Chương 45: 20.Just a Chat, They Said. That’s How Nightmare Begins 20-1

The voices outside the door started muffled at first. Like everyday noise filtering through frosted glass. Footsteps, quiet conversation, the soft rustle of paper. Not the cold, regimented sounds of a military base, not the mechanical hum of training zones. Normal. Normal in a way that was deeply offensive. I sat in the chamber chair as the warm-toned sitting room took shape around me. A wooden table appeared by the wall, holding a water glass, tissues, and a small silver thermos.

The door stood half-open, soft light spilling through—not harsh, like somewhere that had finally decided to let you breathe. First trap. Because it didn't look like one. Footsteps approached. The man who entered wore grey civilian clothes—no rank, no weapons, not even a military posture. He carried a thin paper file and knocked politely twice on the doorframe before stepping in.

"Morning," he said, voice quiet.

"Sorry to keep you waiting." …Right. That kind of opener was infinitely worse than being grabbed by the throat. I didn't answer. Just looked at him. He seemed completely unbothered by my silence. Set the file on the table, pulled up a chair, and sat at a precisely calculated distance—close enough that you'd hear every word, far enough that nothing felt coercive.

"You don't need to be nervous," he said.

"I'm not here for a formal statement." I laughed coldly in my head. Exactly. The more it starts like this, the worse it gets. He nudged the water glass slightly toward me.

"Have some water? You look a little pale." I stared at the glass. Clear. Clean. Fine condensation beading on the outside. In this context, a glass of water was already its own language. Not because it was poisoned. Because it said: Look—we're not here to hurt you. We're taking care of you. I didn't touch it. The man didn't press. Just nodded, as if understanding my caution.

"That's fine," he said.

"Being careful is appropriate." …Sophisticated. He'd preemptively reframed my defensiveness as a virtue. If this man sold insurance, he could bankrupt an entire street. He opened the file, tone remaining pleasant.

"Let me clarify your status first. You're not formally detained."

"More precisely, you're in protective isolation."

"So for many of these questions—if you'd rather not answer, you don't have to." I watched him quietly. Second layer. Not force. Permission. Because the moment someone believes I don't have to answer, they're considerably more likely to give the first response. He looked up, as if concerned I might not follow, and added helpfully: "I won't touch operational content today. No names, no locations, no missions. We're just establishing your baseline—seeing if there's anything you need." … There it was.

The variant of the false safety protocol. Skip the core. Probe the periphery. Sounds like a wellness questionnaire. But what's useful isn't always the center—the edges leak more often. I said nothing. He turned a page, voice carrying a note of reassurance.

"You're young. Some things aren't yours to carry. If you were just pulled into this, there's no reason to make it harder on yourself than necessary." My fingertip twitched slightly. That one was getting close. Not because it was harsh. Because it landed in a very specific spot—it was building me an excuse. Not your fault. Not your choice. You were just caught up. One small nod and you could shift some of the weight. And the moment someone wants to put down something heavy, they tend to say more.

I waited a few seconds before speaking.

"Didn't you say this wasn't a formal statement?" The man looked at me calmly.

"That's right."

"So I'm not taking a statement."

"I'm asking whether you need a version that's easier to live with." …Elegant. Elegant enough that I almost wanted to applaud. He wasn't demanding a confession. He was selling me a dignified exit. That was the hardest kind to refuse. I leaned back slightly, keeping my voice level.

"What does 'easier to live with' mean?" He placed his hands on his knees and leaned forward slightly, like someone genuinely trying to help. Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"For instance—you could just tell me whether your participation was voluntary."

"That's not operational detail. It doesn't implicate anyone else."

"Just your own part." The wire in my chest pulled taut. That was the filthiest move yet. It sounded completely harmless. No who. No where. No how. Just: were you willing? Like it was preserving dignity. But the moment I answered, the whole path opened. Not willing leads to who made you. Willing leads to why did you join. Either way, the next question was already growing. I looked at him slowly.

"What if I said I'm not answering that either?" The man nodded without irritation.

"That's fine. We can try a different direction." He turned another page, as if genuinely accommodating me.

"Have you been sleeping alright lately?" I almost laughed. Filthy. Because this sounded exactly like concern. But if I said not really, the ladder was right there: why not, when did it start, was it because of something, someone, a specific operation. You think you're talking about insomnia. You're building them a staircase. I didn't answer. He moved on smoothly.

"Eating okay?" Still nothing. He looked at me with mild resignation and understanding, then exhaled softly.

"You're very smart." That line was more dangerous than everything before it. Not flattery. Distance-closing. I see you. I know you're guarding. I acknowledge you're right to. So you can trust me just a little. I dropped my gaze to the water glass. A small bead of condensation slid down the side, leaving a thin trail. Master Tam's words surfaced uninvited: The truly lethal situations aren't when someone forces you to talk. They're when you decide—just this little bit, that should be fine. The man didn't push.

He slowed down instead.

"Here's what I'm thinking." He closed the file, like formally abandoning the intelligence angle.

"You don't need to say anything about organizations, missions, locations, or anyone else. Just you."

"How old are you?" Something dropped in my chest. The question itself was nothing. But it had two functions: make everything feel like basic information, and once you answer the first harmless question, every one after gets easier. I said nothing. He nodded like he'd anticipated that.

