rolled on your back, lifting your wounded leg and supporting it against it. Your dizziness in doing so was incomparably greater than the previous time, and the implications were not good. Not at all. From that awkward position, you listened as the two Hunting Dogs told their commander what had happened. Jōno made sure to emphasize that he had detected your lie. That you were innocent, of course. You'd roll your eyes if it weren't for the faint headache taking over your skull.

"In other words, they cooperated with Dostoyevsky?" Fukuchi questioned, and your gaze flicked towards him, interest piqued. From your upside-down angle, and perhaps from the rush of the blood to your head, he appeared abnormally tall. Staring at him like that, it was too late that you realized that the commander was staring right back at you.

"He kidnapped and blackmailed me, this was no cooperation," you joined the discussion, sensing your input was wanted. There was a rush to your words, and your mouth almost stumbled at the haste. Why, you couldn't get rid of the feeling this conversation was redundant, and you wanted to be ministered to as soon as possible. Besides, Jōno had already stated your position in this operation, so why bother?

"Out of any feeling you could be feeling now, why disgust?" Jōno asked, and you shot him a glare before looking at the commander, stating your opinion now that you could,

"What does this question, and the entire... exchange, even matter?" Fukuchi raised a brow, but you continued, "I am a nobody, especially compared to you. I could easily be wiped out now. In fact, by letting me bleed out, I get the sense you're trying to get a confession out of me before you get rid of me."

"Then you'd be mistaken," Fukuchi shortly replied, a stern quality to his voice. His mouth opened as he began to say something but he was interrupted.

"Wrong! You of all people won't get away with this!" a captured guard shouted, sending another wave of horror through your weakened frame.

"What do you mean?" the commander questioned.

"They were Dostoyevsky's pet. I never saw them say no. They even smiled. They were happy with him, and they got special treatment."

Your eyes widened. Иди нахуй blared inside your head.

"Distressed to hear the truth now?" Jōno's satisfaction was audible, and the иди нахуй was now directed at him.

"I didn't want to do it, I had to! You'd do it too if your loved ones were at stake," you hissed.

"No, they were his accomplice! I'm sure of it!" the guard yelled back.

Jōno's voice had an annoyed quality to it. "You both are telling the truth. Are you messing with my senses again?" He was facing in your direction, and you could see the sadistic smile overcome his face. The sort of joy that moved his expression was calm, nearly blissful. To torture, did it bring him peace? Did it heal him?

Was he another Fyodor? Bloodlust and disgust for it dizzied you. You replied, vexed beyond description, "I'm not that stupid."

Unsurprisingly, this provoked Jōno. "Very well. If I can't sense your truth, then I'll get it out of you." All he managed to do was unsheathe his sword before being stopped by one decisive,

"Jōno."

Fukuchi's tone cooled him. He put his sword back, let out a 'hmpf' and moved away, walking past Tetchō whose gaze lingered on his cranky comrade.

But, your attention was quickly snatched by Fukuchi, who approached and even knelt in front of you. His gaze remained firm on you, while yours was nervous on him. What he asked next caused you unbridled surprise. "You are Y/N L/N, aren't you?" You confessed that you were, not knowing what exactly you were admitting to.

"Who?" Tetchō quietly hooted. You glanced at him, then back at Fukuchi, who straightened his back slightly as he replied,

"No wonder they looked so familiar!" He grinned, and the smile, oh, it was reaching his eyes, almost closing them. "L/N is one of the doctors involved in our monthly surgery!"

You wanted to feel relieved, you'd do anything to justify that feeling, but you still couldn't deduce what this information meant for your fate. Besides, his statement about your involvement was an exaggeration. You'd correct him if it weren't for that Hunting Dog who forever meddled.

"What does this mean?" Jōno was heard, and for once, you felt you and him were on the same page.

"We were left with a puzzle, I realize now. Had we not found this piece, we would've been on the wrong track." Fukuchi hummed. "So, doctor, to wash your hands clean, would you please tell us what happened with your fullest knowledge on the matter?"

