“Help me access the upcoming training stimulation,” started Ian without pause, shoveling a bite of bland mashed potatoes into his mouth. 

It was made without seasoning to accommodate to any allergies, but Ian was certain that the scientists were simply too cheap to purchase spices of any sort. The hall bristled with chatter—every day, at the precise same time, the alarm would echo through the halls signaling for lunch.

Lucian sat across him, his neck wrapped in a thick layer of bandages, and his left eye a little swollen. His lips were scabbed as if a wild animal had torn at them. Whispers encompassed the hall, stabbing into his straight, unwavering back. 

He lifted his long eyelashes, fixing the beautiful green of his eyes onto Ian. “You’re not trained for the stimulation, both mentally and physically.”

“I’m not asking.”

“You certainly should be, considering it’s in my right to decline.” Lucian sighed, placing his spoon down with a soft clatter. Neither mentioned the previous night. 

Lucian had roused with a groan, patched up by the infirmary aids. He said nothing, examining his body and stretching his limbs before he accompanied Ian to the Eating Hall. 

He would follow Ian thrice a week—he was assigned to the Eating Hall on the second level, which supposedly had better food, as he liked to brag at times as if it could inspire a leap in ability in Ian’s motivation and skill.

Every month, he would sneak a small item wrapped in a handkerchief and leave it at Ian’s pillow. A silent offering, a gift without desire. 

Ian never thanked him for the food, although he accepted it. Lucian never minded the lack of gratefulness, committing to routine for several years now. 

Lucian regarded Ian’s stubborn expression with a shake of his head, a touch of helplessness creeping into his expression. “You’re insisting. And not even asking politely—I’ve really been too nice to you, haven’t I?”

Ian frowned, poking at an unknown piece of meat floating in his soup. He stabbed it, chewing with a grimace. “I’m not responsible for your decisions.”

“No, you’re not. It’s my fault I’ve resisted joining in with the bullying and have tamed my itching hands that want to beat you.”

Ian nodded. “You missed out. Come on, beat me if you want to.”

Lucian pressed the prongs of his fork against the mashed, yellow potatoes. It easily pushed through, spreading on the plate. Then, he stabbed a piece of meat and shoved it into Ian’s mouth.

The latter choked, coughing as his cheek bulged. 

“Don’t tempt me.”

Ian recovered, accepting the meat offering—even if it was disgusting and almost inedible, it was extra protein. “I’m tempting you. If you beat me, will you feel sorry enough to agree?”

It was an honest curiosity, spoken with an earnest hitch. Lucian stared at him suspiciously—knowing this bastard, if he agreed, he wouldn’t hesitate to turn his annoyingness to the max level.

“Fine, for my sanity and as a thank you for last night, I’ll agree,” said Lucian reluctantly as he continued to nibble away at his meal. A full plate wasn’t allowed either; nutrition and health were moderated to extreme levels.  

“I’ll arrange it, to inform the guards to escort you to the second level tomorrow.”

Ian paused. The conversations continued around him, and both had a mutual agreement of ignoring everybody’s gossip. Lucian never interfered in the bullying, and Ian never expected his help. 

It was a strange and comfortable relationship; they were two people stuck in the same place which meant both everything and nothing simultaneously.

“I thought you were going to play ignorance like usual.”

A frown appeared on Lucian’s lips. “You seriously have an unpleasant way of speaking, sometimes. You saved me from having to sleep with a completely unpalatable person—“ His hand ghosted past his neck as his mind drifted for a moment before promptly returning. His face turned solemn as he leaned in. “Did you see his butt? Totally flat.”

Ian swallowed his food with a scrunch of his nose. “Was there anything there to see?”

Lucian nodded in agreement, satisfied with their mutual understanding. “If one doesn’t have a perky butt, they should at least have a gentle personality. He failed in both aspects.”

They briefly continued to discuss the importance of perky butts and the secondary importance of personality before the alarm rang again, signaling the end of the lunch session.

Although Lucian’s tone had been light and he’d drawn the topic away, Ian didn’t overlook the tension in his stance, a touch of fear that would remain as a blight in his memories. 

This was the daily life Lucian had resigned himself to; it once infuriated Ian, although he accepted that this was Lucian’s decision. 

