She’d cleaned chimneys since she was three, simply because her body was small enough to fit inside. During the day, she worked the endless sorghum fields of Sakhalin. In the evening, she was beaten.

After being thrashed until dawn, she had to sleep suspended in midair, dangling like dried pollock from a single rope.

The cult leader said it was the same method once used by the British Empire to shelter the homeless—he hung us like laundry to dry.

Even while trying to fall asleep like that, if the rope suddenly snapped, a few older sisters or brothers would fall and break their ankles.

‘Never let your guard down.’

The cult leader wanted only one thing.

She never saw her parents’ faces. The only father we ever knew was the cult leader. Eating, sleeping—all of it was strictly controlled. You couldn’t eat if you didn’t work. You couldn’t be loved if you weren’t beaten. The only parent we ever knew was one who ruled over us.

‘The Lord shall establish a kingdom that shall never fall, and Sakhalin is the promised land of paradise. The great Winter Castle shall destroy every nation of the world and stand alone, forever...!’

During breaks, we sat in a row on monastery benches and learned speech and writing from the priests. The agitated instructors, faces red with zeal, would force us to memorize that passage. And we, with awkward pronunciation, shouted it back with all our strength.

But the older kids, the ones whose heads had grown too big, whispered that the cult leader was going to sell us to the military. Soldiers in uniform got out of the cars, and plenty of kids had seen—beyond the sorghum—the cult leader run barefoot to bow flatly before them.

‘No, Sakhalin is the promised land. Those people came to keep the promise...!’

Someone shouted with wide, anxious eyes, and a chorus of heavy breaths broke out around them. If only someone—anyone—would come save us. Suddenly, sobs began to ripple through the room, swelling uncontrollably.

‘There are no angels in the world.’

Even then, only little Sonia buzzed around busily. With hands no bigger than fern fronds, she held a sickle half the size of her body and cut at the bases of the sugarcane.

Afterward, she had to bundle the cane leaves and tie them until the sun went down. The sky was already turning red. Today, she’d probably be struck on her right shin.

‘Sonia never cries. She’s weird.’

The other kids always looked at Sonia strangely for not crying. But crying made your throat dry, and then you got hungry. So even when her much bigger siblings cried and whimpered from the pain, Sonia just stared off in silence and endured.

She'd press her lips together, balling her chin like a little walnut, and swallow it all down. Then those rough hands would come and interlock with hers. The one who understood her best was a child even smaller than she was—Kiya.

‘Sonia, Sonia. Then watch me cry.’

When Kiya bawled until snot ran down his face, it was strange how it made her chest feel lighter. Kiya always cried loudly on her behalf.

He’d shed tears like raindrops, and when Sonia’s expression finally eased, he’d smile in turn—his expressions always pitch-perfect.

Sonia gave her water and food to Kiya, who cried in her place. Then Kiya would blink blankly and burrow into her arms like a puppy, bursting into real sobs.

We were alike in every way. With our hair never once cut, our gender and appearances were all muddled.

We were neck and neck in running, never once fell by accident from the ropes we were hung on. We were strong at cutting sugarcane, and flexible enough to roll, spin, and tumble without injury.

Over time, more and more places began calling for Sakhalin’s children. Every time, the cult leader dressed in a red ceremonial robe he normally never wore, and we were stripped naked and thrown into pens we’d never seen before.

‘――!’

A spray of blood hit her face before she could blink. The skin of her brother’s stomach—someone she’d been born and raised with—was ripped open and his guts spilled out. Sonia instinctively clutched Kiya’s hand.

The blue-eyed people laughed wildly, clapped, and shouted—but we stood frozen like corpses.

‘Graaaaah!’

A brown bear with its mouth wide open let out a hideous roar. The beast, baring its fangs, charged on all fours. Sonia yanked Kiya—who had wet himself—backwards.

‘Kiya, climb up!’