And so you did. From the beginning to the end, sprinkling in much laughter and depressing comments; you also stumbled on your words, sometimes at a loss of them. Jōno stepped on a guard's hand when he tried interrupting you, and triumph fluttered in your chest. At some point, you had to sit up, as you were getting light-headed from your position. Fukuchi kept nodding throughout your exposé.

"That's why we weren't informed about your disappearance. You were on a vacation. Yes, hm. I see now. Do you think any information you gave Dostoyevsky could be compromising, and to what extent?" he asked once you were done.

"Well, my knowledge is just... public knowledge so to say, I still don't think of myself as some genius in the field of Neurology to be able to tell you of breakthroughs that are as impactful as Fyodor wanted them to be. I simply know my topic because I have to, but there are countless far greater experts than me. That being said, I am... fairly certain that there is a reason why he chose me in specific, and it doesn't have to do with knowledge, and... anything I've told him, hah... but I still don't know what that reason is..." You swung your head to the side. You realized there was a numb component to your leg's pain. Fun.

"Sorry?" Fukuchi said, and you laughed.

"I really don't know. But, I know that he certainly deduced things unknown to us normal doctors, normal humans. Because... I haven't met anyone as shrewd as him," you admitted, anguished.

"Dostoyevsky is known for his manipulation, yes," Fukuchi confirmed, and you disagreed with him.

"No. You don't understand. There is something intrinsically inhuman about him, which makes his understanding of us, humans, feel like a violation," your voice trembled upon reminiscence.

"We do understand, actually," Jōno expressed, earning himself another glare he wasn't aware of. You were surprised to see, in the corner of your eye, that Fukuchi glanced towards him as well. You could not figure with which emotion, if any.

"Dostoyevsky and his 'Rats In The House Of The Dead'..." Fukuchi began, mumbling 'what a mouthful' on the way, "...have been on our radar for a while now. Sadly, nothing he's done so far could warrant our involvement... but this is alarming, eh?"

"He's killed dozens of people, you, you have to..." You took a deep breath. "Avenge them. Please. I don't care if you want to pin some of the blame on me. You've manufactured the proof for that anyway. You have been acting hostile by now, so! Haha! I know what to expect! After all, you'll just do whatever the government wants. Or, whatever someone else wants the government to do! So please, just, don't toy with me. I've had enough of waiting. I want it all to be over."

"Well, if you insist," Jōno began, only to scream a moment later, "Tetchō! Stop stabbing me already! L/N asked for it! I'm just doing what I'm told! Or have you considered that maybe I made a joke?! Your soul truly lacks nuance!" Tetchō's reply had to do with making quieter jokes, but it caused more bickering, albeit yes, more hushed.

In opposition to that stood Fukuchi, who had been listening intently to everything you had to say. The LED lights cast a cold overlay over his lavender eyes, making for a skylike periwinkle. It was the closest thing to heavens you'd seen in a while. You gazed at him, hoping to see something miraculous behind the sky that he was. Yet he remained impassive. He did not reply to your silent prayers.

Just as you said, you had necessary knowledge. It was being applied now. The fatigue, confusion, disorientation, sluggishness, and that strange merry shift in your speech... a sign of euphoria, clinically; those were the symptoms of low oxygen levels in your blood. In your case, low levels of blood itself. Again, these military men must've known not to leave you bleeding for so long...!

Stopping your train of thought, he nodded. "Yes. That would be enough. Let's get you to safety," he muttered. But what would that entail? You croaked the question, and he leaned in to better hear you.

Or that's what you thought, at first. But he moved even closer, inevitably, to reach you, then wrap his arms around you, and... pick you up? In being lifted from the floor, you feared losing the support it represented; shockingly, due to how lightheaded you were, you felt no major difference. You merely got dizzier, and you fought back the reflex to clutch on him for support. He would not be your support. He was merely another ceiling to breach and another sky to overcome. Sadly, you could only do that later. For now, your fate rested once more in the hands of another. You knew the drill. You asked, "What will be of me?"

