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“What language is that?” I asked. “English?”

Sarge nodded. “But even if you did know English,” he said, “you wouldn’t be able to read it. The writing is backward.” He took it from me, so that he could indicate the script. “It’s called a brand. Pure iron, custom smelted. You use it to make a mark of possession, which you can then read forward. I can’t remember if it says Property of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea or if it says Property of the Dear Leader Kim Jong Il.”

Sarge studied my face to see if I would make a smart remark like What’s the difference?

When I didn’t, he smiled and nodded in approval.

I looked for a power cord on the device but saw nothing. “How’s it work?”

“Easy,” he said. “It’s old American technology. You put it in a bed of coals until it’s red hot. Then you burn the message in.”

“Into what?” I asked.

“Commander Ga,” he said. “They’re going to brand him at dawn in the soccer stadium.”

The ghouls, I thought, though I tried hard to show no emotion.

“Is that what Commander Park was doing here?”

“No,” Sarge said. “The Dear Leader sent Commander Park here on a personal errand. It seems the Dear Leader misses Sun Moon and wanted a last image to remember her by.”

I stared at Sarge, trying to comprehend what he was saying, but as a sly smile crossed his face, I turned and ran, ran as fast as I could to Commander Ga. I found him in one of the soundproof holding tanks.

“They’re going to do it in the morning,” Ga said when I entered his room. He was lying on an interrogation table, shirtless, his hands in restraints. “They’re going to take me to the soccer stadium and brand me in front of everyone.” But I couldn’t hear his words. I only stared at his chest. I neared, slowly, my eyes fixated on the raw red square where his tattoo of Sun Moon used to be. There had been much blood—the table was dripping with it—but now only a clear fluid wept from the wound, leaving pinkish ribbons trailing down his ribs.

“I could use a bandage,” he said.

I looked around the room, but there was nothing.

I watched a chill run across his body. This was followed by a couple of deep breaths, which caused him great pain. A strange laugh came out of him, filled with agony.

“They didn’t even ask me about the actress,” he said.

“I guess that means you beat them.”

His jaw seized with the pain, so he could only nod.

He snatched a couple of quick breaths, then said, “If you ever get a choice between Commander Park with a box cutter—” Here he clenched his teeth a moment. “And a shark …”

I put my hand on his forehead, which was running with sweat.

“Take the shark, right? Look,” I said. “Don’t talk, there’s no need to be funny. Don’t try to be Comrade Buc.”

The name, I could tell, caused him the greatest pain of all.

“It wasn’t supposed to work like that,” Ga said. “Buc wasn’t supposed to get hurt.”

“You just worry about yourself,” I said.

Sweat was pooling in Ga’s eyes, which were burning with worry.

“Is this what happened to Buc?” he asked.

I used my shirttail to dry his eyes.

“No,” I said. “Buc went on his own terms.”

Ga nodded, his lower jaw shuddering.

Sarge came in, grinning. “What do you think of the great Commander Ga now?” he asked. “He’s the most dangerous man in our nation, you know.”

“That’s not the real Commander Ga,” I reminded Sarge. “This is just a man.”

Sarge came astride Commander Ga’s table.

Wincing, Commander Ga tried to roll his head as far from Sarge as possible.

Yet Sarge neared, leaning over Commander Ga as if to inspect the wound up close. Sarge looked back at me, smiling. “Oh, yes,” he said. “The good Commander here has had pain training.” Then Sarge took a breath and blew into Ga’s wound.

The scream that followed made my ears sing.

“He’s ready to talk now,” Sarge said. “And you’re going to get his confession.”

I looked to Commander Ga, who took shallow, trembling breaths.

“But what about his biography?” I asked Sarge.

“You understand this is the last biography, right?” he told me. “That age is over. But you can do anything you like as long as we have his confession