The silence in the cell grew even more profound.
Haru, with deliberate slowness, lifted one leg and rested it upon the old wooden plank.
He placed both hands on that knee and leaned his face against them, turning toward Yuki.
There was a strange stillness in his eyes—the kind of stillness that felt terrifying.
For a long time, Haru watched Yuki without blinking.
His silence acted like salt on Yuki's open wounds.
Finally, Haru's cold voice echoed, "How... how can you still hold onto the chains of those old memories so tightly, Yuki?"
Yuki looked up in shock, but Haru's face remained flat and expressionless.
Haru continued, "You claim with your tongue that it is all in the past, but this fear in your eyes... it tells a different story entirely."
"I don't think you have liberated yourself from those memories at all."
"The truth is, you are more a slave to your emotions than to your past."
Hearing Haru's blunt and direct assault, Luka's expression dropped.
He was stunned by Haru's perceived insensitivity.
He never imagined someone could voice such a painful truth in such harsh terms.
Yuki could only stare at Haru with wide, vacant eyes, as if he possessed no response to those words.
Their shadows, cast against the cell walls, now looked even more ominous.
As if Yuki's past had taken form, standing ready to consume him.
Luka's fists clenched. He couldn't tolerate the sting hidden in Haru's words.
Increasing the edge in his voice, he asked, "Haru... you speak as if emotions hold no value for you."
"Have you forgotten even your own parents? Is there no feeling left inside you?"
Haru lifted his face from his knee and peered into Luka's eyes.
His gaze held neither anger nor sadness—only a vast emptiness.
"Emotions?" Haru repeated softly, as if the word belonged to another world.
"My parents never saw me as a son, Luka," Haru's voice held an icy stillness.
"In their eyes, I was just a 'sick child.' A problem they couldn't fathom."
"They always looked at me like a patient who would never get well. I never saw that love, that connection you're talking about."
He fixed his gaze on the high ceiling of the cell.
"Perhaps that's why I can't grasp these emotions of yours or Yuki's."
"I have been alone since the moment I gained consciousness."
"I grew up in the midst of solitude, between dark rooms and the white walls of hospitals."
"Where love never existed, how can one feel its absence?"
Haru's words turned the atmosphere of the cell even colder.
Yuki had stifled his sobs and was looking at Haru through new eyes.
The person he had deemed 'stone-hearted' until now was actually a shattered mirror.
In which no one had ever reflected the image of affection.
Lane tentatively reached his hand out toward Haru but froze halfway.
Now, only the sound of their breathing remained in the cell, echoing like a heavy, somber melody.
Haru leaned his back against the wall, scanning Luka from head to toe with slanted, calculating eyes.
In the dim light of the cell, Luka's small face appeared like a still lake, devoid of any ripple.
Lane, sitting right beside Luka, had gripped Luka's arm tightly with his small hands.
He sat leaning against Luka's shoulder for support, as if Luka were his only safe haven.
That physical contact with Luka provided Lane a strange sense of comfort, even in this terrifying dungeon.
"Luka..." Haru began in measured words.
"To the eye, you are but a child, barely ten years old."
"But the depth in your eyes does not belong to this age."
"You seem far older, far more perceptive than your years suggest."
Haru leaned slightly closer to Luka.
"Since the moment I saw you, you have kept yourself wrapped in a strange sort of stillness."
"Yuki is a different matter; he is older, so his maturity is expected. But you?"
Haru pointed toward Lane, who was still clinging to Luka for support.
"Lane and you seem to be of nearly the same age."
"Yet, the difference in your temperaments is like heaven and earth."
Haru narrowed his eyes.
"Lane is an open page—playful, innocent, and always seeking support when afraid."
"But you, Luka, are like a closed book. Your personality lacks the childishness one expects at this age."
"How did you become so calm, so composed? What burden is hidden behind this small frame?"
Yuki had also ceased his sobbing now and was watching Luka intently.
The silence of the cell waited for Luka's response.
Not a single crease appeared on Luka's face.
But his clenched fists and the steady way he supported Lane betrayed that Haru's words had touched upon a buried secret.
Luka slowly lifted his eyelids.
The color of his eyes seemed even deeper in the dim light of the cell.
"I... I am just like this," he said in a very flat and measured voice.
"There is no magical or terrifying reason behind it."
"I grew up in an orphanage, and I always preferred to be alone there."
"Perhaps this solitude has made me this way... quiet and a bit different from others."
Yuki took a cold breath and spoke up in Luka's defense, "Haru, children often become a bit serious due to being alone."
"What's the big deal in that? Not everyone can be like you or Lane."
A bitter, mysterious smile crawled across Haru's lips.
He fixed his gaze on Luka's small hands, which were holding Lane with great firmness.
"A big deal?" Haru repeated softly.
"Yes, I also agree that many children become silent because of loneliness."
"I didn't mean at all that silence is some kind of illness."
Haru leaned a bit closer to Luka, his voice now like a whisper that touched the very soul.
"But your silence, Luka... it isn't like those other children."
"I have seen scared children in orphanages; I have seen sad children who stay alone. But you?"
"Your silence is like a roar buried beneath rubble."
"You are much... much more different compared to other children. As if your silence is waiting for something."
Lane tightened his grip on Luka's arm.
He probably didn't understand the meaning of these heavy words.
But the rising tension in the cell was making his small heart restless.
Luka did not pull his gaze away from Haru's.
But the 'peace' on his face now felt like an impenetrable wall that no one could break.