The days that followed—before we even completed the first week—we already knew each other well enough.
Not deeply.
Just enough.
Deepening relationships here wasn't a good idea. And it definitely wasn't easy.
After all, our reasons for ending up here were very different.
Take the gambling guys, for example. They're used to dealing in risks and benefits. Whenever you talk to them, it feels like they're measuring every word, every gesture—calculating how to use you later.
I couldn't have a proper conversation with them.
Too tiring.
The "experience" guys were even worse. Tough. Really tough nuts to crack. They barely spoke at all. I honestly had no idea what kind of experience they were looking for. Digging latrines? Carrying boxes? Running deliveries?
Hell—if they watched my back, I'd gladly take them to my future restaurant and let them do all the deliveries they wanted.
Then there were the ones in the same situation as me.
I bonded a little with Rupert. The bite he panicked about turned out to be real. The doctor here is impressive—no questions asked. He identified the venom and treated it on the first try.
I don't know what day it is anymore. I just know it's been a week since we started working on this shoreless stretch of nothing.
I've gotten used to the morning runs.
We all do our best not to piss Pain off.
I have to admit—it hasn't been that long, but I can already feel the change. Strength building up. The blisters on my feet are proof of the work I've been putting in.
Ugly.Painful.Proof.
And part of me…
Part of me is starting to get used to this feeling.
Stockholm syndrome, perhaps.
By the end of the week, the rookies started sharing something else.
They said they were seeing things in the evenings.
Shadows.Movements.Sounds that weren't there.
This guy—Makena. Ex–professional gambler.
He claimed there was a threat in the middle of the night. Panicked. Blew the whistle.
The whole camp snapped awake in seconds.
I've seen movies about camp alerts.
The real thing?
Way more impressive.
Pain was already moving before most of us even stood up. When he confirmed there was no real threat, his face changed.
He smiled.
A big, scary smile.
When morning came, Makena was buried up to the waist. Sand packed tight around him. Pain was kicking sand straight into his face, laughing like he was enjoying a day at the beach.
He genuinely looked like he was having the time of his life.
About half an hour later, when he finally got bored, Pain ordered us to line up.
"Good morning, sunshines," he said. "I had a terrible night's sleep. So I'll be sharing my mood with you today. Roger?"
We answered with the worst faces possible.
"Roger, sir!"
That day, we had one meal.
We ran twice.
And spent hours outside hauling heavy boxes—probably ammo. Knowing Pain, there was a real chance some of those boxes held explosives, so we were extra careful not to drop anything.
By the end of the day, if it weren't for the no-infighting rule, I'm pretty sure Makena wouldn't have made it to the next morning.
People are clever, though.
Like in those old-fashioned jail movies, they beat him using soap wrapped in a towel. Just enough to leave no marks. Just enough to make sure he remembered that if he wanted extra exercise, he could do it on his own free time.
The next day, he was stiff as hell—
—but alive.
That same day, we were issued our first standard weapon.
A Glock 19.
I guess that officially made us part of the club—wearing the same thing as Maximillian or Pain.
Of course, no ammo.
Mái Huò got a pistol-shaped stick.
Seemed logical.
People always tell you how to treat a woman. Or how to treat your fellow man.
Here, we were taught how to respect a Glock.
How to carry it.How to clean it.
There was nothing wrong with the cleaning lesson—technically speaking.
But the way Pain taught us had nothing to do with weapons.
I won't go into detail.
I'll just say this: if we ever do something wrong to Pain's Glock, I'm pretty sure he'll skin us alive.
On day thirteen, after the morning light jog, Pain orders us to line up.
We do.
I look around.
From the twenty of us who started, sixteen are holding weapons.
The other four—including Mái Huò—aren't.
They're carrying the regulatory stick.
Honestly?
They fit the uniform disturbingly well.
They earned the stick for things like not cleaning the muzzle properly. Or wearing the gun incorrectly.
Luckily, no one has dropped a weapon yet.
We're taken a short distance away from the camp.
For the first time, I'm handed ammunition.
After the basic speech.After the instructions on how to load and assemble it.
I feel ready.
Eager, even.
My first shooting round.
But standing there, in the middle of nowhere, I look ahead.
Ten meters away—
—and I see the impossible.
Something that shatters what little mental stability I had left…
and pushes me straight toward insanity.