"Your wounds will be treated. You'll rest. I promise, everything will be fine," he soothed, voice far too gentle for you to deserve it. Even if pretense, you could not bear it.

So you closed your eyes. The loss of consciousness was inevitable, just as you predicted. Now or during the surgery. You smiled as you realized: finally, you were getting some goddamn rest.

. . .

For as long as you'd known of yourself, you loved hospitals. Nothing was as lulling as waking up in one. Childhood comforts, most deeply pressed into one's soul, danced on this rope between the conscious and not that you were stuck in currently. Anesthesia slowly wore off, and as reason returned to you, you were shocked to find yourself calm.

With the child satisfied, reason called upon the adult to assess, and even the adult recognized the clinic as a comforting place. You loved your job, even if you toiled and lost sleep over toiling. Many memories, good and bad on a wide spectrum, were made at your workplace. You witnessed most life where it was being lost.

As for your current situation, it too seemed good. Your leg was bandaged (a successful surgery!), and you were alone in the room, the other hospital bed being unoccupied. On top of it all, the large window to your left allowed for the high sun's rays to illumine the room, but also, allowed for your gaze to exit it; what you discovered was that you were in Yokohama, and the fact boosted your morale. You were practically home. You'd know how to walk to your apartment from this place, you recognized the buildings the window opened to.

You grinned. You never thought you'd be so happy to witness the blue dome that was the sky and the streets of Yokohama it sheltered.

Everything was so idyllic that you'd almost forgotten about the events leading up to this. Shame that you didn't. Shame that, when a nurse walked in to check on you, she informed you that Ōchi Fukuchi was waiting for you. Just to ask several questions and let you have answers, she said. Wonder was in her eyes as she observed you. A fan of his, so she found you significant as well? You told her to tell him to come in.

Your expression aggressively shifted to that of disappointment when you saw him enter minutes later. It could be that he noticed the change for he rambled, "I apologize, I'll leave if you don't want my presence, a lot has happened and you need rest... also, again, after everything, I promise we're on the same side. Jōno's assessment of your innocence likely had to do with belief, not the truth. I wish to apologize for his harsh treatment. Ah, anyway! With that out of the way, I'll leave if you want me to!" So that's why Jōno acted the way he did! You did feel you weren't innocent, after all.

You observed that there was a sheepish ring to Fukuchi's voice. Here, now, you attributed a certain warmth to it as well. Before, you weren't conscious enough to take notice.

And both in the present and the past, you were unwilling to dub the man 'warm' in any sense other than fake. You caught the negativity in your thoughts, and wondered: was this distrust lingering from before? Perhaps he was unworthy of it. You were yet to see. You would remain wary regardless.

"Please, I'm in no state to rest after what I've been through." You were far too agitated to wait for this inevitable conversation. You could easily slip into that annoyance, but after finally sleeping well, you gained the cool to take the opposite approach. "Let's discuss this now. We're both itching to know more, so why not scratch?"

He laughed at the wordplay. "Straight to business, doctor. I like that. Certainly makes my job easier." His gaze perked once more at you. "Though I assure you, we don't have to do this now."

"No, I won't rest until Dostoyevsky is captured." And killed. Simple mathematics, his death equaled saved lives.

He ran a hand through his mane-like hair, strands setting back into their original shape, slicked back. As he did so, he walked towards the window. "That's the main issue." His brows rose for one quick moment, making a twitch-like movement. "His capture. We cannot track him down."

Not only your heart, but the rest of your chest as well, all spasmed in pain. "What?"

"Oh, dear." He facepalmed, then dragged that hand down his face. A sigh escaped him, exasperated like his tone as he explained, "I'm so sorry, I should've phrased it differently. At the moment, we don't know where he is, but there are several organizations searching for him. We're going to find him. It's only a matter of time."

He likely noticed your skeptical expression, so he added, "It is tedious, yes, but I'm confident he'll be found. In the end, he is nothing more than a human being, despite what your experience might tell." He reached the window and sat on the chair next to it. The noon's sunlight bleached his already pale hair; now it matched the clouds dotted across the blue.

