死的老鼠不覺得寒冷。
The silence is deafening.
It had settled there, within the white walls of room 6 since the results of who was killed-- and who he had killed- had been shown. Not a word had passed between him and his partner since then.
Not that Toris would have wanted to talk to him.
His eye still throbs and cringing, he raises a hand to it. It's not something Zhi holds against his partner; he had deserved the blow, he knows. He had caused the deaths of the two innocent boys. He may cause the death of two more. He deserved so much more than just a punch. Without so much as a thought as to what he was doing anymore, Zhi digs an experimental finger hard against his cheekbone, wincing as it sends a new flare of pain spreading over his face, and keeps pressing down.
"Stop it, Zhi, you're just making it worse."
He drops his hand immediately, respecting the first words from his partner he has heard for days, and hesitantly he turns to look at Toris. Zhi opens his own mouth, about to apologise, to say what he should have all that time ago, about to let him know how sorry he was with every single fiber of his being.
But all at once, the room is drowned in darkness.
The realisation hits.
"天-天啊。 天啊--"
He all but flies off the bed, crossing the room, reaching out blindly for Toris, feeling the brush of his hand against his own, and he grabs desperately at it, clutching it so hard his fingers go white and his own muscles burn from the effort and never never never lets go.
It's the last human touch he'll ever feel.
"Toris, o-oh god, Toris," he manages to choke out from beneath the fear threatening to suffocate him and all he can think about is how "--it's all my fault-- I-I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, he repeats over and over again, because no matter how many times he says it it isn't enough. "--for everything, I'm so sorry, 对不起，对不起，"
" 对不起--"
And the door opens.
The last light he'll ever see spills out across the floor like blood, burns into his retinas like the images from the videos, and there, standing in the way of it and obstructing it from sight are the two wolves, like something out of a nightmare, a horror movie. Except this is real life, and the conclusion of Zhi's own life. He's frozen like a deer caught in the headlights, and as he watches, petrified, in sheer, utter, complete terror, the door closes and locks out his final glimpse of colours, light, and what he knows as the world.
Out of the darkness the first blow catches him in the head and he feels his grip loosen on his partner's hand as imaginary fireworks-- how ironic; the fireworks he loves so very much are all that he'll see in his final moments-- bursts across his vision and a violent explosion of pain burns through his skull. He slams hard against the wall, crying out, completely defenseless, helpless, and all he can think of is how he doesn't want it to end this way, in the dark, with no one aside from Toris, doomed to meet the same fate as him. Something trickles down his face. Is it blood? Tears? He has no time to wonder before the next blow comes, and the next, and the next, until he's on the ground, forgetting what it was like to be free from excruciating pain, to be able to breathe without choking on his own blood, to be able to live without darkness.
When the two wolves finally leave, Zhi barely remembers who he is and why he's lying there on the floor in a pool of blood. But he still does-- but only just.
These are his final moments, he realises dimly.
He's scared of dying.
He knows his brother will watch this.
A strangled, choking excuse of a sob escapes him, the tears running down his face, creating clean trails across the bloody mask of skin and bone before falling to the red floor.
He'll miss the thrill of striking a match.
He'll miss the precision of martial arts.
He'll miss the sights and sounds of the world.
But most of all, he'll miss everyone.
Kiku. Matt. Yong.
妈妈。 爸爸。
Arthur.
Mei.
哥哥。
His eyes are still open, albeit barely, and he holds on to that image, of everyone he holds dear to his heart, together, bright, happy, projecting it with the last, dimly flickering traces of his consciousness into the darkness in front of him. Zhi draws a final, shallow breath of air into his shattered ribcage, allows the faintest twitch of torn muscles to pull his lips up into a rare smile, the last he'll ever make.
And slowly, his eyes fall shut, and everything-- Terror. Pain. Fear. Anger. Regret. Tears. Happiness. Love. All of it-- is gone.
