Ramon was blindfolded, arms and legs spread wide, tied to the interrogation rack.

  As a high-ranking officer, he knew exactly what he looked like on that rack.

  Like a pagan corpse hanging from a cross.

  Or like a prostitute forced to take clients.

  After about four or five hours of being bound, a man’s footsteps echoed through the silent underground interrogation room—the steady, unhurried strike of leather soles against the floor.

  The man entered Ramon’s cell, turned on the light, and began unbuttoning Ramon’s shirt, then his belt, the zipper…

  This was too humiliating!

  He was a high-ranking general who had risked his life for his country, but now he was being displayed like a slab of meat on a butcher’s block.

  There was a tiny gap between the bridge of his nose and the black cloth, letting in a sliver of faint light. Ramon tried desperately to see who the man was, but the gap was too small; he could only see a shadow moving, causing the light behind the cloth to flicker in and out.

  A pair of rough, large hands brushed over his body, and he began to form an initial judgment in his mind.

  These were not the hands of a young soldier; it was at least a middle-aged officer. Thinking of the ambiguous relationship between Bernardo and Antonio...

  He was almost certain it was one of them.

  These two perverts…

  Ramon twisted his body desperately, trying to scream, but with his mouth gagged by a towel, he couldn't make a sound.

  Only the creaking of the interrogation rack echoed through the room, punctuated by the man’s heavy breathing.

  A crushing weight and searing pain surged through him, like being slowly ground into the dirt by a tank on the battlefield.

  Ramon’s entire body broke out in cold sweat.

  He was like a wild boar caught in a beast trap, struggling with all his might, also desperate to wail with all his might.

  He hated it—hated why he hadn’t killed these two perverts sooner.

  If he could trigger a grenade, Ramon would be willing to blow himself up right now; he was willing to take this beast to hell with him.

  During the physical contact, Ramon quickly confirmed the perpetrator was Bernardo. In the entire camp, only Bernardo had such a large belly, and his breath reeked of alcohol.

  After ruling out Antonio, Ramon regretted it; he should have begged Antonio to save him.

  Between being treated as nothing more than an object to vent animal lust and losing his dignity by begging Antonio, the things lost by begging were practically insignificant.

  The breakdown caused mucus to spray from his nostrils, yet he still could not make a sound.

  Tears seemed to be surging as well, but Ramon now had only one obsession—living!

  To live on is the only way to have a chance for revenge!

  At this thought, Ramon went quiet, letting the old man do as he pleased.

  ...

  In a dark, mist-shrouded dreamscape.

  A figure with a blurred face called out Bruno’s name.

  “Bruno...”

  Bruno responded. It was in a classroom, by the Sangreza River, on every field path he had ever walked.

  These scenes were all very clear, one by one.

  The only thing unclear was that face—the face he least wanted to remember.

  Back then, Bruno was a youth. After school, he had to herd geese, then the cattle, and then sit on a bull’s back to recite poetry.

  So, his way of responding to that voice was to recite poetry.

  “Spring blossoms, wings fully grown...”

  “To spread them and fly is the youth...”

  As long as Bruno recited poetry in response, he would wake up. Upon waking, he would find he still kept the bad habit of sleeping with his arms and legs spread wide.

  People who occupy a large bed alone for a long time are just like that.

  Bruno gave himself a very good reason: sleeping naked with limbs spread improves blood circulation, and spreading the feet keeps the groin dry.

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  He didn't need to consider shame or exposure; this was his own house, his own room.

  Though he was married, his wife always knocked before entering, and like Bruno, she preferred to live in a large room alone and sleep alone in a large bed.

  After getting up, Bruno threw a blanket over himself, lit a cigarette, and slowly strolled to the balcony.

  This was a private balcony inside his room.

  There was a knock on the door, which was unexpected. He had just checked the time; it was only 5:31 AM, and the sky wasn't even bright yet.

  Bruno opened the door. His wife, seeing him unharmed, only nodded. She combed her messy hair with one hand and covered her mouth to yawn with the other, turning back to return to her room to sleep.

  “My dreaming disturbed you, didn't it? I’m sorry.”

  “It’s nothing, as long as you don’t self-mutilate,” his wife said flatly. Before Bruno could say anything else, she had already closed the door.

  She was a middle school teacher and had to be at work by 6:30. In fact, she could only sleep for another half hour.

  “Sigh!”

  The only way Bruno could express his apology was by making breakfast: boiling two eggs and cooking noodles using the leftover sauce from last night's braised pork.

  There had to be greens in the noodles; that was his wife's favorite breakfast.

  After Bruno finished cooking the noodles, he went back to sleep. Through the door, he heard his wife washing up, eating the noodles, closing the door, and going downstairs.

  There wasn't a single ripple in his heart.

  Life was as flat as water.

  Though Bruno studied literature, he never used words to express loneliness or melancholy, nor the vicissitudes and insights of the long years.

  The only poems he had ever written were hidden in the dreams of his youth; they were actually just a few lines of childish text, not really poetry.

  Moreover, he had long ago torn up that diary, delusional enough to think that time would wash away the memory.