"Let me rephrase." His voice softened.

"You're still a minor, aren't you?" My fingertip moved again. Filthier than the last. It looked like confirming an obvious fact. Most people would think: a nod or shake isn't saying much. But any form of confirmation handed over the rhythm. I closed my eyes briefly and steadied my breathing. The man's voice dropped lower.

"You don't need to be afraid. This isn't for prosecution."

"Actually, if you're a minor, a lot of the responsibility wouldn't fall on you." … Right. The most infuriating part. He wasn't threatening me. He was helping me off-load weight. And the moment someone starts thinking if I admit this, maybe things get lighter—they're already inside. I opened my mouth. For a very brief moment, I genuinely almost said it. Not the age itself. Something worse: That doesn't have anything to do with those things, does it.

Because saying that would have done three things simultaneously: confirmed my age was discussable, confirmed those things existed, and started drawing my own lines about what was relevant. The door would have opened from my own mouth. My throat tightened. I swallowed it back hard. Two seconds of silence. The man looked at me, expression unchanged. But I knew he'd seen it. He'd seen me almost speak. Then he smiled very softly—not mockingly. More like regret.

"Almost," he said. Cold shot down my spine. The next second, the whole scene shattered like glass. Warm lights out. Wooden table gone. Tea gone. The man gone. The sitting room split apart, revealing the sterile white simulation anteroom. Master Tam sat in his folding chair exactly where he'd been, unlit cigarette still in place, like he hadn't shifted position the entire time. He squinted at me and gave two slow, deliberate claps. Clap. Clap.

"Not bad," he said.

"Almost opened the door yourself." I sat in the chamber chair, back soaked in cold sweat. Not from fear. From humiliation. Because I'd genuinely almost done it. Not because they'd forced me. Because I'd wanted to say what does that even matter. Master Tam looked at my face—which probably wasn't pretty—and smiled faintly.

"See that?"

"They hadn't even started the real interrogation. Hadn't raised their voice. Hadn't actually pushed the water on you. And you were already drawing your own boundaries." My throat was dry.

"That line…wasn't really saying much." Master Tam immediately made a short sound.

"There it is. That exact sentence." He pointed the cigarette at me.

"That's the voice in your head most likely to get you killed." He stood slowly and walked over to me.

"Wasn't saying much."

"This part should be fine."

"They already know this anyway."

"I'm just clarifying."

"I'm not giving anyone up. I'm only talking about myself." Each line landed heavier than the last. Because they were too familiar. Not like teaching material—like things I actually said to myself. Master Tam stopped in front of me and looked down.

"First thing you train in counter-interrogation isn't sealing your mouth shut."

"It's learning to recognize which lines your own internal monologue runs that are already working for the enemy." I said nothing. Because talking back now would look bad even to myself. Master Tam watched me for two seconds, then set the cigarette aside and bent down slightly, voice low but completely clear.

"Kid, today you almost didn't lose to him."

"You almost lost to the version of yourself that said: just this little bit, it probably won't matter." When that landed, I suddenly wanted to laugh. Not because it was funny. Because it was too accurate. Accurate enough that being angry would just look like failing a makeup exam. I leaned back, closed my eyes, and after a few seconds said very quietly:"…This is genuinely awful." Master Tam nodded.

"Good."

"That's real awful now. Not a line you're using as cover." He seemed satisfied.

"Alright. First bite landed." I opened my eyes.

"That was only the first bite?"

"What did you think?" Master Tam said, matter-of-fact.

"You think that habit of talking yourself into things only has one layer?" …Shit. It really doesn't. He walked back to the console and tapped the panel unhurriedly. The white walls lit with the next standby prompt.

"That one was just testing whether you'd reach for kindness," he said.

"Next round, we see whether you'll reach for understanding." I frowned.

"Is there a difference?" Master Tam didn't turn around. He laughed once.

"Big difference. Kindness is someone being good to you. Understanding is someone making you feel—finally, someone gets it." He tilted his head back toward me, squinting.

"That one opens people up faster than water, exits, or any safety option." I sat in the chamber chair, the cold still not fully gone from my spine, already knowing the next round would be worse. Because the man in the last scenario had been offering me a route. What Master Tam was about to offer wasn't a route. It was resonance. Someone understands you. Someone knows you're not bad. Someone knows you were pushed into this. Someone gets why you are the way you are.

That was considerably more dangerous than any threat. I drew a deep breath and stared at the white wall beginning to shift.

"Master Tam."

"Mm?"

"When you were young—were you actually a worse bastard than me?" He laughed.

"Oh, now you're asking something useful." He knocked his knuckles against the console.

"Make it through today's first two rounds, and if I'm in a good mood, maybe I'll tell you a story." … Perfect. Even gossip as a reward tier. This old man was street-operator to the bone. The outlines of the new scenario began to form. And sitting there, I understood with perfect clarity: the real problem wasn't how well Master Tam could dig pits. It was that sometimes pits didn't need digging at all. Just warm the light a little. Soften the voice a little.

Make the exit sound a little more real—and people walked in themselves. I wet my lips, which had gone dry, and said quietly:"… Let's go." Master Tam heard it and smiled, eyes still narrow.

"Good."

"This round, we see how much you want to be understood."