With that greeting finished, Hunter and Federico showed no interest in Michael. Children trapped in cages who broke down crying were common, so they merely glanced at them whenever it happened.
If that person is the ‘real’ Federico, then who am I?
Michael was confused. Until now, he had firmly believed that he was Federico. Then what about Paolo and the other brothers? For a four-year-old child, the boundary between reality and fantasy was nothing but ambiguous.
Whether he was confused or not, the dream continued endlessly. As if telling him to forget about Federico, various different stories poured out in abundance, but he couldn’t empathize like before. Perhaps it was because he vaguely realized that he wasn’t the protagonist of the dream.
However, he still couldn’t find answers about why he was having such dreams, or what the existence of “I” meant. It was still a young and innocent time, too early to solve such fundamental questions alone.
From then on, Michael began to grow numb to his role as an ‘observer.’ In the underground storage room with no clocks or windows, dreams were the only flowing time and life.
* * *
Occasionally, an old man with a haggard face would come down and take away some of the children. Michael already knew where they would go. Alex, who appeared in a dream once, would think he was being released and happily follow the old man, only to end his short life at Federico’s hands.
The children in the underground storage were merely toys for Federico. Whether they became sexual playthings or objects to vent his anger on, death was the same either way.
Unlike the other children who trembled in fear when they were led up to the ground by the old man’s hand, Michael was indifferent. Having once been in Federico’s position, he knew well how to survive without falling out of his favor.
Most children would freeze or try to avoid it when Federico stroked their heads. Some would cry at the top of their lungs, creating a chaotic scene.
Michael, watching children dying not far away, spotted one child trembling.
It was Alex.
Since it would soon be his turn, Michael quietly told him how to survive. He was curious whether Alex, who had no choice but to face death in the dream, could survive in reality.
Just comply with his words instead of resisting. It was a simple method, but Alex rejected even that and struggled desperately to escape.
In the end, nothing changed. It was the moment Michael realized that even if he intervened, the dream wouldn’t change and couldn’t be altered.
Michael’s turn came last. Federico, whose expression was somewhat dark but managed a slight smile, said:
You, at least, should be a wise child.
The large palm gently stroked the child’s head. Just like Giuseppe had done to him in the past.
Michael obediently knelt down. Remembering Giuseppe’s lustful gaze, he glanced up at Federico, who had a similar look in his eyes.
Why would he, who hated Giuseppe, imitate him?
He was curious. Wasn’t Federico repeating the very memories that had tormented him?
Federico.
Just as he was about to place his hand on Federico’s thigh, the man they had met in the cage entered. Seeing the children sprawled at his feet, his voice became even colder.
You’re late for the meeting.
When Hunter tapped his wristwatch, Federico burst into laughter. Perhaps because the drug’s effect remained, he reacted exaggeratedly to even the slightest movement.
Michael blankly watched Federico’s back as he got up and strode outside. Hunter, who was about to follow him, glanced sideways at Michael. Michael tilted his head at the fierce-looking eyes that seemed wary.
Perhaps it was because he was interested in the meaning behind that gaze, but this time he dreamed about Hunter. It was the most interesting and chilling story among all the dreams he’d had so far.
The dream began from Hunter’s perspective, looking at a woman.
She was a woman with short hair that barely covered her jawline, which suited her perfectly. She was probably around 15 years old, poking at the flames rising from a pile of firewood. As he approached closer, he could see a raccoon distorted in a dark red color within the flames.
Hunter, look at this. There are tears in those little eyes.
She spoke without turning around when she heard footsteps approaching. Only when Hunter quietly sat beside her did she turn her head.
Oh. You’re not Hunter.
Her somewhat blurry eyes stared blankly at Hunter as she murmured. As he was about to ask what she meant, she immediately smiled broadly.
Hello, Michael Gostin.
When Michael awoke from the dream, he clutched his rapidly beating heart and repeated the name she had called him.
Michael Gostin?
* * *
A few days later, Hunter began walking around the caged children, meticulously recording their names in a thick ledger.
Michael, who was lying helplessly on the cold floor as usual, stared up at Hunter as he approached.
Name?
Hunter asked indifferently, keeping his eyes on the ledger.
…Federico.
Hunter looked down at him with eyes that seemed to say “what’s with this kid,” and Michael rolled his eyes. Am I not Federico? Right, I wasn’t. There was a real one.
I know you don’t have a name, so make one up if you have to.
At Hunter’s words, Michael’s heart began to race violently. Among the various names he had heard in his dreams, only one remained clear.
The woman who had spoken to him for the first time when he was merely an observer who couldn’t intervene. The name she had called him.
Michael Gostin.
He answered with a bright smile. That’s the name I’ll use.