  But the memory, with the repeated appearance of the dream, became deeper and deeper.

  Is this poem carved into the bones?

  Bruno sometimes thought, comically: he hoped no one would see those hidden poems after he died—and that, in the end, someone would just have him cremated.

  The sad thing was, Bruno and his wife had no children.

  Where were the descendants?

  With his mind racing, Bruno couldn’t sleep. He got up again, washing up, eating breakfast, and heading out—all at his wife’s brisk pace.

  Pushing open the door, he found the sky was still a murky grey. Perhaps it was because of the fog—the sky wasn't fully bright yet?

  How could the real-world fog be exactly the same as in the dream?

  Bruno didn't need to be at work until nine o'clock, and it didn't matter if he was late. As a Chief of Staff, a senior Party member, and a veteran who had come off the battlefield, no one would mind if he was occasionally half an hour late.

  However, today he really didn't want to stay at home anymore.

  He was in his early forties; staying at home too long would make one grow mold and rot. He wanted to go out to breathe the morning air and see some people who were pleasing to the eye, even if they couldn't be touched.

  On a large rock wet with morning dew, Bruno sat alone for a long time before old men and women finally came out to chat.

  These old men and women were not simple; they were all retired senior officials.

  While others had to struggle for a living every day, they were bored enough to kill time with small talk.

  They talked about the other side of the river, the currency devaluation, the skyrocketing prices. Bruno sat near them and listened quietly.

  He envied their early retirement, yet feared growing old as fast as them, losing hope for the rest of his life.

  What exactly was that hope?

  He wanted to ask himself, but couldn't find a clear answer.

  The time on his watch had only moved to 6:40. So slow. Bruno's home was right next to the park, so he walked back upstairs and went back to sleep with arms and legs spread.

  Drowsily, he finally fell asleep again.

  For someone who often suffers from insomnia, being able to sleep at this point was a good thing.

  …

  The rape lasted for about two hours.

  But it was a long time later before Ramon was taken down from the interrogation rack by two soldiers. His hands and feet were marked with deep red welts from the restraints.

  His mouth had been bound with the towel for so long it felt numb.

  Through the faint light filtering in from the corner of the corridor, Ramon could be certain that the day had already broken.

  The two soldiers were rough as they took Ramon down, simply untying the ropes and letting him drop freely from the rack.

  Fortunately, he had been hanging only about a hand's breadth from the ground.

  In the past, Ramon would have cursed these two soldiers out, but now, Ramon understood this wasn't the battlefield. He couldn't act on impulse like he did at the front.

  He just silently turned away to avoid the soldiers' contemptuous glares, preparing to pull down his pants to defecate; he had been holding that urge for at least three or four hours.

  The soldiers slipped out the door, locked it, and ran off instantly.

  As Ramon was pulling down his pants, he found the zipper had been broken by Bernardo, and his belt was buckled crookedly.

  Whatever, now wasn't the time to fuss over such things.

  He began to look forward to when Antonio might visit him again. He decided to drop his pride and ask Antonio for help.

  “It’s dawn?”

  Antonio rubbed his sleepy eyes. Seeing Maxim still standing by his bed, he feigned a bit of apology.

  This guy hadn't washed his body clean after entering the room, nor had he confessed to being Bernardo's mole. Naturally, Antonio had no interest in interrogating him; letting him stand all night was just fine.

  “Commander, I...” Maxim stammered.

  “Speak!”

  “I need to pee!”

  “Go, go, go!” Antonio waved his hand impatiently.

  “Commander?” Maxim asked again after coming out of the bathroom. “Do you want to know about the former Division Commander? If you just ask, I’ll tell you everything I know.”

  “No!” Antonio got up and began washing.

  He had no interest in learning about the former Division Commander—an officer with eyes only for money, who had deathly offended both the Minister of Defense and the President, and even hid underage girls in his villa. There was no chance of a comeback.

  “Go back to work,” Antonio said flatly while squeezing toothpaste.

  Maxim could hardly believe his ears. He had been forced to stand all night without sleep, and now he had to go back to work?

  And there was no interrogation or even a scolding?

  What happened to "clean up and sleep"?

  After long observation, Maxim was certain Antonio didn't like men, so he plucked up his courage and asked.

  “Commander, did I do something wrong?”

  Antonio was brushing his teeth and only turned his face: “...”

  “Commander, punishing me like this makes me feel terrible. I don't even know what I did wrong?”

  Only after finishing his brushing did Antonio answer the guy: “I just like you sleeping with me like this. I feel very safe with you standing there.”

  Maxim almost died of embarrassment.

  He racked his brain, and the only thing that made sense was that Antonio had already discovered he was Bernardo’s man.

  But he felt he hadn't given Bernardo much useful information—just trivial matters.

  Like the fact that Antonio didn't like men; he hadn't told Bernardo that.

  The main reason was that Bernardo hadn't given him any benefits at all.

  Maxim was actually a bit annoyed by Antonio’s "reserve." If you want me to roll with you, just say so! Honestly!