A Language of Pain

The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above him. His arms ached. Blood dried on his lips, and his right eye had nearly swollen shut.

He didn’t know how long he’d been here.

Pain was no longer something Haruto flinched from. It had become a rhythm. A language. The interrogator spoke it fluently – sometimes with surgical precision, other times with savage joy. Today’s language had involved fingernails. Yesterday’s had been ribs.

Despite the unrelenting agony, despite the way his body screamed in pain, Haruto didn’t die. The wounds bled, soaking his clothes, his skin raw and torn. He vomited blood, feeling it drip from his lips like a river of crimson. But still, he remained alive. The pain didn’t subside – it lingered, a constant, searing reminder of his helplessness – but he didn’t die. He couldn’t.

But something was changing.

His breathing stuttered, catching on some invisible thread. His chest rose, then froze, then fell again. A flicker – not just of pain – but memory.

The interrogator noticed the tremor. A smile crawled across his lips.

“Ah… it begins,” he said, as if he were a priest. “Come on, now. You’ve kept us waiting long enough. The Sovereign’s getting impatient.”

Haruto’s fingers twitched. His vision blurred. For a moment, the grey walls melted into something else entirely as the memories started flowing in.

He was cold. Filthy. Starving.

The alley behind the trash heap stank of rot and forgotten things. He didn’t remember how he got here – nor did he care anymore. People had names. He wasn’t sure he had one. Maybe once.

For days, he’d lived like this. Sleeping under broken crates, foraging from garbage, stealing when he cold. The bruises along his ribs were a tally of his mistakes.

Many times, whatever little he managed to steal or beg for would be taken from him by others, leaving him beaten, robbed, and abandoned in the streets with nothing but bruises to show for his efforts.

He remembered the rain that morning, how it had soaked through his rags like needles. He had been begging along the streets of the outer district, barely old enough to walk, holding out a stolen tin cup. Most people ignored him. Some looked away in disgust.

But one man stopped.

A tall figure in a dark coat, wearing round spectacles and a faint, unreadable smile. He crouched down to face him.

“…Haruto,” the man said gently.

The name felt foreign in the boy’s ears. And yet – something clicked. As if he had unlocked a lost memory. His eyes widened.

“Come to this place,” the man said, handing him a plain black card with an address written in faded sliver ink. “When you’re ready to leave this life behind.”

Then he stood up and walked away.

Haruto clutched the card for only a few seconds before tossing it. A trap, he thought. Or worse. Still, the address burned into his brain like a brand.

He didn’t go. Not at first.

But the next day, he stole from the wrong gang.

He’d barely snagged the walled of one the gang members when they caught him – three grown men, twisted with cruelty. They beat him in the open street, fists crunching bone, feet slamming into his side.

One of them pulled out a rusted blade. “Let’s gut the rat.”

Then – gunfire.

The men scattered, one screaming with blood spurting from his shoulder. The figure from before stepped through the smoke, pistol in hand, lowering it calmly.

“I told you,” he said to Haruto. “When you’re ready.”

He remembered following the man. Being driven in a black car. Seeing walls – real walls. Heat. Food. A bed. A clean blanket.

The man introduced himself as Dr. Yukawa. He had a short temper but tried his best to be kind to the boy.

“You don’t need to thank me,” he had said, hands behind his back. “But in time, you will have to repay the kindness.”

At first, Yukawa gave Haruto simple errands. Fetching supplies. Running messages.

Then came the stealing.

And, the killing.

Haruto shook in the present. In the chair. His hands clenched at the chains.

The interrogator crouched down beside him, watching the tremors ripple through him.

“You’re seeing it, aren’t you?” he whispered.

Haruto didn’t answer.

“Akane. That name mean anything yet?” the interrogator murmured.

Haruto’s eyes snapped open. The interrogator feigned innocence.

“No? Hm. I must’ve misremembered.”

More memories came.

When Yukawa first hinted at eliminating people, Haruto froze. Killing wasn’t survival – it was quite literally the opposite. The thought twisted in his stomach, but Yukawa’s voice was calm and convincing. “I’ll give you all the training you need. Besides, it’s no different from what they’d do to you if they had the chance,” he’d say. And slowly, Haruto’s silence became obedience.

His missions got bloodier. Yukawa stopped calling him a boy. Started calling him an asset.

But one mission stood out – more vivid than the rest.

A target. A family. Yukawa didn’t explain the reason for the killing. He never did. Yet, Haruto was forced to blindly follow along.

The Yamaguchi family.

They lived in a modest home, tucked in the quieter parts of the city. Haruto approached at night, cloaked in darkness, gun and knife both tucked into his coat.

He watched them through the window first. The mother father sat at the dinner table, eating calmly. The father was speaking in a low voice, discussing something about “leaked files.”

The mother looked worried. “Do you think he’s still out there?”

The father gave a soft nod with distant eyes. “I know he is. And if we had just found him sooner…”

Meanwhile, Haruto slipped inside.

Quick. Clean. Silent.

He took out the mother first – neck snapped from behind.

The father turned and screamed. Haruto shoved the pistol forward.

But, the father didn’t run. Didn’t fight.

He just stared.

“You…”, he whispered. “You… poor child”

Haruto faltered.

“Yukawa… made you into this. He wanted you to kill me…“

And then the man said something else. A single sentence – quiet, urgent. Something only Haruto heard.

His eyes widened.

The gun trembled in his hand.

“…No,” he whispered, barely audible.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Then the gun fired.

The man crumpled to the floor.

From the hallway, he heard soft footsteps. “Daddy…? Mommy?”

Haruto turned around to see a small girl stood there.

Frozen. Watching.

She said nothing.

He stepped forward, and embraced her in his arms.

Back in the chair, Haruto’s breath rattled.

“I see you remember,” the interrogator said. “So, how does it feel?”

Haruto didn’t speak. His jaw clenched. The pain in his leg. The burns. The wounds. The blood. It was nothing… compared to the weight of what he had just remembered.

The interrogator waited, then scoffed in frustration.

“Tch. Play the mute if you want. You’ll talk eventually.”

He turned around and walked out of the rusted steel door, muttering to the guard outside before leaving.

The room felt quiet again. A flickering light above buzzed.

And then, from the chair, he barely whispered:

“Akane…”