Over the phone, Ho-Jin tells me exactly where he is so I can reach him without being bothered by the police walking through the park. The Form of Mistress Salvi seems to laugh at our paranoia, delighting in those culprits' details and attention.

Under the foliage of a low tree, Ho-Jin intently watches a group of tourists who are taking selfies near the 107th Infantry Memorial. Most of the segregationist countries share with us the same tattoo system, and it has therefore become a primary issue to ensure the safety of visitors from non-enslaving nations. Those same countries have therefore agreed on a common tattoo, yellow ink, ephemeral, issued with the visa to access the territories subject to segregation. Once again, slavery appears to be a curiosity and a distraction that pays big.

Ho-Jin is so concentrated that he does not notice immediately that I am standing at his side, and I have time to study him. His eyes are hemmed in, and the friendly little smile that he always has is replaced with a tense grimace. He had scratches on his cheeks, and on his arms, deeper cuts.

"How did you get those Ho-Jin?"

He gets up precipitately and takes me in his arms. I hold onto his embrace with all my might, forgetting the question that I have just asked him.

"I am glad to see you, namdongsaeng."

He looks tired; even his voice changed.

"Ho-Jin, is your Weekmistress or your Weekmaster inflicting this on you?" I say, grabbing his hand. He avoids my eyes, hesitates on his words.

"I struggled to deal with my anxiety at first, but it is better now."

When I met Ho-Jin, Mohamed told me that he was the most incredible boy in the world, the best brother and friend that I could ever dream of, but that I had the responsibility to take care of him. Because if I did not, he would suffer a lot. It was like just that, so lightly, that he told me about his self-harm issues and the signs which I should report to him if he were to injure himself. That day, Ho-Jin was wearing the same marks on his wrists, and just like that day, I hug him again, solicitous about my arms sheltering him from himself. How silly...

"I... I am sorry... for getting you... I regret so much that I got you into all this."

"You did not force me; it was of my own free will that I followed Rachel and obeyed Isaac. You cannot be responsible for both of us. You actually have to stop doing this... We shared the same dreams, the same disillusionment with the enfranchisement. I was also sick of waiting. Whether it was with you, the Grinbergs, or someone else, I would have ended up trying my luck on a boat."

He no longer looks at me and nervously presses on one of his scars.

"Even if I will never be at peace with what we have done, I do not believe that any Master or any Mistress deserves that you die for him or her, brother. Like they say themselves, not all lives are equal. In your case, simple math cannot honor your presence: a life for a life; it cannot work."

Ho-Jin has a small smile, mirthless, in reaction to this reversed caricature, this bad impersonation of a supremacist whom we once encountered, coming back for Sunday School, on our way to Freetown.

I assume that with my provocative formulation, with my choice being spoken out loud, the Form of Mistress Salvi will appear, perhaps, to take me away. But she is not here.

"You too, Kanoa."

His hands fall back into his pockets, and at this moment, I think that I am sure of making the right decision.

"You need to talk to the Grinbergs now. Arrange with Mr. Salvi to leave before he understands and warns the police."

"I will do it."

"I am sorry, I know we have a lot to discuss but my Mistress..."

"Do not worry; I too must go back."

"Is she as harsh as mine?" Ho-Jin whispers pointing to his face. "I guess that this is the ultimate sign that Mohamed lost all of his allies in Freetown..."

"In fact, not at all, it is really... quite the opposite. But I let myself go... I crossed the line when addressing her because I was sure that we would never meet again, and now... You know, I planned everything, as you were telling how to escape from the agents, I was mentally marking the ones whom I could talk to more easily..."

"I see."

"Ho-Jin, if you are feeling bad, you need to call me. Me or Mohamed."

"Dad knows?"

"Yes... Karen told him everything. I thought that you knew it... I mean the fact that he knew. He kept telling me to talk to the Grinbergs too. Anyway, Ho-Jin, that is not the matter..."

"I understood Kanoa. I told you that I am handling it better at the moment."

He is already moving away in the opposite direction.

