The march continued. The rhythm of footsteps was dull and heavy boots scraping against dirt, skin blistered, backs hunched from fatigue. Aman and Mei Lian walked silently among the other prisoners, their faces quiet, unreadable. Around them moved a tide of broken men and women thin, starved, hopeless. Some shuffled barefoot on the rough ground, their feet raw and bleeding. Others stared ahead with the vacant gaze of men who had given up, their spirits long since beaten down.
Compared to the others, Aman and Mei Lian were an anomaly. They still had proper footwear. They still had enough energy to keep their heads up. Their eyes though wary still held some flicker of light. It didn't go unnoticed. That difference. That unnatural composure.
The Major had placed them among the other prisoners deliberately, of that they were certain. Not for punishment but for effect. Psychological manipulation. A power game. To remind them: You're not special. You're not untouchable. Or this can be one of his sick Joke.
But ironically, they found comfort in this.
Being among the masses was preferable to being alone in the presence of him.
The Major.
That man was the true source of unease. Not the guards, not the cold, not even the constant threat of death. It was his presence that curled their guts and made them question the very nature of fear.
Violence they understood. Violence had rules. Pain had limits. But the Major? He was something different. Something unknowable.
He didn't shout. He smiled. He didn't threaten. He conversed. He was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that made your skin crawl. You never knew what mask he would wear, or when he would change it.
They exchanged a glance as they walked. Both of them thinking the same thing.
We've grown used to violence. To death. But we'll never grow used to him.
Some of the prisoners whispered among themselves, voices low and dry like old leaves.
"Where are they taking us?" one man finally asked aloud. His voice was little more than a whisper, but it cut through the silence.
Aman and Mei Lian didn't respond. They didn't know, or they didn't care to answer. The answer wouldn't bring comfort anyway.
Their next destination was Kuala Lumpur.
And that was all that mattered.
...
Later, as they were stopped for a short rest, Aman crossed his arms and glanced around. "So they put us here, huh," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.
Mei Lian leaned against a tree stump, stretching her aching legs. "Yeah... At least I got to sleep in his hammock once," she added, trying to inject some humor into the moment. Her smirk was half-hearted, but it was something.
Their conversations had become a lifeline. A form of mental escape. A chance to remind themselves that they were still people, not just pieces on some cruel gameboard.
"I still can't believe they didn't return my sling bag," Aman muttered. "That was Henry's gift. Everything in there helped us survive this long…"
Before Mei Lian could answer, a Japanese guard barked at them. His words were unintelligible, but his tone left no room for misinterpretation.
Silence.
They nodded and obeyed. Not out of fear, but calculation. No use inviting unnecessary punishment. They could survive anything but they had to be smart about it.
Still, imagination was free.
And silence gave the mind space to wander.
...
Suddenly, the silence was torn apart by the sharp crack of gunfire.
The prisoners dropped like dominoes, some out of instinct, others out of pure terror. Aman and Mei Lian shut their eyes tightly, bracing.
Then nothing.
The noise passed, and with it, the momentary panic.
Another ambush. It always happened. Resistance fighters trying to slow the Japanese advance. Brave, foolish, or desperate who knew? Their attacks were fleeting. Rarely effective.
But each one left more corpses behind.
...
That night, the march ended, and the prisoners were herded into their respective places. Aman and Mei Lian were separated once again dragged from the main group and led back toward the tent they dreaded most.
The Major's tent.
They were shoved inside.
"Hey," came the familiar voice, calm and easy.
There he was again. The smiling man behind the madness. Leaning back in his chair like a host greeting old friends.
"You two really are interesting," he said, as if they were catching up over tea. "I suppose I've decided to keep talking to you."
They didn't answer.
He looked pleased with himself, tapping a pen against his desk. "Well... we'll be arriving in Kuala Lumpur in a few days. And before that, I wanted to ask you something."
He stopped tapping.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
That was his trick. The sudden stillness. The shifting moods. The blank stare that could mean anything from curiosity to cold blooded intent.
"You know... there's a ghost," the Major said at last, eyes glinting as he studied their reactions.
Aman tensed. Mei Lian's fingers twitched.
"A ghost?" they both echoed, wary.
"Yes," the Major repeated with relish. "A ghost with your face, Aman. Or at least something very close to it."
Aman blinked. "What are you talking about?"
"He has no left eye. Doesn't even bother to hide it. At least your eyelid is sealed shut, huh? But this guy? Just lets the socket show. It's like a badge."
Aman said nothing. Mei Lian listened closely.
"And he's been... busy," the Major went on. "Sabotage. Killings. Not just our camps British ones too. Comes out of nowhere. Slaughters officers. Then vanishes."
His grin widened, amused.
"One of my superiors Colonel Higuchi was found dead. You want to know what was missing?"
They both stared.
"He cut off his dick. Stuffed it in his mouth. Then took his watch."
He chuckled, as if he'd just told a dirty joke.
Sick humor. Gruesome creativity.
And yet, he seemed... entertained.
Aman's voice broke the silence. "Why tell us this?"
The Major shrugged. "No real reason. I like to talk. But now, it seems your girl gave me a name I hadn't confirmed."
His eyes flicked toward Mei Lian.
"Carter." slowly came out from Mei Lian mouth
She fell to her knees, the weight of the word hitting her like a blow.
The Major's grin stretched wider. "So... that is him."
Aman's fists clenched. "Why did you tell us this? What do you gain?"
"Nothing," he said simply. "But now I want to meet him. Sounds like an artist."
"You're insane," Mei Lian whispered.
"Am I?" he replied. "I don't think so. If I die, so be it. But at least let him make me into art. Let me go out with a little flair, eh?"
"You've seen him?" Aman asked, voice low.
"Only in reports. He has scars. Both sides of his neck. Bullet wounds. Should be dead. But he's not. That's why I call him a ghost."
The Major's voice softened. Just a little.
"The higher ups are trying to keep it quiet. Can't risk panic spreading. My friend in intel slipped me a few details. Carter... he's not targeting common soldiers. Just officers. Just people who matter."
A heavy silence fell over the tent.
The name Carter echoed in their minds.
He was alive.
But not the man they remembered.
He had become something else. A phantom. A killer. A symbol of vengeance and madness.
And now, this Major this man who could smirk at death and laugh at horror wanted to meet him.
What would happen when they did?
Carter, driven by pain. The Major, driven by curiosity.
Neither of them afraid to kill.
Neither of them entirely sane.
It wouldn't be justice. It wouldn't even be war.
It would be a spectacle.
And between now and that moment many more would die.
The march continued.