Between the wire and the fire

Chaos was music.

Feitan moved through the screams like a needle through fabric. Precise. Invisible. Lethal. The clatter of shattering glass. The smoke, the strangled cries, the metal singing as it was drawn.

For anyone else, it would've been hell.For him, it was home.

He wore the mask only out of formality. His face was hidden even without it — it always had been. His body was taut and composed, like a wire of steel. Every muscle trained. Every movement premeditated. The gun wasn't his favorite — too impersonal — but useful for entry.

The katana, though...The katana was poetry.

He'd used it the moment he entered the bank, with a near-artistic precision. Clean cuts. Sharp. One to the throat, one to the abdomen. Not out of necessity.

Because yes. Because that's how it had to be. 

He smiled. Briefly. A faint, imperceptible twitch. Not joy. Something darker. Peace.

The Genei Ryodan had planned everything. Feitan was only the needle. He was meant to pierce. And needles don't care for fabric — or the pain they cause. Every scream was a silent applause. Every step in blood, a confirmation.

The girl had seen him. The one with the chestnut hair. Maybe she recognized him. Maybe not.

It didn't matter. She was in the crowd. One of many. Just another hostage.

Another pleading voice. "Please… my mother… I need to go home…"

Feitan heard her. But inside — nothing. No emotion. No reaction.

Just a distant thought: "How much she cries… for something so meaningless."

Other people's fear amused him. But not in a sadistic way. No. It was useful. It confirmed what he had always known: People break.

He doesn't.

By the time they loaded everyone into the van, Feitan was already wiping his blade with a black cloth. He did it slowly. Almost meditatively.

Behind him, screams. Inside the van, panic. The creak of the wheels, the stench of sweat, tears, fear. All around him was human.

And he was not.

Feitan was calm. He wasn't thinking of anything. Not home. Not the past. Not her.

Only the next move. Precision. The geometric beauty of terror.

And then, for a moment — just one — his pupils tightened. He'd caught the girl's gaze. The one with the cookies. The clear voice.

She was crying, curled against a wall.

Feitan looked at her. Two seconds. No more. Then he turned away.

"She's nothing. Just flesh. Just another mistake the universe made."

And he returned to what he did best. Disappearing into the shadows. Without heart.

Without weight. Without a face.

--- Ayumi...---

The light was yellow and sickly, like that of a forgotten hospital.

It filtered through a window covered in bars and cloudy glass — enough to sting the eyes, but not enough to warm the skin.

Her wrists were tied behind her back, and now Ayumi stood, forced against the wall. Her shoulders were giving out. Her legs trembled. The weight of her body slowly slid down toward her knees. But she couldn't collapse. The ropes were tight. Damp. Cutting into her skin.

The smell in the room was a mix of iron, mold, and stale sweat. There was the scent of bodies kept too long in the dark, and another, denser, more distinct smell: dried blood.

The walls were peeling, stained with black humidity and half-faded graffiti. On the floor, shards of wood, torn newspapers, and a crushed plastic cup — stepped on long ago.

Sometimes she heard voices. Men laughing in the distance. A choked scream from somewhere nearby. A metallic sound — maybe a chair knocked over, maybe something worse.

And footsteps. Slow, heavy. They never ran. They always walked, as if they had all the time in the world. As if other people's fear fed them, spoonful by spoonful.

Ayumi was filthy, soaked in sweat, her face streaked with tears that had dried and returned. Scratches marked her cheeks, her hands were numb, her clothes stained with dust and... blood.

It wasn't hers, she told herself. It had to be someone else's. She didn't remember.

She had stopped screaming.

At first she had.

She'd called for her mother, for God, for anyone.

But no one answered.

Now she stayed silent.

Just breathing through her nose and now and then a strangled sob — like her body was still trying to cry even when her soul no longer could.

Then someone entered.

Three men. All masked. They didn't say anything at first. One of them took her backpack. Searched it. His hands were quick, cold. He pulled out her wallet.

The photo of her and her mother. Her ID.

The second man stepped closer. He spoke in a calm voice, almost gentle. And that calm terrified her the most.

"We have everything we need. We'll call your family. Let's see if they care enough about you."

Ayumi tried to speak, but no sound came out. Just a weak moan.

"You're not very wealthy."

The voice dropped lower."It shows. Faded clothes. No makeup. Simple things. Does your mother work?"

She nodded. Slowly. "Only… only on weekends…" she whispered. The words came out like a broken sigh. "We don't have money… we can't… we can't pay…"

One of them laughed. A dry, short laugh. Without humor.

"Then you better start praying. You have one week. If we don't get the ransom…"

He clicked open a knife. A sharp sound, like a finger snapping against bare skin.

"…you'll meet a bad end."

Ayumi felt the blood drain from her face. Her breath caught in her throat. The room began to spin. The whole world felt like it was collapsing.

She thought of her mother, alone in the house, with cold tea, and silence. She thought that maybe… she wouldn't be coming back.

A sob cracked through her chest. But she didn't beg.

Not out of pride. Only because she no longer remembered how.

--- Feitan...---

Feitan received the order without reacting. Chrollo had given it — with that abstract calm that always defined him — in a dark room where even the light seemed to bend to his voice.

"You take care of the girl." Chrollo's voice left no room for questions. No explanations. No reasons. Just command. Just structure.

Feitan gave a slight nod. He didn't ask anything. There was no need. He had learned long ago that those who search for meaning are only searching for weakness. He followed orders.

When he entered the room, Ayumi was already there. Tied up. Injured. Disoriented. Tear-streaked face, dirt on her skin, hair stuck to her forehead with sweat and fear.

Feitan walked in silently.

The neon lights flickered. She couldn't see him. Just a pale shimmer. The walls were bare, dirty, and in the room there was only her — tied up, trembling, her eyes swollen with tears. Filthy, torn, alive by mistake.

He'd been ordered to watch her. Nothing more. A task. Like cleaning a weapon. Like zipping up a body bag. No difference. No meaning.

The girl barely lifted her gaze. Her eyes were glossy, lost, full of something Feitan had erased from himself long ago: the desperate need to understand.

"Who are you?" The voice was a whisper, broken."Why are you here?"

Feitan didn't answer. Not immediately. He looked at her like one observes a malfunctioning object. Then, slowly, he spoke.

"You ask too many questions." His voice was low, sharp. Flat. A thread of ice that didn't waver.

She swallowed, shoulders curled in. "I... I just want to know… what do you want from me…"

Her voice shook. "I just want to go home… my mother…"

Feitan pushed off from the wall and stepped forward twice. Shadows crossed his face, hiding his expression — but his eyes caught light for a moment. Not rage. Not sadism. Just complete emptiness.

"You are worthless" He said it like stating a mathematical fact. "You are nothing. You're flesh. Resources. Tradeable goods. The rest…"

He waved a hand vaguely toward her — toward everything she was: fears, identity, tears —"…is noise."

She stared at him, stunned. "You have no heart…"

It wasn't an accusation. It was too naive for that. It was pure desperation wearing the mask of a question.

Feitan leaned in slightly. His face close to hers. He whispered:

"The heart is a burden. I travel light."

Then he stood back. Returned to the wall, as if nothing had happened. As if she didn't exist at all.

Ayumi trembled. The tears kept coming, but she no longer dared to speak. She had touched something — a boundary, a crack — and understood that beyond it… there was nothing.

Feitan, meanwhile, wasn't thinking of her. Wasn't thinking at all. He didn't need to.

Time passed. Hours slid by like silent blades. And inside him, everything remained still.

Because in the void, Feitan was safe. And in the pain of others, he found order.

No ties. No memories. Only mission. Only function. Only silence.