"My experience tells he is not above humanity, but beneath it. Someone as cunning yet amoral as him wouldn't let anyone block his path. So, how did you find out about his... bizarre facility?"

"An anonymous tip led to a local investigation that then led to our presence being needed. An Ability user has hired mercenaries to guard a remote facility but now he is keeping them hostage as well as a load of other people upon which he performs human experimentation... is what we were told." He took a deep breath after that sentence. "It could be that one of the guards managed to leak the information, though we haven't determined which one. The guards we've found have told us that some of them vanished, so, one of those might be responsible. Additionally, there were many abduction cases in the area, thus narrowing our search for the facility down to a reasonable perimeter." A reasonable explanation. If you convinced yourself that Fyodor was a mere human, that is.

You decided to insult him by deciding that, indeed, he was one. Nothing more, nothing less.

Similar to your porridge-stain-wall (you blinked at the absurdity of it; the memory felt like a distant dream), this was yet another insignificant fight against the monster that was Fyodor. You battled him in these cerebral planes, his lands, but you knew it ultimately amounted to nothing.

His world may had been metaphysical, but yours was here, palpable, attached to you with heartstrings. Grounding you like anchors. "Thank you for the explanation, I must ask, though... my, uh, my friends, my family, did you check on them? Do you know if they're fine?"

"No news reached us that anything bad has happened to them, and we're yet to inform them about what has happened to you –"

"Don't. Don't tell them. Please."

He was virtually startled after hearing from you. "Why?"

"I don't want to burden them... they didn't even know I was visiting then, it was supposed to be a surprise." You'd burdened enough people anyway.

"Good enough," he mumbled, then raised his voice. "On that topic, we haven't managed to recover any of your personal belongings aside from some of your clothes. We could financially compensate for that, as I imagine you lost many objects of importance..." Lovely that he didn't mention the wall. He saved you the awkwardness of explaining it.

"Like my phone and all the contacts in there," you murmured. The amount of people you'd have to chase in person to get their numbers back... you decided not to think about it.

"We've bought a phone!"

You stared at him. "What?" This man was crazy, you were convinced.

"Yeah!" He beamed. "As compensation! I hope we got the right model, if not, you can refund it! It's... if I recall well..." When he uttered the name of the model, you were flabbergasted. Indeed, it was the one you liked and used.

"T-thank you...! How did you know it's the perfect one?"

"Sheer luck, I suppose," he said with a twinkle in his eyes. He looked so satisfied, and for what?

If he dedicated himself to every mission like this, you would've seen that he was a tryhard somewhere on the internet. But, you did not. Everyone attested something similar, however: that he was extremely polite and dedicated, not to the point of discomfort.

Like that, he was flawless. You liked that you were getting a strange experience, in a way, for it confirmed your doubts that he was imperfect. How humanizing. But, while you appeared to know him (even if superficially), he couldn't have possibly known much about you. "Also, how did you recognize me?"

"Hm?"

"We haven't ever met."

"Oh! That! I've heard of you, being in charge of the team that handles Ability-related medical issues. I've heard many stories of your work! The Port Mafia is rather headache-inducing, isn't it?" You couldn't agree more. Seeing you smile, he did as well. "Yokohama owes you. Now, despite the fact I know you from that sphere, there's obviously another way you are involved with the Hunting Dogs. And, some time ago, you were even in that drama..."

"Pa-pardon?"

"When they tried writing that paper?" You negated knowing anything about it. "From what I recall, they only referenced your work because it was needed for Jōno's senses." He twirled his mustache. "I think some of the doctors from our monthly surgery wanted to publish an isolated scientific paper, using yours as a reference and Jōno as the patient they'd base it on. There was a whole fuss about it. I think I remember you in particular because you are... you.  And so, here we are! No paper got published and we met! Such a fantastic world!"

You were beyond relieved but also horrified that your name could've been attached to a published paper that had to do with the Hunting Dogs. That would've been a fiasco! To the reputation you aimed for, at least.

