Carrying a heart unsettled by fear, pain, and the horrific sight that had passed by, Erika was finally pushed by Sela back along the endless pale corridor and into the familiar, stifling room.
The wheelchair was positioned steadily against the cold flatbed. Sela moved to the front and began skillfully and gently loosening Erika's restraints one by one. As the straps came undone, a pins-and-needles sensation spread across skin that had been bound for too long, but it also brought a long-awaited, faint illusion of "freedom."
Erika had thought about trying to stand on his own—if only to prove he wasn't completely broken. But the moment the idea surfaced, his body protested silently. His left arm, after blocking Lynus's blows and experiencing that brief, violent "surge of power," now felt nothing but limp weakness and a deep, dull ache. He struggled to lift it even halfway. Worse, he couldn't feel any clear sensation below his knees—only numbness and heaviness, as if his legs no longer belonged to him.
He had to give up completely, allowing Sela to half-support, half-lift him from the wheelchair and carefully settle him back onto the hard, cold bed. Throughout the entire process, Erika never let go of Sela's hand. That hand was his only lifeline connecting him to the outside world, proof he hadn't been completely cast into the void. He held on tightly, his grip instinctively dependent.
Once he was lying back on the bed, Sela withdrew her supporting arm, but the hand he held remained for now.
She began bustling around. She leaned over to straighten the slightly disheveled restraint garment on Erika, once again pulling the empty right sleeve straight and smoothing it out. Then, with incredible gentleness, she wiped away the remaining blood, tear tracks, sweat, and… those particularly eye-catching, dried sauce-like stains from his neck. Her actions were focused and meticulous, as if handling a fragile piece of precious porcelain. Her fingertips occasionally brushed his skin, leaving behind a cool, fleeting touch.
Erika lay quietly, his gaze following Sela's movements, a complex swirl of emotions churning inside him.
Just as he was lost in these indescribably mixed thoughts—
The warmth in his hand—the thing he relied on for reassurance—vanished without warning.
Sela had naturally, temporarily let go to rinse the cloth or tidy something.
That instant of "loss" was like someone dangling over a cliff suddenly losing their only rope. Before Erika's brain could even process it, an instinct deeper than thought—mixed with fear and intense dependence—drove him—
From somewhere, a surge of strength emerged. Erika's supposedly limp left hand shot forward in a desperate grab!
His fingers brushed air, then closed firmly—even trembling slightly—around Sela's wrist, the one she had just withdrawn but hadn't fully moved away.
The warmth was back.
Sela clearly hadn't expected this sudden move. She turned back in surprise, her gaze landing first on Erika's hand—white-knuckled around her wrist—then lifting to his face, which was filled with unease and a hint of embarrassment.
She smiled.
Her lips curved naturally, the corners of her eyes crinkling slightly. Her entire expression softened, holding even a touch of… amused, helpless indulgence.To Erika, it carried an indescribably wonderful feeling, instantly dissolving the awkwardness and tension of his impulsive act.
"Alright," Sela's voice carried a thread of laughter. She made no attempt to free her wrist. Instead, with her other free hand, she gently—almost affectionately—tapped Erika on the forehead.
"Stop being mischievous."
Her tone was the kind used to coax a sulking child.
Then, maintaining the position with her wrist still caught, she leaned over again. She carefully righted Erika—who had ended up in a more awkward, unbalanced heap on the bed from his sudden lunge and couldn't move—tucking him properly beneath the thin but tidy covers and smoothing the edges.
After finishing, Sela didn't leave immediately.
She simply sat down on the chair by the bed, the one used for washing. One hand remained in Erika's somewhat stubborn grip. The other rested casually on her own knee.
She didn't speak. She just sat there. Keeping him company.
The room held only the sound of their shallow breathing, and the slowly settling turbulence in Erika's heart, quietly smoothed by this silent companionship.
"Have I always," Erika asked with his eyes closed, his voice extremely soft, carrying a careful, tentative probing, as if touching a fragile illusion,"…been mischievous?"
After asking, he squeezed his eyes shut tighter, his eyelashes trembling slightly as he waited for a response. Exposing such a question made him feel a bit self-conscious, yet he was strangely expectant.
Sela didn't answer immediately.
Erika felt the hand holding his left adjust its grip—gentle but firm. Then another hand—cool yet soft—covered it as well. Sela used both hands to slowly, carefully rub Erika's left hand, especially between his fingers. Her fingertips traced lightly along the spaces between his fingers, his knuckles, his palm, bringing waves of subtle, relaxing, slightly ticklish sensations.
Amid this almost breath-stealing delicacy of touch, Sela's voice finally came, soft:
"The Erika I remember…"She paused, as if recalling a distant image."…could be mischievous sometimes."
Her tone was gentle, carrying a faint smile tinged with something like nostalgia.
That was it?
A nameless disappointment welled up in Erika's chest. He wanted more—more details about the "Erika" she remembered, more fragments to fill his blank past, even if only a few words. But Sela's sentence ended there, like a book closed after showing only its cover.
That disappointment, mixed with physical discomfort and a childlike sense of grievance, sparked a petulant impulse. He gave a sharp yank, pulling his left hand back forcefully and quickly tucking it under the covers. He even turned over, presenting his back to Sela. The movement tugged painfully at his injuries, making him draw in a silent breath of cold air, but he stubbornly made no sound.
"Hah… Still not behaving."
A very soft, almost breathy laugh came from behind him—not mocking, but filled with helplessness and amused fondness.
Then Erika felt the mattress dip slightly as Sela leaned close. Warm breath brushed against his ear and the short hairs at the nape of his neck, sending a faint, tingling sensation through him. She leaned right beside his ear and whispered, so softly only the two of them could hear:
"Be obedient."
And before the final sound of "obedient" had fully faded—
An extremely light, fleeting, yet unmistakably soft warmth landed on Erika's cheek.
A kiss.
Erika's heart skipped, then began to race wildly, pounding against his eardrums. Blood rushed to his head, setting his cheeks and ears ablaze. He froze completely beneath the covers, forgetting even how to breathe.
By the time he snapped his eyes open again—panicked, flustered, and stirred by a feeling he couldn't name, desperately searching for that familiar warmth—
Sela was no longer by the bed.
She was already at the door, reaching for the handle. Her back remained straight and quiet, the folds of her habit impeccably orderly, as if the person who had just leaned close to whisper and kiss him had never existed.
"I will be obedient."
The words burst from Erika's dry throat almost reflexively. They weren't loud, but they were unusually clear, carrying a meaning even he didn't fully understand—an eager, instinctive promise.
Sela's hand on the doorknob paused. She didn't turn back. She only replied in her usual calm tone, softly:
"Mm."
Then, as she did every day before leaving, she said:
"The Merciful Father blesses us, Erika."
With that, she opened the door, slipped through sideways, and was gone. The door closed silently behind her, the lock engaging with a soft click.
The room held only Erika now, lying on the cold bed. The spot on his cheek where she had kissed him retained a illusory yet lingering warmth. His ears echoed with her final blessing—and his own hasty "I will be obedient."
His heartbeat was still unsteady. The heat in his cheeks had yet to fade.
Be obedient…To whom? To Sela? To Lynus? To the Merciful Father?
He lifted the left hand Sela had so carefully caressed, his fingers unconsciously brushing his own cheek.
It seemed to still carry a trace of her scent—and the deeper, heavier fog brought by her words:
"…could be mischievous sometimes."