soukoku/soukoku

September 1942. East Prussia.

Chuya Nakahara stands by the window—a narrow slit through which he can see the gray sky and barbed wire. He's fifteen. His Hitler Youth uniform hangs heavily on him—slender shoulders, long hair, a face his father calls "girlish." His father is Himmler's right-hand man, and for Chuya, he's not "Papa," but "Mr. Father." Today, his father said, "They've brought a prisoner. Stalin's son. You'll guard him. If he talks, call me. If he escapes, you'll pay with your head."

Chuya nodded. He never argues. He doesn't cry. Crying is not allowed—it's worse than any punishment.

One floor below, in a windowless cell, Dazai lies on straw and counts the cracks in the ceiling. He's also fifteen. Three days of torture: a broken pinky, broken teeth, burns on his chest. Now he just waits. He has an escape plan—a frayed chain, a weak spot in the lock, a toilet window. But he's in no hurry.

It's boring to be alone.

Tomorrow, Chuya will open the door to his cell for the first time. And both will understand: in this hell, they are the only thing that can still be called alive.