Page 8 of Love of the Egoist
“As usual. He wants to know what is coming next. And he wants to see you.”
“Has he healed yet?” Yugo stood up and straightened his dark gray suit.
Greg shrugged. “Hard to say. Do you want me to check him?”
“No. He can wait a couple more days. I don’t have time to deal with him right now. Just make sure he doesn’t kill you.” Loosening the tie that matched his suit, Yugo turned toward the window, finishing the conversation.
??E??
KUON COULDN’T TELLhow many days had passed. His healthy, young body had healed and now smoldered with energy and yearned for activity, but his head grew tired of thinking about escape. No matter how hard Kuon tried to use his gray matter, he couldn’t find a way out of the dim basement.
His skin, his hair, and his dirty clothes absorbed the smell of moist concrete, installing the idea that he would never be able to wash this smell off.
He had to take off his socks. Dirty and sweaty, they didn’t bring him any warmth but felt cold and wet against his feet. He itched to remove the rest of his filthy clothes too, but that would leave him naked. His mouth felt sour, and there was nothing to brush his teeth with. He could only scrub them with the hem of his dirty shirt.
The darkness and disorientation played tricks on his mind, stretching the reality and time. It felt like he had been locked away for months, but his stubble hadn’t grown long, so he assumed that maybe a week had passed.
But the worst was the silence. The maddening, ringing silence, disturbed only by the slapping sounds of his bare feet and his breathing.
Sometimes he talked—only to hear his own voice—but he quickly shut up, unable to handle the mocking exaggeration of the desperation in the twisted echo.
Greg kept coming, now bringing food in soft silicon containers with disposable cutlery. Placing them down on the floor and never letting his focus slip, he cleaned the bucket. When done, he returned it to the cell, gathered the dishes he had brought before and left.
Quickly understanding that he wouldn’t be able to win in an open combat, Kuon tried to provoke him to get him talking, but the guard never reacted, as if he were deaf.
Desperation reigned in Kuon’s heart. He couldn’t stay like this forever. He felt he was going insane in this silence and darkness, where food was the only entertainment. Food and watching Greg clean his shit.
Maybe I should refuse eating? Would Yugo meet me then?
Sitting on the floor, he stared at the cold soup. Green and thick, it had creamy texture and something floated close to the surface. Bored to no ends, Kuon reached for a spoon to fish it out and check what it was when metal screeched, cutting the silence, informing the detective of the door opening.
Kuon bolted upright. Sparks of energy prickled in his fingertips and rippled through his body. Each visit of his guard provided him with a potential opportunity—the opportunity he didn’t have the luxury to waste.
The strong electric light hit Kuon’s eyes, depriving him of vision. The sound of heavy footsteps descending the stairs reached his ears, and for a minute a broad frame shielded the lights. Keys clanked as the door of his cell opened.
Kuon peered up with his rapidly adapting sight and cocked his head. His eyes followed Greg’s every move, learning the balance of his body, waiting for a chance to strike. But something was off today. Greg’s movements seemed rushed as if he wasn’t there to stay. No smell of food present in the air, no sign of containers.
Kuon tensed.
This is new.
Adrenaline quickened Kuon’s blood. He swallowed, trying to maintain the energy spiraling in his body, accumulate it, store it. His muscles tingled, itching for a combat.
“Boss wants to see you. Hands.” Greg’s deep, rusty voice echoed in the basement as his hand disappeared behind his back and reappeared, holding handcuffs. They were the first words the man had ever directed at Kuon.
Kuon’s mouth dried up, his gaze darting all over Greg’s wide body calculating his odds.
If I let him handcuff me…
“Don’t do anything stupid, lad,” the man croaked, cutting his thought, and placed his legs apart as if seeing through Kuon. A warning flashed in his deep-set eyes, leaving the detective with no other choice but to stretch out his arms.
CLICK. CLICK.
The metal bit into his wrists as Kuon scowled. He didn’t like this development but had no time to think about it. Greg’s body, blocking the exit, washed him with the warm blow of his minty cologne and aftershave.
Grabbing Kuon’s elbow Greg dragged him out.
??E??
