Seko sat in the corner of the cell, legs crossed, head resting back against the cold wall as silence clung to him like a second skin. The air in the cell was thick with tension, not just from their actions—but from the betrayal each of them carried in their own way.
Atama sat near the barred door, holding a plastic tray of what was supposedly "food" and staring at it with an expression of existential dread. He prodded it with a finger, then recoiled with dramatic horror.
"Eh? What is this? It is stickier than glue! This looks like cyanoacrylate adhesives mixed with Thioacetone!" He held it up toward the weak overhead light. "Did they cook this with chemical warfare in mind or what?"
Kiyomi, meanwhile, paced the length of the cell like a caged wolf. Her arms were crossed, expression a storm barely held back. Every few steps, she'd mutter curses under her breath, too sharp and specific to be random.
"Argh! I was living my life! Being loyal to the Human Empire! Following protocol... and then this snack-munching boof-head decides to drag me into a warzone!"
She pointed at Atama without looking at him. "You're supposed to be retired! Or dead! One of those!"
Atama blinked, feigning innocence. "I was retired. Until your boy here—" He nodded toward Seko, "—ripped off a billionaire's head like it was a fruit topping on a sundae."
Seko didn't respond. His expression was blank, not out of guilt, but calculation. Everything was spiraling, and he knew it. The silence he wore wasn't regret—it was resolve.
The cell was cramped, tension louder than any words spoken. For a moment, the three of them, all labeled criminals now, sat in the silence their choices had created.
Then, Atama broke it with a thoughtful hum. "Well... at least the cell's feng shui isn't bad. A bit grim, but minimalistic."
Kiyomi groaned and threw her hands up.
"You side with those who kill their own kind?" he repeated, eyes now open, burning softly with a tired, serious gleam.
Kiyomi slowly turned to face him, her expression unreadable. For a second, she looked almost hurt—almost—but it vanished beneath her usual mask of practiced neutrality.
"I sided with survival," she said sharply. "I did what I had to do in a system designed to eat people like me alive."
"You call that survival?" Seko asked, voice still level, "Being a cog in their machine? Watching mothers get gunned down in front of their children and calling it policy?"
Atama, still picking at the alleged food with a plastic spoon, raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He was listening.
"I never wanted this," Kiyomi shot back, "I never pulled a trigger. I spent years keeping peace, fixing things from the inside—"
"While they tore it apart from the outside," Seko interrupted, rising from his seated position. "And now you're in the same cell as the monsters you tried to appease."
Kiyomi stepped forward, their faces inches apart. "And you think you're any different? You ripped a man's head off in public. You think that gives people hope? You think blood makes change?"
Seko didn't blink. "It got them to stop laughing."
The silence that followed was heavier than before. Even Atama paused, spoon frozen mid-air, his lazy eyes shifting between the two.
Kiyomi finally stepped back, tension coiled in her jaw. She turned her back to them again, resting her head on the wall, voice quieter this time."…They used to laugh at me too."
Seko looked at her for a moment longer, then sat back down, his hands calmly resting on his knees. "Then you already know why I did what I did."
Atama sighed and leaned back against the bars. "Gods, you two need therapy... or a bar fight. Either way, I'm gonna need popcorn."
The silence in the cell shattered again—this time by a screech of disbelief.
"What the hell is this?! It's black! The popcorn is actually black!" Atama bellowed, flinging the tray like it had personally offended his ancestry. The charred kernels skittered across the cell floor, tapping like tiny echoes of culinary war crimes. "I'm not a racist, but this shit is darker than my last relationship. Did they use sulphur to make this abomination?! Who the hell pops popcorn with sulphur?!"
Kiyomi didn't flinch. She just stared at the floor, letting Atama rage on like a thundercloud in pajamas.
Seko, seated with arms crossed, glanced over slowly. His expression was neutral. Almost bored. Then, with a flicker of motion only Kiyomi noticed, he nodded. Not to Atama. To the wall.
Kiyomi followed his gaze, her tired eyes narrowing—then settling on the barely-visible grate just above the floorline. A temperature vent, half-welded shut, probably unused for years. But not impossible.
Her expression didn't change. But she returned the nod.
They didn't speak. Not yet.
Atama was still monologuing in culinary despair. "I swear if someone serves me black ramen in here, I'm snapping. I'm allergic to existential seasoning!"
Then, after a minute of waiting, Seko's voice cut through again. Quiet. Cold.
"There's two hours left until sunrise."
Atama's rant halted mid-insult. Kiyomi straightened. Her eyes now fully locked on Seko's.
"If I'm still in this cage when it rises," Seko continued, "I burn."
The air in the cell grew heavier. The tension, once born of frustration, now edged toward desperation.
Kiyomi didn't need a second explanation. She already knew what that meant.
Death.
Seko had to escape. And fast.
As they climbed deeper into the scalding heat of the vent shaft, every inch scraping skin and testing their lungs, the truth of the moment began to take shape—not just in sweat or panic, but in understanding. Behind them, the echoes of sirens began to flare. Seven minutes had become five.
Atama was leading the way. Despite the narrow path and blistering temperature, his movements were calm, calculated—too calculated for the lazy brute he pretended to be.
Seko noticed. Of course he did.
This was not a man caught off guard. Not a man imprisoned by accident. Not a man who cracked crude jokes and screamed about sulphur popcorn because he was ignorant. No… it was a performance.
As they pressed onward, a voice suddenly entered their minds—clear, gentle, almost detached from the madness around them.
"Are you guys safe?"
It was the kid. The demi-god. His voice, though young, came with an echo of something far older.
Kiyomi gasped. "How…?"
Atama smirked without turning. "He's using my mind. Piggybacking through my consciousness. Took him long enough."
"I'm in a safe spot," the kid said, gently. "I thought I'd keep an eye on you. Especially the messy-haired vampire."
Seko didn't answer. His mind was already spiraling—less from the heat and more from Atama himself.
Atama, the man who once served as Acting General of Humanity. A name known in whispers, but always downplayed. Not for incompetence—but for ideology.
He believed in equality. Between rich and poor. Between man and woman. Between those born above and those crawling from the gutters. And for that, the system tried to erase him. Not kill him. No, killing him would've turned him into a martyr. So instead, they made him ridiculous.
They painted him as an arrogant fool. Loud. Obnoxious. Self-important. A man who talked too much and thought too little.
But now…
Now Seko saw it clearly.
The cockiness wasn't real—it was calculated. People repel what they think seeks attention. They ignore clowns. They don't fear them. Don't watch them too closely. That was the mask Atama wore. A mask so precise, even his allies underestimated him.
And beneath it?
A mind far too dangerous to be caged.
Seko breathed out, smoke in his lungs, heat stinging his flesh. And yet, all he could think of… was why.
Why did someone like Atama fight so hard for a species that mocked and rejected him?
And deeper still—what else was this man hiding?
The answers would come. Eventually.
But for now, escape came first. Before the sunrise.
Before the world burned again.