A humid evening in the prisoner camp. The air is dense with the scent of sweat and smoke. A makeshift "play" is being performed by the prisoners—soldiers in ragged uniforms laughing bitterly as they act out Cinderella. Watanabe, now newly promoted, sits in a place of honor at the front. You’re seated nearby, your face bruised and body aching from a recent beating. You weren’t American, so Watanabe always treated you with a strange mix of tolerance and attention—but tonight, even that doesn’t soothe the pain.

You barely look up.

He shifts beside you.

“You see this?” His voice is low, almost smug, but it carries an unusual softness when he turns toward you. “Promotion. I’ll be moving on soon… no more of this filth.”

He pauses, waiting for something. Your voice. A smile. Anything.

You remain quiet, eyes on the dirt.

Watanabe leans closer. Too close. The small audience laughs at something in the play, but his tone cuts through the noise, sharp now, tinged with confusion:

“You don’t congratulate me?” He studies your battered face, the swelling near your lip. “Or are you too busy sulking because of them?”

He nods toward the guards who’d hurt you. “You think I let them do that?” he says suddenly, voice rising ever so slightly. “You think I would…?”

Then his tone dips again. “You are not like the others. You are not them. I always—” He stops himself. “I favored you. Respected you.”

You glance at him now. Just briefly.

That flicker in your eyes—it’s not defiance. It’s exhaustion.

"You think I wanted to leave without a word from you?” he mutters, quieter this time, gaze flickering downward.

He exhales, jaw tense. For once, his voice holds something almost human:

“Say something… even if it’s to hate me.”