"Goodness."
That voice came from behind the mask. Low, slow, like bubbles rising from the bottom of a deep well, bursting the instant they touched the air.
"Honesty."
Among the kneeling crowd, someone raised their head.
"Bravery."
Another.
"Generosity."
Those lifted faces had dry eyes, lips pressed tight. But a subtle, almost imperceptible change was spreading across those rigid features—like something beginning to loosen beneath a frozen river's surface.
"All the fine qualities my children firmly believe in."
The figure on stage shifted slightly sideways. The two slits on the mask swept across the crowd below, like twin beams of light without warmth cutting through the night.
Someone lowered their head. Not in reverence—in avoidance.
"Parents."
The voice paused for an instant.
"Brothers."
Another instant.
"Teachers."
"Companions."
"Endlessly proclaiming their necessity, their greatness."
He knelt at the very edge, forehead pressed to the ground, motionless. Those words drifted past above him like wind over a dry riverbed, leaving no trace. He couldn't read, hadn't studied, didn't understand what "qualities" meant. He only knew that fists hurt when they landed on his body, and hunger was harder than any principle.
"Relying on these qualities—"
The figure on stage took a step forward.
Not toward the platform's edge—just a step. But in the instant that step landed, the breath of nearly a thousand people in the warehouse caught simultaneously.
"—to build the ideal home in our hearts,"
The voice didn't rise, but grew heavier, like lowering clouds.
"—and dedicate our entire lives?"
Heart-wrenching.
Not performed. It was that broad, dark-robed body, as it spoke the last word of this sentence, slightly collapsing inward—as if something had snapped from within, as if a mountain had chosen to collapse.
He couldn't see. He kept his head down. But he felt it.
The weight of that collapse passed through the air, through the countless kneeling backs in front of him, pressing onto his own shoulders.
Something slipped from between his clenched teeth. Not a sound—a breath. A breath held too long, finally unable to hold any longer, leaking out.
—
"Children."
That voice sounded again. No longer "my children," but—
"Children."
Closer. Softer. Like a father opening a bedroom door late at night, searching in the darkness for the foot that kicked off the blanket.
"Even I—"
The figure on stage slowly raised one arm. The vivid red palm faced downward, five fingers slightly spread, as if trying to grasp something invisible from the air.
"Have been deceived."
Someone cried out.
Not a wail, not a release. Just a thread of whimper, extremely thin, leaking from deep in a throat compressed to its limit. That sound was so short it was almost inaudible, yet it carved a gash through the warehouse's taut silence like a dull knife.
He didn't cry.
He just forgot to breathe.
—
"Those sanctimonious bastards."
The arm on stage suddenly clenched into a fist! That vivid red hand, born from smoke, gazed upon by a thousand people, now clenched tight into a fist!
The fist punched the air. No sound. But the force of that motion made those kneeling in the front rows flinch back in unison—as if swept by an invisible shockwave.
"Those high and mighty bastards."
The fist slowly unclenched. Fingers extended one by one, like some slow, irresistible blooming.
"Leaving us with all the mess."
That hand pressed downward. Palm facing down, fingers slightly curled, as if pressing something into the earth.
"Reaping the rewards while sitting pretty."
From somewhere in the crowd, a low response escaped. Like a sigh, like a groan, like some long-suppressed resonance finally finding an exit.
He knelt. His palms braced against the ground, palms pressed to the cold dust. When those words fell, he felt his palms sink in slightly. Not really sinking—it was that the dust had suddenly grown soft, soft enough to swallow his whole hand, his whole self, along with all those memories of fists and hunger.
—
"Gathering all force, all violence."
The arm on stage suddenly swung to one side! That motion was fast as a blade, a whip, something that tore through air.
Those kneeling in front bowed their heads in unison.
Not voluntarily.
Instinct.
"To protect their own property."
The other arm swung to the other side. Both vivid red hands, once embraced by smoke, now burning like flames in the torchlight, spread wide!
"Good qualities—"
The voice rose. Not a roar, not a shout—just squeezed from deep in the chest, nearly fracturing—
"Have become the hangman's noose!"
Both arms crossed violently! Vivid red palms intersecting, like an invisible yoke stretching across the air!
Someone began trembling violently. Not just one—many. Those kneeling figures, as if struck by the same whip, simultaneously curled inward.
He didn't tremble. He just stared at those crossed, vivid red palms. He couldn't read, hadn't studied, didn't know what a noose was. But he knew strangulation. Knew that feeling of something tightening around the neck, tighter and tighter, unable to breathe.
His throat moved.
—
"When you believe the devil's temptation—"
The hands on stage slowly separated. The motion was slow, as if someone were cutting something open with a knife, every inch met with resistance.
"—and place it around your own neck—"
Those hands lifted upward. Palms up, fingers slightly curled, as if lifting something.
"—everything is finished."
Both arms dropped suddenly! Like the lifted weight finally crushing the lifter!
Among those kneeling in front, someone collapsed forward. Not fainting—just utterly collapsed—as if those words had drained all the strength supporting their bodies.
"They'll drain everything from you without hesitation."
The figure on stage slowly crouched down. That broad, dark-robed body, like a mountain beginning to sink.
And then—
"And when you awaken,"
The mask lifted. The two slits aimed directly at the crowd.
"Try to resist—"
The voice stopped.
Not a sound in the warehouse. Even the crackle of torches vanished. As if the entire world had been paused.
