"What did you do to me?!" she demanded, her voice cracking with suppressed fear.
Ethan chuckled. "I simply applied the standard treatment for a captive. I haven't 'done' anything to you yet. Didn't you just check for yourself? Haha..."
Watching her face cycle through various expressions in the dark, Ethan couldn't help but laugh. No wonder Akeno enjoyed teasing people; this sense of absolute authority over another person was a unique kind of pleasure.
Katereia tried to struggle again. Her voluptuous, sun-kissed body writhed on the cold floor, her long, shapely legs kicking out as she tried to find leverage. The sheer effort caused her massive, pert breasts to sway and bounce, sending ripples of flesh through her bound torso.
Ethan watched the futile display in silence. The "black-skinned" older sister's face grew flushed, and her legs instinctively squeezed together. Her struggles did nothing but cause the ropes to chafe against her most sensitive areas.
Her heart sank. She could feel her mana—it was there, full and potent—but she couldn't move a single drop of it. Even without magic, her physical strength as a Satan-class should have been enough to snap common hemp.
But it wasn't. The ropes didn't even fray. In fact, as she struggled, they only became slightly damp from her own frantic perspiration. She had been reduced to less than an ordinary woman—she felt like a frail girl who hadn't eaten in days.
After a few minutes, Ethan spoke again. "It was worth all those rare ingredients. The effect is perfect."
"What... what did you use?" she whispered. Blind, paralyzed, and with her senses restricted to a mere meter around her body, a wave of profound anxiety washed over her. In this void, Ethan's voice was her only anchor. Despite being her enemy, a primal, instinctive sense of dependency began to take root.
Ethan, whose senses were not blocked, saw the shift in her posture. Is this the 'Suspension Bridge Effect' or 'Stockholm Syndrome'? Or maybe both?
He had combined vague memories of psychological conditioning with carefully brewed alchemical drugs. The result was better than he had hoped. Katereia had always relied on her overwhelming power; now that it was gone and she was in total darkness, her vulnerability was far greater than that of a normal person.
Ethan had no moral qualms here. As long as he didn't kill or permanently maim her, he was fine. PUA, conditioning, brainwashing—whatever worked to "mold" her into his shape, he would use. And that "shape" applied to her soul as much as her body.
He wasn't afraid of her betraying him later. If he could crush her once, he could do it again. But he had to be careful for the sake of Rias and the others. If Katereia ever regained her full power and sought revenge, his S-class and A-class girls wouldn't even have time to react.
He needed to conquer her completely before the drug wore off.
"I call it the 'Magic-Sealing Body-Locking Dew,'" Ethan said, no longer playing the mystery man. "I researched it with Grayfia and got some 'divine' help from Lord Michael to perfect it."
"As for the effect? Well, the name says it all. Though I suppose your current experience is more accurate than any explanation."
It was a mystical version of a paralyzing agent. It had to be ingested or injected to work, and the stronger the victim, the shorter the duration. Ethan had only managed to produce three doses; he had used one of them entirely on her.
Katereia was shocked that Ethan could create something capable of suppressing a Satan-class being, but her pride wouldn't let her beg. "Hmph. I lost. Do whatever you want with me. Kill me if you're going to."
Her words were defiant, but in the dark, her beautiful, dark-skinned thighs were trembling, and her toes were curled in terror.
"Don't worry. I wouldn't dream of killing you." Ethan stepped closer. He hadn't built this "dark room" and brewed this drug just to execute her.
Katereia's heart skipped a beat. A twisted sense of "safety" filled her—she wasn't going to die. She sneered, "What? You've taken a liking to me? I thought you weren't interested before."
"I wasn't interested in that ridiculous outfit you were wearing," Ethan admitted, his eyes roaming over her naked, bound form. "But your foundation is excellent. You just didn't know how to present yourself. After my... 'correction,' I'm sure you'll find your true charm."
Katereia was both ashamed and panicked. She knew exactly what "correction" meant in this context.
Ethan walked forward, his hand reaching out to stroke her smooth, supple skin. "Your skin is soft, like a young girl's. But the color... I'm not sure."
He pondered as he touched her. "A bit lighter or a bit darker would be fine. Why this specific shade?"
If she were lighter, she'd be a healthy wheat color—athletic and vibrant. If she were darker, she'd have that deep, exotic sun-kissed look. This middle-ground, tropical shade wasn't quite to his specific taste.
Katereia felt a wave of heat through her body from his touch, but his words made her flare with anger. Her skin color was half-natural and half-tanned by her own choice. Was he insulting her aesthetic?
Then again, given her previous glasses and hair, her aesthetic was undeniably trash.
Ethan didn't care to argue. He was the one in control. He could pose her however he wanted, dress her however he pleased. As for her skin color? If he could brew a Satan-class paralytic, he could certainly make a bleaching or tanning cream.
"By the way, the effect lasts for three days."
Ethan lit a dim, yellow candle. Suddenly, Katereia could see. Her night vision hadn't failed earlier—her entire power set had been sealed. This had been deliberate; Ethan wanted her to feel the weight of total sensory deprivation.
He picked her up—still bound in a tight "turtle-shell" kikkou pattern—and carried her to a large, plush bed in the corner.
"My dear Lady Leviathan," Ethan whispered, grinning. "If you can endure for three days, you might just find a chance to escape."
"Three... three days?" Katereia looked at the various "toys" and tools surrounding the bed. She swallowed hard, wondering if she could last even one. But the mention of a "chance" gave her a sliver of hope to cling to.