The door latch breaks in half as I shove my way into Dzyuba’s office. Another lock still clings to the doorframe, but I’m not going to let it stand in my way. I kick it off, splintering the frame.

The first thing I notice is the blood. Blood spilling on the chess board lying skewed on Dzyuba’s desk; blood pooling around the foot of the desk, droplets on the floor. The blood looks like it’s just dried, but that’s not my only concern. It’s the gray, gooey gunk lying atop some grisly drops that catches my attention.

That’s part of a human brain.

“Look at this mess. What do you think happened here?” I ask Alice, but she doesn’t reply.

My legs are like lead as I drag myself to the door and push it shut. After disposing of eleven men on our way here, I’m officially drained. The side effect has kicked in, starting with the buzzing noise inside my ears and the fatigue, shaking my legs like they’re rubber.

“What’s wrong? You were so high and mighty, killing all those men. What’s the matter now?” she asks.

“Hold on . . . Let me catch my breath . . .” I try to breathe in, but my nostrils feel as dry as the Chara Sands. I kneel, panting.

I knew this was a bad idea.

“What?” She grunts. There’s mockery in her tone, something I’ve never heard before, “Are you finally feeling guilty for murdering those poor men?”

“Poor men? Poor—” I let out a growl. “They tried to kill us!”

“Why did you have to shoot them in the head?”

“What?”

When I finally turn my gaze upwards, I see her standing a few inches away. Her stance is that of a triumphant Roman gladiator: chin up, chest out, left hand on her hip. The only thing that looks out of place is her other hand, which she uses to hold my jacket over her chest. I think that the Romans’ chests were their pride, and they’d never need to obscure it, but what do I know about history?

Her eyes betray her stance, however. They might flood with tears any second.

“Why are you . . . such an animal?” She tries her best to keep her speech coherent, but sobs begin to well up in her throat. “I’ve never seen anyone like you, murdering people without even blinking! Aren’t you disgusted by this? Don’t you feel anything at all?”

She’s ditched her formal speech. This can’t be good.

I rub my temple. “Listen, okay? Just listen.”

She folds her arms. “Talk, then.”

“Why did I have to shoot them in the head? Maybe it’s because you have to shoot them to kill them? What are you on about? Would you rather—?”

“How are you so sure they would kill us? Did you give them a chance to speak?”

“Did you see how they aimed their guns at us? Those guys are trained killers! They won’t show any mercy! How long have you lived this life? Huh?”

She looks away.

“Then why are you assuming you know any more about the countrymen I’ve lived with?”

“I’m not . . . I’m not assuming anything. Why are you yelling at me?”

She’s faltering. I have to seize this chance.

“Then stop sulking!” I say.

“Okay, now you listen to me!” She starts crying for real, but keeps her stance, “Could you not just . . . shoot them in their arms or legs? Someone as skilled with a gun as you could have done that, couldn’t you?”

Could I have done that? I could have. I’m no mere human after all.

Her suggestion takes me back to a conversation I used to have with my first instructor after leaving Camp A. Being the dumb rookie I was, I had raised the same point she had.

He glanced at me and snorted. “You’re naïve. Every one of them would shoot to kill. Every single one. They won’t pity you. You shoot them in the leg, they’ll just have to lean on a friend while they piss on your corpse.”

Back then, I never questioned his teachings. We go by the assumption that “humanity” is a dead concept. I don’t know how old this girl is, but I’m sure she’s way past the age to learn her first shooting lesson. And she doesn’t even know that much?

“Look,” I say. “If I shoot at their feet, they will shoot me with their arms. If I aim at their right hand, they will pull a pistol from their left. They’re lusting for our blood, and the only way to protect ourselves is to kill them.”

“So, shoot them in the leg, then shoot them in the hands. You’re fast enough.”

“Yeah, but then they’ll yell for reinforcements. If they’re dead, they can’t yell.”

Besides, that’s utter stupidity. They’ll keel over and die from the blood loss either way. Why do I have to waste three bullets on a single target? She makes it sound like bullets grow in the air and fly into my magazine whenever I need them.

I could explain more to her. But when I look into her teary eyes, at the confusion on her pursed lips, I realized one thing.

She’s too pure.

