Wasn't he already dead? Dead in the K.K. compound, that place they called “hell on earth,” dead in a pit like a mass grave?
He raised his trembling hands. They were unscathed. No broken bones, no countless cigarette burns, no charred marks from electric shocks. His skin was even a little pale from lack of exercise.
He sprang out of bed and rushed to the cracked mirror.
The face in the mirror was young, but worn. His hair was a mess, and his eyes were filled with terror, confusion, and a feral, narrowly escaped death madness that even he found unfamiliar.
This time, it was time to switch the roles of hunter and prey.
He let go, and the curtains fell, shrouding him once more in darkness.