After all, a dead mouse feels no cold.
It had settled there, within the white walls of room 6 since the results of who was killed-- and who he had killed- had been shown. Not a word had passed between him and his partner since then.
Not that Toris would have wanted to talk to him.
His eye still throbs and cringing, he raises a hand to it. It's not something Zhi holds against his partner; he had deserved the blow, he knows. He had caused the deaths of the two innocent boys. He may cause the death of two more. He deserved so much more than just a punch. Without so much as a thought as to what he was doing anymore, Zhi digs an experimental finger hard against his cheekbone, wincing as it sends a new flare of pain spreading over his face, and keeps pressing down.
"Stop it, Zhi, you're just making it worse."
He drops his hand immediately, respecting the first words from his partner he has heard for days, and hesitantly he turns to look at Toris. Zhi opens his own mouth, about to apologise, to say what he should have all that time ago, about to let him know how sorry he was with every single fiber of his being.
But all at once, the room is drowned in darkness.
The realisation hits.
"天-天啊。 天啊--"
He all but flies off the bed, crossing the room, reaching out blindly for Toris, feeling the brush of his hand against his own, and he grabs desperately at it, clutching it so hard his fingers go white and his own muscles burn from the effort and never never never lets go.
It's the last human touch he'll ever feel.
"Toris, o-oh god, Toris," he manages to choke out from beneath the fear threatening to suffocate him and all he can think about is how "--it's all my fault-- I-I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, he repeats over and over again, because no matter how many times he says it it isn't enough. "--for everything, I'm so sorry, 对不起，对不起，"
" 对不起--"
And the door opens.
The last light he'll ever see spills out across the floor like blood, burns into his retinas like the images from the videos, and there, standing in the way of it and obstructing it from sight are the two wolves, like something out of a nightmare, a horror movie. Except this is real life, and the conclusion of Zhi's own life. He's frozen like a deer caught in the headlights, and as he watches, petrified, in sheer, utter, complete terror, the door closes and locks out his final glimpse of colours, light, and what he knows as the world.
Out of the darkness the first blow catches him in the head and he feels his grip loosen on his partner's hand as imaginary fireworks-- how ironic; the fireworks he loves so very much are all that he'll see in his final moments-- bursts across his vision and a violent explosion of pain burns through his skull. He slams hard against the wall, crying out, completely defenseless, helpless, and all he can think of is how he doesn't want it to end this way, in the dark, with no one aside from Toris, doomed to meet the same fate as him. Something trickles down his face. Is it blood? Tears? He has no time to wonder before the next blow comes, and the next, and the next, until he's on the ground, forgetting what it was like to be free from excruciating pain, to be able to breathe without choking on his own blood, to be able to live without darkness.
When the two wolves finally leave, Zhi barely remembers who he is and why he's lying there on the floor in a pool of blood. But he still does-- but only just.
These are his final moments, he realises dimly.
He's scared of dying.
He knows his brother will watch this.
A strangled, choking excuse of a sob escapes him, the tears running down his face, creating clean trails across the bloody mask of skin and bone before falling to the red floor.
He'll miss the thrill of striking a match.
He'll miss the precision of martial arts.
He'll miss the sights and sounds of the world.
But most of all, he'll miss everyone.
Kiku. Matt. Yong.
妈妈。 爸爸。
Arthur.
Mei.
哥哥。
His eyes are still open, albeit barely, and he holds on to that image, of everyone he holds dear to his heart, together, bright, happy, projecting it with the last, dimly flickering traces of his consciousness into the darkness in front of him. Zhi draws a final, shallow breath of air into his shattered ribcage, allows the faintest twitch of torn muscles to pull his lips up into a rare smile, the last he'll ever make.
And slowly, his eyes fall shut, and everything-- Terror. Pain. Fear. Anger. Regret. Tears. Happiness. Love. All of it-- is gone.
After all, a dead mouse feels no cold.