This Guide who could soar in unbelievable directions; but he was comfortable in this only reality that he knew, used to the sufferings and the small moments of peace that he wouldn’t risk losing it.

Ian stared at Lucian’s retreating figure, mixing into the flow of Guides that were leaving for their respective assignments. 

Faces blurred together, bodies becoming a flood as everybody moved at the same pace. The jarring white lights cast overhead illuminated all of them in this expansive space, trapped far beneath the surface. 

They all wore the same uniform—loose white shirts with long sleeves and high collars, and pants that could hide nothing, with a watch strapped around their wrists, locked by code. 

The collar, which gave a sense of oppression, had irritated Ian to the point that he’d torn it. Although he’d received harsh admonishment, he continued to stubbornly tear at the collar.

He didn’t know if they wanted to stop wasting money on processing his shirts, or that there were other little rebels in the institution, that they stopped bothering. 

If they had, he wouldn’t have stopped. He was especially eager to waste as many resources as he could, even if it were mere points worth a measly amount. 

In other words, he was a menace with no intention of stopping.

He mechanically carried out his lessons, and the weekly check-up to ensure he met the requirements of health, performing everything robotically as the gears in his brain continued to twist.

Later, during his daily bullying session, in which he was the victim, he remembered to demonstrate his pain in the midst of zoning out.

On the floor was the king of multi-tasking.

The ringmaster of the bullying stopped, squinting at the crumpled body that was silenter than usual. Ian, preoccupied with his task of zoning out, accidentally let out a groan as if he were hit. The timing wasn’t right.

He looked down at the empty air, realizing that nobody was hitting him. 

Then he peered up through the disarray of his hair, slowly blinking. 

The bully made eye contact with his impassive victim, suspicion clouding his expression. Silence ensued, and Ian felt a little awkward.

He wanted to protest, ‘Try kicking me harder, and it’ll make things a lot easier for me.’

Instead, he burrowed his head and let out a muffled groan of pain, rolling over. He continued to roll around and groan dramatically as one of the little henchmen whispered, “Who knows what he got up to last night—the pain is probably catching up to him.”

The bully recovered, sneering. “Ha. I guess any toy’s good for some of the low-grade Espers.” He spat on the ground, contorting his beautiful face as he shook his head with disgust and sauntered away. 

Ian had sucked in his stomach, narrowly avoiding the saliva. He wrinkled his nose, waiting until the footsteps faded into the distance before he rubbed his shoulder.

Tomorrow. The long-awaited day that would merely be another beginning.

During the stimulation rooms, researchers and guards would monitor the Guides’ progress. There were different modules, and he wouldn’t know until he arrived. 

Injured Guides received special medical attention due to the nature of their injuries, while regular injuries often resulted in basic treatment in the infirmary. Of course, venturing to the third floor with a major injury would be equally unwise. 

Therefore, Ian needed several things. One—an access card. The guards often opted to wear a specialized watch or hold onto a personal access card.

Then, an injury that was dramatic enough to require attention in the medical ward—it was only there that he could find an opportunity to escape. During the process of the stimulation, around 75% of the guards were arranged to guard the room. 

The stimulation began at noon—the guards would change shifts at the second hour, leaving a five-minute window. However, he still had to be wary of the passing staff that roamed the halls.

Ian leaned against the wall, tilting his head up to the blinking light in the corner where two hallways connected. 

Guiding rooms and bathrooms didn’t contain cameras, as far as Ian knew when he peaked into the lower floor monitor room several months back. The vent system ran throughout the institution.

But the Guiding rooms required an Esper’s access—guards had limited access, to prevent any leaks or disturbances. The bathrooms were an option, but he wouldn’t be able to explain spending hours inside. 

Ian rubbed his stomach thoughtfully, debating putting on an act of explosive, earth-defying bowel issues. 

He sighed. Although he believed in his acting abilities, it would consequently result in an examination if he was later found, and he wouldn’t be able to explain why his internal organs ruined his performance.

The man, lonesome in the empty halls once more, staggered to his feet as his hair swept over his shoulders. His black eyes examined his surroundings.

Slowly, he made his way back to his room.