I don’t want her to know more than she needs to. She’s innocent, so what? Isn’t that why I’m running away with her? Isn’t that why I’m doing all this bullshit for no apparent reason?

So she can keep being her pure self? Yeah, that’s totally why. Or maybe I’m the dumbest dude in the world. Or maybe both.

She’ll figure it all out herself when the time comes.

Outside, the alarm bells are growling like a pack of starving wolves. The soldiers must be going berserk out there. I shiver. Time is ticking away. My body heat is leaving me. When my energy flow finally shuts off, I will be even weaker than a weaving factory worker.

I huff as I press my palms on the floor to support myself. “Don’t cry. I’ll try my best to not hurt anyone.”

“Really?” she gasps. What’s with that over-the-top shocked expression?

“Yes. Can we talk about this later? Like, after we get out of here. The sooner we get out, the fewer gunfights I’ll get in.”

“I understand. I apologize. Are you exhausted? Oh my, have you overworked yourself?”

“Let’s just say I messed up my metabolism a bit.”

“Allow me to lend you a hand.” She walks up to me.

“No.” I wave her off. “I can get up myself.”

“I am certain you can . . .” her voice is meek. “But it will take plenty of time. I might not be that strong, but I can provide leverage . . .”

“Don’t bother. Just give me a second!”

I try and try, but my lifeless limbs just won’t budge. My body’s not listening to me. I loathe it when this happens. If I can’t even control my own body, how do I expect to do anything right?

Curse this damn deplorable abomination of a body.

The human body is built like a living coal furnace, or so I heard from a lab instructor a few years ago. But unlike normal people who can only use charcoal to fuel their body, I’m an irregularity; I can choose to consume any type of energy when I need it. There’s an enormous cost to be paid, of course. Life is like that. I know her curious ass will ask me why I’m like this, but that’s a story for when we get out of here.

Alice takes a step closer, but I turn to her and snarl, “Don’t!”

That stops her. It takes me a couple staggers, but I finally get up on my feet. She didn’t try to interfere—she just walked off to Dzyuba’s wardrobe, away from the blood and brain bits.

“It is rather gloomy in here.” She knocks on the wall. “Shall I light up a candle?”

“No.”

The room is dark, but the light from the commander’s sandstone lamp might creep outside and signal people. I can see in the dark just fine . . . I think. I don’t know, my vision keeps flicking back and forth between crystal clear and a jeep’s windshield in the middle of a snowstorm. I can still do it in this state. I don’t need her help.

Artem Dzyuba’s room is as empty as it was when I came before. No merit, no title, just two long lines of empty vodka bottles in the left corner of the room. There’s plenty more bottles than before, probably up to thirty by the look of it. I notice the dull, mossy green fuzz plastered on the corner of the wall.

That can’t be moss, can it? In such cold weather, there’s no way moss can survive.

I approach and touch the fuzz. Indeed, it’s not moss—it’s a mixture of mortar and dirt. I lift a few bottles out of the way, grab my gun, and bash the stock against the wall. As I expected, the wall cracks. I strike it a few more times, and it breaks apart, revealing a dark, round, seemingly endless hole. There’s no staircase heading down or anything of the sorts, but the bottom of the shaft has been razed neatly, resembling a tunnel.

Turns out he was planning his way out, alone.

I turn to Alice, who’s staring intently.

“You go first, I follow. Hurry.”

“How did you know about this tunnel?”

“I’ll tell you everything later, okay?”

She nods and mutters something I can’t hear.

I grab her wrist, then push her down the tunnel. Her hands are uncomfortably warm, which means my body must be freezing cold. My eyesight is fading by the second, and there’s a ceaseless buzzing sound inside my ear. I spent too much time on useless crap.

“I can’t see anything,” she says, popping her head up. If she can still do that, that means the tunnel isn’t deep at all.

“Stay down there!” I say.

“How long do you think this tunnel is?”

“The hell should I know? Just start crawling. Did you move in?”

“Yes. Can you not see where I am?”

“Of course I can! I just wanted to make sure!” I have no idea where she is. “Great, now make space for me, I will—”

A thudding sound is followed by the shriek of metal on metal. The door swings open. I catch a glimpse of a pistol peeking through the opening.

“Duck!” I scream as I jump into the hole.