The weakness settled in like jagged reefs exposed by a retreating tide—cold, stubborn, claiming every inch of his body. The exhaustion from the failed attempt to tap into his Mark, combined with the hollowness of prolonged hunger, made Erika feel like a hollowed-out puppet held together by a few brittle threads, ready to collapse at any moment. In this pale, silent, tightly monitored cage, hunger became the most honest—and least threatening—physiological demand.
"…I'm hungry."
He heard his own voice, dry and weak, like sandpaper scraping stone, almost dissolving into the cold air. Yet the effect effect was immediate.
The sister, who had maintained a quiet, almost invisible presence, stiffened slightly at the sound, then turned as if granted a reprieve. Her trained, soulless smile seemed to brighten, becoming more genuine—as though she had received a clear, safe, procedure-compliant instruction, freeing her from the earlier cleaning task with its unfinished warnings and suppressed hymns.
She returned quickly to the bedside, bending slightly, hands clasped before her, using that impeccably standard, subservient tone.
"How may I serve you?"
Erika lacked the strength to respond to her formulaic inquiry. He merely repeated, his voice a little clearer but still weak:
"I'm hungry."
"Understood. Please wait a moment."The sister complied instantly, without hesitation, turning to leave the room. Her steps were light—almost buoyant with task completion—sharply contrasting her earlier restrained calm.
The door closed softly. Once again, the room held only Erika and the indifferent ceiling light.
The weakness surged back more fiercely as his consciousness briefly stirred. He closed his eyes, feeling fatigue seep like molten lead from his bones, flooding his entire body. The emptiness wasn't confined to his stomach—it was a spiritual depletion, a sense of power stripped away, of a future sealed shut.
At least… I won't starve.
A feeble thought surfaced in the desert of his despair. In this place where life, death, power, and freedom were utterly out of control, satisfying the most basic survival need had become the only thing he could anticipate—even actively request.
Perhaps…
He dared not continue the thought. In an environment where even the sister's emotions and actions were precisely regulated, any probe beyond the scope of a patient's needs could invite unpredictable consequences. He forcibly cut off that sliver of wishful thinking.
He didn't wait long.
The door opened soundlessly again. The sister returned, carrying a plain white porcelain plate. On it sat a small bowl of indeterminate, colorless gruel; two slices of dry, gray-brown bread with neatly cut edges; and a small cup of clear water. There were no utensils—only a single polished metal spoon in her hand.
Simple—almost meager.
Yet seeing it, a strange, distorted sense of relief flickered through Erika's mind. He dared not hope for more. In a place like this, a steaming, fragrant feast would have been truly chilling.
Simplicity, perhaps, meant he was still regarded as an ordinary prisoner or observation subject—someone whose basic vital signs still warranted maintenance.
The sister sat by the bed, her movements gentle yet unyielding, scooping a spoonful of gruel and bringing it to Erika's lips. Her technique was professional: the spoon never touched his teeth or went too deep; the rhythm was steady. Erika did not resist. He opened his mouth obediently and swallowed mechanically.
The food had little taste—only faint salt and grain. Lukewarm. He ate quickly, consuming energy by instinct, without savoring, without thought.
The feeding process was silent and efficient. The sister made no attempt at conversation, focusing solely on the act of feeding, her face fixed in that constant, gentle yet hollow smile.
After the last piece of bread and a few sips of water, she picked up a clean, damp cloth and carefully wiped the corners of Erika's mouth. Her touch carried the caution of handling a fragile artifact—yet contained no surplus warmth.
When finished, she stood, collected the empty plate, and prepared to leave. At the doorway, she paused out of routine, turned back toward Erika, her face blooming into that seemingly branded-on standard smile, and said in a steady, confident tone:
"The Merciful Father watches over us."
Then she gently closed the door.
Silence reclaimed the room.
The food brought a faint warmth and solidity to his body, but the deeper weakness—the suffocating sense of surveillance, the formless dread of the future—pressed down even heavier than hunger ever had.
"The Merciful Father watches over us."
The phrase lingered like an inescapable incantation, echoing silently through the pale space alongside the sister's standardized smile. It proclaimed safety and care—yet constructed the most unyielding invisible prison.
Erika lay there, feeling the meager energy from the food slowly spreading through his numb body, his gaze hollow as it fixed on the ceiling. Survival had been reduced to swallowing, breathing, and—beneath this incantation—waiting for the next unpredictable directive or change.
And those eyes that claimed to be watching—were they even now peering through some unseen crack, calmly recording each weak swallow, each labored breath, and every flicker of despair and calculation he failed to fully conceal?
Time passed like viscous gel within the pale walls, beneath the constant cold light, the sister's standardized smile, and the eternal refrain—"The Merciful Father watches over us."There was no day or night, only the ceiling light cycling on at fixed intervals, and the sister's punctual appearances for feeding, cleaning, and… those seemingly caring, yet covertly probing inquiries.