He knelt there. His palms braced the ground. His throat was still tight. His eyes—those eyes that had only ever locked onto prey, avoided danger, never dared look directly at any light—had somehow lifted.
He saw those two slits.
He didn't know if he was being watched. He only knew that behind those slits, something shone brighter than every fist, every curse, every hungry night he'd ever known.
—
"The devils coax you again with sweet words."
That voice sounded again, but extremely soft. Soft as a whisper, a sigh, a long-forgotten song a mother once hummed in a child's ear.
The figure on stage slowly stood.
Those vivid red palms hung again at his sides. The robe fell, like night once again shrouding the earth.
"And tonight—"
That voice finally began to rise. Not fast—steady, like a tide slowly but irreversibly rising.
"After—"
"Everything—"
Those arms spread wide again!
This time not an oath, not a judgment, not any ritualistic gesture. Just spread wide. As if to embrace. As if to contain. As if to gather into his arms all thousand shattered, starving, trembling souls in this warehouse.
"—will end."
The voice suddenly tightened! Not lowered—drawn taut—like a bow pulled to full tension, like a sword about to strike.
"Everyone—"
Those arms lifted high! Vivid red palms toward the vaulted ceiling, as if making an offering to some invisible presence!
"Will—"
The voice stopped at its peak. That highest, fullest, closest-to-shattering word—
"Witness."
Did not fall.
Hung there.
Like a blade suspended in air.
Like rain that would never come.
Like a sentence never finished.
—
The warehouse.
A thousand people.
Kneeling.
Heads raised.
Mouths open.
Waiting for that word to fall.
Waiting for those hands to fall.
Waiting for everything behind that mask to fall.
He did not wait.
He just knelt there, that stolen red handprint on his face long since blurred into a stain by tears, both hands bracing the ground, like a battered, bloodied beast that could finally run no more, finally willing to kneel.
He didn't know what those words meant. Didn't know what "witness" would witness. Didn't know where this frenzied, terrifying, breath-crushing night would finally lead him.
He only knew—
From that direction, from the direction of those spread, vivid red palms, something shone upon him.
Not torchlight.
Something else.
Something warm.
Slowly, completely, he buried his head.
Forehead pressed to dust.
Pressed to this cold, filthy ground that had never known hope.
His shoulders shook.
But he did not raise his head again.
He listened.
Every word from that figure on stage was like a red-hot nail, hammered one by one into the cracks of his bones.
Not painful.
Just hot.
So hot his whole body trembled—
yet he couldn't move an inch.
He watched.
Every straining swing of those arms on stage—vivid red palms slashing through the dim air, like trails of flame, like some totem he'd never seen yet had flowed in his blood for too long. There was some magic in those swings, not deception, not manipulation—something deeper. A brute force that lifted his hunger-hardened, abuse-hardened, kneeling-hardened body from the ground.
He was deeply trapped within it.
Like stepping into a swamp. Not sinking—being held. Held by those words, those movements, those invisible gazes shooting from behind the mask's slits, suspended in mid-air, unable to rise, unable to fall, only able to hang there, waiting for the next sentence to catch him.
"Forget those hollow promises—"
Those arms on stage suddenly thrust outward! Like pushing aside an invisible wall, like gouging something rotten from the chest!
His whole body shook. He didn't know what promises. No one had ever promised him anything. Yet he still instinctively shrank his shoulders—as if those things he'd never possessed yet always been crushed by, really did, under that push, slide off his back a little.
"Forget those yet-unfulfilled vows—"
Those hands crossed over the chest, then fiercely tore outward! Like ripping open an old wound, exposing the rot inside to the air!
His breathing quickened. He heard his own gasping, rough, turbid, like prey chased too long, finally unable to run. Vows? He didn't know what they were. But he knew "yet-unfulfilled"—in his whole life, he'd never waited for anything that was "supposed to come."
"No one else will come to save us."
"We must—"
Those arms on stage suddenly clenched into fists! Not punching the air—drawn in before the chest, like embracing something, like gripping something, like forcing the last bit of strength into his ribs!
"Become devils!"
—What?
His breath stopped.
"Devils mightier than them!"
Those arms burst open wide! Like two gates of hell crashing apart! Vivid red palms facing forward, as if to seize something, as if to tear something apart!
"Devils that make them fear!!!"
That last word smashed down. Not shouted—smashed. Uprooted from the deepest part of the chest, carrying blood, carrying flesh, carrying all the hunger, humiliation, fists and cold stares of this lifetime, smashed into the skulls of these thousand people!
—
Devils?
He knelt there, palms bracing the ground, his whole body as if nailed in place.
Become devils?
He wanted to stand.
Not literally stand. Some thought—some thought starved a lifetime, beaten a lifetime, kneeling a lifetime, yet never completely extinguished—lifted its head inside him.
Devils?
He slowly raised his head.
Something rolled down from his eye sockets, hot. He didn't know it was tears. He'd gone too long without them, forgotten their temperature.
He just stared at that spread, vivid red figure on stage, as if about to swallow the whole world.
Devils.
If he could really become a devil—
Would those fists still reach him?
Would that hunger still find him?
Would those gazes that never dared look directly at him, one day, flinch before his?
He didn't know.
He just knelt there, palms bracing the ground, his whole body trembling, like a battered, bloodied beast that had finally understood one sentence of human speech.
Those vivid red palms on stage were still spread wide.
As if waiting for him.
As if waiting for all of them.