"Ah... you don't seem to be aware of this." He composed a pitying expression.

"I wasn't exactly involved, so no wonder I wasn't informed. I had no reason to be. That isn't surprising."

"Oh? So what is?"

You cherry-picked your words to tell him that, "I was initially surprised and then relieved that my name was... prevented from being... further... connected... to a military operation." It was Fukuchi's turn to be surprised, and you quickly explained yourself, "Don't get me wrong, it's an honor to be part of a globally renowned, good cause, but the fact this cause brings death is... it doesn't sit right with me. I don't want to use my training and knowledge for that purpose."

"And you want to use it for keeping wrongdoers in life?"

You huffed. "That's a convenient moral shield healthcare provides its workers with. So, yes. Maybe I do enjoy the lazy neutrality."

"I can imagine it also feels gratifying. Serving such a noble cause. But that would make us the same, since, according to you... I too am a servant of a higher power?"

"What do you mean?"

"You insinuated that the Hunting Dogs serve the government in an unethical way."

"I still stand by the fact that the government is shady, that's a worldly truth. As for the ethics of what you do, well..." you trailed off. All that came to mind were insults, and you didn't mean to insult him.

"Well, well, well," he appeared to be taunting you, only to resume, "I could scold you now, but I don't want to. You were delirious when we found you." He jumped up in his seat, tone more cheerful now, "Anyway, my point was, we're both doing what we have to! The complex nature of our responsibilities brings out the best of us and in us, and we must settle with that. We have the knowledge we did our best under given circumstances! There's no room for regrets and what-ifs; there's only the future and in it, all the room for improvement." He scratched the back of his head. "Now, that's only given we actually did our best. I'll allow regret next to improvement when I consciously don't do my best. I believe it to be disrespectful to the consequences of our mistakes to... not be constructive. But what about you, doctor? What do you think, did you give it your all?" Certainly in reference to these recent events.

"I don't think so," you admitted.

"Looking back, what would you improve?"

"I'd agree less with Dostoyevsky."

"Hmm. But that's easy to say from this position, isn't it?"

"Perhaps. Yes. Perhaps... god..." The almighty's name tasted bitter on your tongue, now irrevocably tainted with Fyodor's image. As if to cleanse your palate, you blabbed, "It's a terrifying thing, agreeing with a monster of a man, and him agreeing with you."

Fukuchi nodded, earnest. "Dostoyevsky is known for utilizing manipulation. Whenever you find yourself at odds with your conscience, remember that it's a classic scheme of his." His eyes closed for a brief moment before looking through the window. "Besides, if you've found yourself at least an alright person before the encounter with him... just the average, you don't have to consider yourself a saint..." He murmured in the midst of it, "And nobody should, for that matter." Then he continued, normal voice, "If you've thought of yourself as okay, having the same thoughts before and when encountering Dostoyevsky... finally, seeing that you and him share some ideas... but you are no evil person, unlike him, you don't do evil things out of volition, we've established already that you are okay... doesn't that mean you are so much better than him, even if you think the same?"

All so nice and sweet, but why waste so much time and words on you? Oh well. "It does. That's rather wise, Fukuchi. Thank you so much, you've worded that well." The usage of 'out of volition' stung, however. It was an implication that if forced, you would commit atrocities.

He gazed at you, raising his eyebrows as he leaned in only barely. "If I may notice, your gratitude doesn't show in your expression." That was one accusatory look he gave you, and you almost winced. First Fyodor, now Fukuchi reading your mind; the continual lack of privacy had you shiver. One naked brain you had!

"Because I still feel guilty," you conceded, "there's nothing rational about it. You may arrange your consolations nicely, and they may make absolute sense, but in the same way my guilt isn't rational, nothing rational will relieve it." You sighed, a subtle headache concentrating in your forehead. Your brows furrowed at it. "I'm sorry for having you ramble like this and try to help me. I truly appreciate it, but it would be cruel to talk about this further."

