Rod found himself back in the bunker. It was dark, metallic, rustic, and damp. He was in the office of their leader—General Boucher. Everyone called him Cezar.
Cezar was talking, but everything was blurred.
Rod couldn't hear what he was saying, couldn't comprehend a word. It was just noise among other noise, and his head was swirling.
Finally, Cezar dismissed him, and Rod left the office.
What happened?
What's going on?
Wasn't he just in the drainage tunnels? Why was he suddenly in Cezar's office, listening to one of his boring briefings?
Where is the Mentor?
Rod walked back to his unit, passing people wearing gas masks. Some greeted him—some politely, some casually, and others rudely. Rod kept walking, unbothered.
In his mind, there was only one question: Will I ever see the Mentor again?
He reached his unit and stepped inside—only for his heart to sink at the sight.
The room was empty.
The Mentor wasn't there. No one was there.
He was all alone. And suddenly, everything felt... dead.
Who was that shadow? Why was it attacking the Mentor?
Rod stepped to the edge of the room and washed his face. When he looked up into the mirror—he froze.
His face was hollow.
Nothing was there but a black hole, swirling into the void.
Rod dropped to the floor. Fear stole the strength from his knees. Frantically, he touched his face—eyes, nose, lips, ears... they were still there. Even his teeth. That was a relief—but not enough to make him feel safe.
Rod slowly stood up and looked at himself in the mirror again.
Normal. His face was normal.
Before he could make sense of what just happened—hallucination? magic?—someone opened the unit door.
A young man entered the room.
"Hey, what's your name?" the man asked, his voice cheerful, though low and heavy.
Rod couldn't make out his face—it was blurry. But he could tell this man was strong. Buff. Ripped. Tattooed.
"...Rod," Rod answered.
"Rod?" the man repeated. "Ah. I see now. That's the problem."
"Who are you? Get out of my unit!" Rod snapped.
"Chill. This is my unit now," the man replied casually and drops his bag on the floor, then he move his shoulder muscles around.
"What?!"
"I'm your new mentor. Name's ***e*." He smirked. "I'm here to guide you to be your perfect self."
***
Rod's unit door burst open from the inside as he and his new Mentor grapple violently. They slam each other into the walls, crash to the floor, roll, flip over one another—one pinning, the other striking—only to switch again. The fight is raw, relentless, and desperate. At one point, the new Mentor throws Rod onto the floor, spit and sweat flinging into the air.
Neither of them stops. Neither gives in.
"Where is my Mentor?! Where is Charles?!" Rod shouts, launching another furious attack.
"You're not getting what you want by acting like a damn kid!" the new Mentor growls, slamming Rod hard against the metallic wall.
"Bring Charles back! I don't want you!" Rod grabs a crowbar and charges, rage pouring from every movement. But the new Mentor remains calm, steady—waiting. Then, with perfect timing, he swings his leg in a brutal arc and snaps the crowbar in two.
Yes—he breaks the crowbar with a kick.
Rod freezes. That… makes him think.
And he gives up.
He collapses, breathless. Lucky, he thinks, that the new Mentor didn't kick him like that.
"I should've protected him... but I couldn't," Rod chokes out. "If he hadn't been holding my rope, keeping me from getting swept away in the drainage… he could've saved himself from that attack."
Then he lifts his tear-soaked face, eyes filled with guilt.
"He died for me, didn't he?!"
The new Mentor grabs Rod by the hair and pulls him forward until Rod kneels before him. His face is still blurred, impossible to make out, but his eyes—his eyes burn with fire.
"You want him back? Really?" he asks, voice calm but heavy with intensity. "Then follow my lead. I'll guide you to him."
Rod's breath catches. That power—the certainty in his voice—is infectious. He wipes his tears and slowly rises.
"That's the spirit," the new Mentor says, releasing his grip and stepping back. "Now stand. I'll train you hard and rough—because you don't rise with softness."
Rod hates to lose, especially to someone he doesn't even know.
But deep down, he knows the new Mentor is right.
So he stands.
***
Jacques woke up and lay still in bed, staring at the ceiling.
"Ah, shit. I can't wait until the exam's over so I can ask the Oracle about the Mentor. I can't lose him!"
He looked at the clock on the wall—6 p.m. It was time to prepare for his meeting with Sulu. As he climbed down from the top bunk, Charles entered the room. He looked tired, dressed in all black.
"Where were you?" Jacques asked.
Charles sat down on the bed and wiped his face. "Funeral."
"Who died?"
When Charles lowered his hands, he looked sharply at Jacques, like someone who had just been offended. "Really?" he asked in a low tone.
Of course, Jacques didn't understand what was wrong with the question. Wasn't that just a normal thing to ask? How could that be offensive?
"Yeah, I mean... you leave every day, I never know what you're up to. I just wanted to greet you. It's okay if you don't want to talk—I'm off to shower," Jacques said, disappearing into the bathroom to rinse off.
Charles shook his head. "What was I thinking when I agreed to be his boyfriend?"
He had told Jacques many times that his dad was in trouble. And yet there Jacques was, asking where he'd been—as if Charles hadn't just returned from a funeral.
Sometimes, Charles felt like Jacques lived in his own world, completely out of sync with reality.
And that… wasn't sexy.
Even after he finishes bathing, he puts on his clothes and gets ready to leave again.
Charles can't stand it. He calls out, "Wait, are you serious? How can you leave the dorm whenever you want?"
Jacques, already outside, delays closing the door to answer his boyfriend, "I don't know. Same way you're always not in the dorm?"
Charles sits on his bunk. "I left the dorm because I need to visit my father. He was in trouble and was just buried this morning. You? What urgency do you have?"
Jacques smirks. "Did you not read the dorm rules? They allow us to leave, but only to visit the gym or stadium. Wanna come with me? The police academy scores high in physical performance, remember?"
Charles doesn't even respond. He just rolls his eyes and lies back down on his bunk. Jacques laughs, closes the door, and walks with wide steps as he jumps to skip the stairs, landing on the ground level.
He visits the dorm's cafeteria and has dinner before heading to the park to work out.
The sky is dark. He trains his agility alone, all the while keeping an eye out for a potential target. He loves this park—especially at night. Because at night, bikers leave their nests and hit the road. A lot of modified motorcycles are parked nearby.
He loves to see them.
As he does pull-ups, a motorcycle roars past, crossing the road. Something tickles his mind. What if he stole it?
He already imagines the steps: steal the motorcycle, take the working parts, sell the rest. He'll make money. He could build his own bike from the scrap—one the police can't trace. The license plates? Easy. Just make one similar enough. They'll never know.
No one's going to find out.
A motorcycle parks just beside the parkour section he's training in. It's a modified beast—part racing bike, part mountain bike. A real beauty. It catches his eye like a sexy androgynous femboy he's always been weak for. It's waiting for him. Calling him. Luring him closer.
Steal me, Jacques… and ride me to oblivion, she whispers.
Jacques feels his heart beat faster. He lets go of the bar and wipes his sweat. Even as he hydrates with a bottle of water, he can't take his eyes off that modified motorcycle.
Steal me! the bike begs, like a sexy, submissive, breedable thing desperate for him to take her.
He takes a step closer—and something stops him.
Don't.
Don't steal. If you become a thief, you'll ruin everything. You'll disappoint your mother.
Don't do it, Jacques.
Let's just go home.
Ironic, isn't it? A police cadet with a history of stealing? If he slips up, not only could he end up in jail—but more than that, he'll break his promise. The one he made to his mother. That he'd be a good person. Someone who brings something positive to the world.
Jacques turns his back, grabs his things, and walks home to his dormitory.