Entering the loft, I am still preparing the excuse that I would present to Celeste, but the sound of the television only greets me. In the living room, I find Mistress Freeman sitting on the carpet, a swarm of snacks spread out in front of her, and Zaz on her lap. She is watching the screen without paying much attention, her phone in one hand, and the computer keyboard under the other one.

Mistress Freeman changes the channel skipping on a top of the best moments in the anime of Attack on Titan, to a documentary trying to explain the mechanisms behind the excitement around the bands which included slaves, mentioning examples such as The Beatles, Mamamoo, TLC or GOT7. She pretends not to hear me come, imposing on us the listening of this non-exhaustive selection of artists, her still leaning against the couch - me standing, trying to guess each time which member of those bands was indeed a slave or related to one. I let an interview with the Indian boysband Sanam end, praising Nora Fatehi's performance in the film Batla House, and find the courage to speak out, with the song O Saki Saki playing in the background.

"I am sorry for having left the apartment like that. I was finishing solving my familial issues."

She says nothing, does not turn around. I stay where I am too.

"I apologize for the way that I spoke to you earlier. I was angry about something else, and it was not fair to you."

The song Hanggang Sa Huli from SB19 is about to start, but the TV screen pauses.

" It's just not my favorite song from them, but anyway... "What I am trying to tell you, sisters and brothers, is that you had to seize every moment, every opportunity, to show who you truly are. Apart from the way people treat you because of your status, a stupid tattoo, your disabilities, the BC19 disease, any diseases, to be honest, your skin color, your height, your beliefs... you have the individual responsibility to fight and express how you feel. Even if it is difficult and that the Masters are bad. There are also slaves who will belittle you, no longer for the condition, which you share, but something else." Mohamed Abdi, now Mohamed Doe, On True Liberty and True slaves, 1997."

I move closer to the sofa and see on the computer screen the work that she is quoting.

"And as I always answer my father when he himself refers to his text, those slaves are not the ones who prevent me from enjoying citizen rights like the majority of the population. Freedom..."

" "I admit that there are physical, legal, and material constraints to your situations, but only those who have liberated themselves from what others assume of them are truly free. All the rest of the population is enslaved," adds Mohamed."

She moves a little, waking up Zaz.

"Including me, and hear me clearly: what would my life be if I could move as freely as you? If I was not a woman, but a man like you? If I came closer to this ideal of beauty, dictated to my kind? If I was thin like you... would I eventually feel free? It's like... the word itself is broken. "Freedom." We broke the word. Can you imagine using a word so much, so lightly that it loses all its so precious sense? Its nature, as word is to have a sense, but imagine becoming a non-sense?"

I watch, in disbelief, incredulously, Mistress Freeman allows herself to use my father's words, the most accurate and discussed writings of all his reactionary approach, to justify such an argument. Once again, I can seize the gap between my Mistress and I. Words are born on the tips of her lips; she never thought before she spoke. She does not have to; she has the privilege of making mistakes.

Zaz gets up and slides his paws on my ankle, mocking me again, before entering the kitchen.

"I know that I'm preaching an ideology that I'm far from following and that it may seem outrageous when I tell you that your slave status depends on you, but when I ask you not to call me Mistress, it's more for your comfort than for mine."

"Can I..."

I sit down before finishing my sentence, seeing her frown.

"I hear you, Miss Freeman, but I think you are confusing an attitude with a trait of character. My relatives always describe me as someone discreet."

She tilts her head to the side, in my direction.

"I haven't, from the beginning, stopped crushing you with my stupid speech on the revolution, the destruction of the system without even taking the time to know you, and to ask you, as the main actor of this scenario, what you thought. It's like formal speech. I know we don't use the formal form of address to talk to slaves, but I impose on you the fact of talking to me casually, without asking what you prefer for yourself."

"I guess that... we somehow share the same ideas, without having the same angle of view — the same perspective. And maybe... you're right. By repeating it over and over, this social construction may have fleshed out the character trait of resignation for some of us. And please, do not use formal form of address when you talk to me."