"How do you feel today? Does it still hurt?""Please relax, this is to aid your recovery.""How has your rest been? Have you… dreamt of anything particular?"
At that last question, her smile would pause—subtly—for half a second, her eyes seeming to search for the faintest shift in Erika's expression, before she masked it with a light, hurried laugh. "Haha, never mind, just wondering."
Erika's responses never changed: silence.Or, when hunger became unavoidable, that dry, almost ritualistic phrase—"I'm hungry."
He was a completely sealed clam, locking away emotion, thought, and reaction behind a hardened shell.He passively accepted feeding, cleaning, and simple passive limb movements, enduring the sister's tests disguised as care. Deep within his body, he could still sense the energy pathways—severed and dormant—while the purely physical injuries healed excruciatingly slowly. At least the sensation of imminent collapse had eased somewhat.
This so-called recovery brought no hope—only heightened vigilance.
Until this day.
The sound of the door opening was unchanged.But what the sister wheeled in was no longer the metal nursing trolley of medicine, gauze, and food.
It was a wheelchair.
Simple in structure, its metal frame gleaming with cold light, fitted with a leather seat and backrest.And neatly folded atop it—a set of ash-white, thickly woven garments: a restraint suit, unmistakably reinforced with straps and complex fastenings at the joints and torso.
The sister's face still bore that perfect smile—even brighter than usual.She parked the wheelchair beside the bed, her gaze sweeping over Erika's arms, now slightly stronger than before, and announced—as if delivering good news:
"Recovery is progressing well! It seems the Merciful Father's grace remains upon you."She patted the wheelchair's armrest lightly, her tone cheerful."Perhaps in a few days, when you're feeling better, we might go outside for some air. Staying in the room all the time isn't good for recovery, don't you agree?"
"For some air."
To Erika, the phrase carried no relief—only the sound of a carefully packaged, implicit notice of transfer, or the next arrangement.
As she spoke, she skillfully checked the wheel locks and brakes, as if performing routine preparation. Then, as though suddenly recalling something, she turned back toward him.Her eyes carried a secret-sharing, almost childlike curiosity, though the curve of her smile never wavered.
"Oh, by the way, I dreamt of the Merciful Father last night."She tilted her head slightly, her tone as casual as discussing the weather."He was in the light, so benevolent… I wonder, have you dreamt of anything these past few days?"
The instant the question was asked, her seemingly casual gaze enveloped Erika's face like a precision instrument.The trailing "haha" remained—but sounded hollow and hurried, more like a cover for urging a response.
Dreams. Again.They were unusually interested in his subconscious.
Erika's heart struck heavily against his ribs—but his face remained an ice shell, allowing no emotion to escape.He didn't let his eyes linger on the blatantly conspicuous restraint suit.
Slowly, he rolled his gaze to meet the sister's probing smile, drawing upon the strength he had partially regained—yet deliberately keeping his voice dry and weak—and repeated, coldly, word by word, that single incantation:
"I. Am. Hungry."
As if the wheelchair, the restraints, the talk of dreams and "air" had nothing to do with him.His world contained only the most basic, animal demand.
The sister's smile froze—infinitesimally—for half a second, before smoothing back into place, even more "tolerant" and "understanding."She nodded, as though Erika had given the most reasonable answer imaginable.
"Alright, please wait a moment. Food will be here shortly. The recovery period requires sufficient nutrition."As she spoke, she nudged the wheelchair even closer to the bed, ensuring Erika had an unobstructed view of both it and the restraint suit, before turning away with light, almost buoyant steps.
The door closed.
In the silence, Erika's gaze finally locked onto the ash-white restraint suit.Cold. Rigid. Its control-laden fastenings reflected a faint sheen beneath the cold light.
"For some air?"He scoffed inwardly. It sounded more like the opening act of a prisoner transfer.
And the sister's repeated questions about dreams were like an ice pick prying at his sealed defenses. What did they want?Information?Or confirmation that his mind had been "contaminated" or "influenced"?
Food arrived soon, administered as always.The sister made no mention of the wheelchair or dreams—simply smiling as she completed the routine, leaving behind the familiar words:
"The Merciful Father watches over us."
Then she left.
But the wheelchair and restraint suit remained.A silent, threatening prelude, standing in stark contrast against the pale background.
Lying in bed, Erika chewed the tasteless residue in his mouth, his gaze cold and focused.Physical recovery might have granted him only the faintest possibility of movement, but the appearance of the wheelchair and restraints marked a shift in the shape of the cage.
The day of "air" promised no freedom.Was it the next unknown phase?Or the beginning of a final judgment?
Before that day—before being strapped into that suit and pushed into the unknown "outside"—he had to determine exactly where he was…and whether the power completely shut off within him truly had no chance of revival.
Even if only a hairline crack.