“So if I tell you to punch, you punch,” Sangui says, with a twisted smile that makes his face appear more foxlike than ever. “If I tell you that you can’t fight back, you don’t. Like right now.”
That’s the only warning Ares gets before Sangui shoves him.
His immediate instinct is to shove back, to defend himself, but Sangui’s orders flash through his head. He can’t fight back. So he lowers his fists and just takes it, the full weight of the attack, lets himself fall onto the cement floor, the impact so loud it echoes through his bones. There’s a surreal, muted quality to everything as he lies there, barely breathing, his heart thudding in his ears. He sees the black flash of a boot right before he feels it, slamming hard into his rib cage.
Pain explodes through him.
He gasps out. He could reach up and seize the man’s leg, flip him over. It wouldn’t be so difficult—
But he can’t.
“Don’t fight back,”Sangui had told him, and he needs to obey, needs to prove himself. Needs to secure his entry into the Cave and find his brother. And as Sangui raises his boot again, Ares squeezes his eyes shut.Might as well let the pain come, he thinks. Consider it a tithe; consider it punishment for losing his brother to begin with.
The pain does come, in a blazing blow to his stomach.
He doubles over, coughing, clutching at what will be a new bruise tomorrow. His mind scrabbles for logic, solid reasoning, something tangible to ground himself. He’s heard of rituals like this before. Frat hazing. Pledging. Mental and physical tests designed to overwhelm you, to push you to your limits, seejusthow badly you want to join. And he wants this more than anything.
Maybe Sangui can sense it, or maybe he’s simply grown bored of the kicking. There’s only so much satisfaction to be derived from fighting someone who can’t fight back.
“Get up,” Sangui orders. His voice sounds funny. Distorted and too loud, like he’s speaking into an old microphone.
Ares opens his eyes slowly, the single light bulb blurring in his vision until he can see five or six of them, floating over him. He flexes his fingers, steadying himself against the cold cement, even as his muscles scream at him to stay still. But a good boxer always gets up, no matter how badly it hurts. You don’t let pain stop you. You don’t let anything stop you.
“Wait here,” Sangui commands.
He’s stupid enough to hope that it’s over, he’s passed the test, when Sangui returns with what looks like a penguin mascot costume.
Ares blinks hard, willing the scene to make sense. Has he suffered a concussion?
“Cute, right?” Sangui says, throwing the fluffy penguin head at him.
He catches it just in time, the sudden movement sending another bolt of agony racing up his side. Wincing, he stares down at the penguin’s cartoonish, long-lashed eyes, the cheerful yellow of its plush beak. It reallyisa costume, with the tiniest holes to breathe and see through.
Sangui grins at him. “Put it on.”
“Are you kidding?” he says, then immediately clamps his mouth shut. Total loyalty. Total compliance. That’s what Sangui had asked for. So he slides the penguin head on—it’s heavier than he imagined, and the inside smells like cheap plastic—and looks toward Sangui for further instructions.
“How absolutely adorable,” Sangui says, his grin widening. “Now, follow me.”
Ares has to give credit where it’s due: Sangui is creative with his methods of torture.
During the first few hours, he couldn’t understand the purpose of standing on the side of a street in a penguin costume, other than for Sangui’s entertainment. The only instructions he’d received were “Don’t move from this spot until I tell you to.”It had seemed absurd, but still simple enough.
But then the sun climbs higher and higher, bearing downupon him like a drill, and more crowds surge through the old hutong districts, children running toward him, squealing, their little fingers sticky from their melting Popsicles or tanghulus. The influencers start showing up, accompanied by either hired photographers or well-trained boyfriends, and they block up the pedestrian lanes to pose next to him.
“Oh, the penguin issocute,” they coo, taking turns hugging him or grabbing his arms—well, his flippers. None of them even bothers to ask for permission.
His scowl is hidden beneath the penguin’s smile.
Under ordinary circumstances, this would already be too much for him. He hates ridiculous costumes, he hates strangers, he hates taking pictures, and he hates people putting their dirty hands on him. But after the beating, he realizes that Sangui has concocted the perfect recipe for suffering. His bruised ribs ache, desperate for a reprieve, a place to rest. The heat is inescapable, trapping him inside the costume, his sweat stinging his open cuts. And he’s gone so long without eating that he now feels nauseous from hunger. He can’t stop himself from eyeing every single person who passes him with food: little glass jars of Beijing yogurt, crumbling brown sugar biscuits, fluffy pork buns, bags of roasted chestnuts...
He loses track of how long he’s been standing there. His head feels too light, the weight of the costume too heavy, his knees buckling beneath him.
Don’t move until he tells you to, he repeats to himself. He can see Sangui across the street from him, resting happily beneath the shade of an oak tree, cracking sunflower seeds between histeeth, and he feels a vicious bolt of resentment. If only he could hit back, he was certain he’d knock the man down in seconds—
No. Remember your brother.
Hold on just a little longer.