"Then we won't." His eyes narrowed slightly. Purple hues darkened in the newfound shadow, the once-present reflection of light now gone, swallowed by it. "But I must tell you, do not refuse help. Perhaps it does aid you heedlessly, subconsciously. You wouldn't know exactly because it isn't 'rational', just as you said. And something you would know is that you've been through a lot, so refusing help is a very, very bad idea."

You curtly replied, "I'll keep that in mind. Yes. Thank you." Hopefully, your disinterest would make him change the topic.

He smiled, the gleam stark in his eyes, a contrast to his previous expression. He took out a little packet from a pocket on the inside of his uniform. You focused on it, recognizing it as soon as he opened it.

"Good grief!" he exclaimed in between chuckles. "I suppose I shouldn't be using these here, huh?" He closed the packet and shook it, the cigarettes inside shuffling. You appreciated him noticing your cue and indeed, changing the topic.

"Muscle memory," you commented, and he laughed louder. Somehow, you could not envision this man smoking. If you had monthly 'repair' surgeries, wiping out the negative consequences on your body, would you too indulge in vices? The idea still revolted you. There was a mental component to it that you feared; physical symptoms didn't bother you as much, but they weren't pleasant either. "Are you taking advantage of your maintenance?" you simply had to ask.

"What? Oh, this. Surprisingly, no, it's just a way to destress. I'd smoke with or without the maintenance."

"Even though your job depends on your health?"

He smiled, leaning back in his chair. "Doctor, I am grateful you think of me as reasonable. Sadly..." He huffed, gaze darting sideways. "Scratch that. Ironically, I don't think I'd be able to keep this job without smoking. Nothing sad about that. It's a fate I've chosen, so I can't lament over it." The bad breath wasn't sad? Not that you got to smell it, thankfully, but the stench wasn't uncommon.

"Don't think I don't understand your habit! Far from it. If I didn't hate the taste and smell of it, perhaps I too would partake." Not only did you understand, but you indulged in vices. You were coy around alcohol. When it came to smoking, you also didn't want to risk that addiction. Bold coming from someone who giggled at the sight of vodka...

"There are flavored cigarettes –" He shook his head at his own words. "What am I saying? No, I shouldn't be coaxing you." 

"No worries, coaxing wouldn't work on me. I've got all the facts and all the absurd to deny them, yet I'm still disinterested." However, you did feel like you needed a cigarette, metaphorically, after all these events.

"Indeed. The hypocrisy in regarding reality could be what makes us human," he commented, somber. Finding his words to be so wise yet so spontaneous, you squinted. There must've been a mask here somewhere, and this sentence felt – more than anything else he'd said so far – like a crack in it.

You entertained his idea. Hypocrisy in regarding reality, the fight between subjective and objective. Then it struck you, a newfound fear.

Fyodor's death, what if it wouldn't be enough? What if, just like in Jōno's and to an extent, Fukuchi's case, you would see traces of Fyodor in everyone, manifested as distrust, or even worse, sheer evocation of the monster? He altered your perception of reality, for he bound your free will, inserting himself in the spaces between your neurons.

You sank into the mattress, alienated from your very mind. For the first time, you felt like his victim.

Fukuchi sniffed, which had your attention, and he suddenly changed his tone to an energetic one. "Well, L/N! It's been a pleasure talking to you, and the fact we've strayed off-topic is only proof of that. However, I'm yet to tell you the most important thing! Practically, the reason why I've come to visit you."

Any sort of gravity would've disheartened you now. "What would that be?" You sounded weak.

He stood up, took one step towards your bed, and bowed down before you as he explained, "I must apologize, for we've kept the truth hidden from you. The man you've encountered wasn't Fyodor Dostoyevsky."

. . .

A/N: I am so sorry for the late update, unexpected changes in my faculty schedule have happened, plus, I got very sick. Gah. Now... to make up for it, I have written a bigger chapter. Hope you liked it! Also, expect another BSD character to appear in the next update! Can you guess who? Hint: he's wearing glasses and I like him a lot.