Just before a beast weighing nearly a ton could slam into them, the two children clambered all the way to the top of the cage by a hair’s breadth. Their joined hands trembled violently. Bigger and fiercer than even the cult leader, the creature made their hearts feel ready to burst.

The bear stood upright and shook the cage with terrifying force, but we clung on for dear life. Somewhere beneath, the crowd whistled and whooped like crashing tin cans. For the first time ever, she thought: I want {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} to live.

They died and came back to life so many times, she lost count. They traveled through nameless places.

They fought barehanded against Dagestan kids raised with bears, learned acrobatics, walked tightropes. They crawled, they rolled, they flew. No matter where they were, they survived like that.

Even with fire roaring around them, the two never let go of each other’s hands. That was the only way to live.

Even while soaring through the air, they sought each other’s hands. When falling, they grabbed each other’s ankles. Applause erupted when they clung to the trapeze, spun, and embraced like one body.

Their whole bodies were scorched red by the fire, but they smiled. One brother had died after being thrown in with a heat-drugged beast, and another was sliced clean in half while doing acrobatics over sharpened blades. But even then, they could only smile at each other.

Because someday... Winter Castle would destroy all the nations of the world. They would gouge out the eyes of the laughing audience and skewer their hearts with iron bars.

Night Circus.

That was what the cult leader called this savage performance, insisting it was a long-held tradition of Sakhalin.

Most of the audience were Russian aristocrats, and the cult leader used the events to deepen his ties with them. To the Koreans, he was like a god. But in front of Russian elites, he flushed red like a drunken clown and grovelled pathetically.

‘Both of them would be perfect.’

So many brothers and sisters had died, but the most popular pair had always been Kiya and Sonia.

Eventually, pig-like men began demanding to take them home. Because they were similar in size and hair, Kiya’s gender was ambiguous. They were scrubbed raw, front and back, and led into a dark underground estate.

And the moment a naked man, bloated with fat, reached out for Sonia—Kiya snapped. He smashed an ashtray on the floor and gouged out the pig’s eyes.

‘――!’

Though crushed under the man’s weight, Kiya didn’t stop. He stabbed the neck over and over in a frenzy. The pig lay still, soaked in blood.

‘You little lunatics...! You’re trying to ruin my whole business!’

Even after being beaten within an inch of his life by the cult leader, Kiya no longer lunged with madness in his eyes.

We were like broken dogs—seated on planks nailed to the floor, unable even to bark or move.

But we survived again. This time, we were sent to Winter Castle. Before leaving, the cult leader said all pain would now end and heaven would come.

A beautiful Winter Castle... It sounded impossible, but when they saw it, their mouths fell open. Overcome, they instinctively clasped hands.

Ivory stairs, furniture inlaid with rare jewels. Lavish chandeliers bloomed from the ceiling like flowers. Gilded wallpaper shimmered even in darkness. The red carpet beneath their feet embraced their frozen soles with warmth.

‘Kiya... we really...’

We endured and endured, and now we’re in a heaven where angels live. She wanted to say that. But just then, a pair of massive, rough hands shoved the two of them into a room. It didn’t take long for that illusion to crumble.

‘Winter Castle, the final gate all successors of the KGB must pass. You have completed training with excellent scores and finally earned the right to serve your homeland.’

Clomp, clomp. The sound of military boots approached the door, which swung open. Towering Russian men entered with razor-sharp strides. The tension in the air made Kiya clutch her tightly. 𝙛𝒓𝓮𝙚𝔀𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝓵.𝙘𝒐𝒎

‘I hope you will cross this final threshold and become proud agents who contribute to our nation.’

The snowfield of Winter Castle stretched endlessly in white.

‘The one thing you must abandon from now on is mercy.’

Where all pain was buried in falling snowflakes.

‘Only those who kill the child in front of them can become true agents of Russia.’

It was a serene and beautiful mansion.

‘Commence.’

The final gate, the offering to train Russian agents: living mannequins.

We were nothing but parish.

That was what the children of Sakhalin were.