The change occurred quietly, swiftly, even with an eerie sort of "consideration."
No warning, no announcement. During one bright period, after completing the routine feeding and cleaning, the new sister didn't go to the corner to fuss with the restraint suit as usual. She simply stood by the bed, watching Erika for a few seconds.
Her light-colored eyes remained calm and unruffled, yet held an added layer of something difficult to name—a focus bordering on inspection, almost like an appraisal.
Then she turned and wheeled the chair over directly. The metal wheels emitted a faint hum against the floor, stopping at exactly the right distance beside the bed.
"Let's see if it fits, shall we?"
Her voice was still gentle, as though discussing the most mundane matter. Without waiting for any response from Erika, she reached out, smoothly adopting the practiced posture of a nurse assisting a patient—one hand at his shoulder, the other at his back.
Erika's heart lurched. Instinct screamed at him to resist, to pull away. But prolonged weakness, the lingering effects of medication, and that bone-deep sense of powerlessness rendered his struggle as feeble as a fledgling's fluttering wings, instantly subdued by the sister's steady, unquestionable strength.
She didn't even use excess force. Following a predetermined motion, she cleverly used leverage and the slight shift of Erika's own center of gravity, lifting and guiding him from the bed—half-supporting, half-carrying—until she settled him into the wheelchair.
The moment his body met the leather seat, a violent sense of dissonance followed.
His center of gravity was wrong.
It felt as if one side of his body was far lighter than he remembered—so hollow it was unsettling. He wanted to look down, but his neck was still too stiff to allow it.
The sister had already moved in front of him, picking up the restraint suit that had clearly been prepared in advance.
Her movements were efficient and fluid, without hesitation or delay, as if rehearsed countless times. The thick, slightly elastic gray-white fabric wrapped around him—first the torso. Straps passed beneath his arms, crossed his chest, cinched his waist and abdomen. The fasteners made soft but distinct clicks, one after another, locking into place.
The tightness was adjusted perfectly—not suffocating, not painful, but leaving absolutely no room to move. Every inch of him was secured, firmly and precisely.
Then came the legs. The ankles. Each bound to the wheelchair's footrests with the same care.
Throughout the process, Erika felt like a soulless doll, handled at will.
He could feel the fabric brushing against his skin, the cold of metal fasteners pressing against bone, the uniform pressure of the straps tightening around muscle. Everything unfolded in swift silence, broken only by the faint rustle of cloth and the soft clicks of adjustments.
Until—
The sister moved to his right.
Erika strained his eyes in that direction.
She was holding the empty right sleeve of the restraint suit.
The gray-white fabric drooped limply. The cuff bore the same finely crafted metal fasteners—but there was no limb to occupy them.
The sister's expression did not change, as though the empty sleeve were the most natural design choice in the world. She simply fastened it carefully to the preset anchor points on the wheelchair's armrest, securing it with straps so that it lay neatly in place—
a glaring absence, rendered disturbingly "tidy."
"Perfect."
The new sister stepped back, surveying Erika now fully restrained in the wheelchair. Her smile was light, the kind one might wear when judging the fit of a garment.
"It fits very well."
Fits.
The word pierced through Erika's lingering haze like an ice pick.
Wrong center of gravity.Empty sleeve.
Fragments surfaced—blurred, broken memories from the final moments of the battle in the lower levels. White-hot pain. That field of pure white light. The command to sever.
He hadn't thought about the arm.He hadn't thought about the cornered-beast struggle.He hadn't thought about what came before the light.
Quinn… of course he wasn't that kind.
Saving him may never have been an act of kindness.
And Erika—from beginning to end—had known nothing. Had no way of knowing. Quinn's true intentions. What the Sanctum had done after "retrieving" him. What he had lost. What future awaited him.
Everything was buried in thick fog.
He was like a component stripped of all right to know, installed, adjusted, and displayed.
Just then, the new sister leaned in again. Her face filled his vision, still wearing that gentle smile. She raised one finger and lightly tipped up his chin. The pressure wasn't strong, but it carried a guiding insistence that made it impossible to look away.
Her pale eyes met his directly.
"Be good now," she whispered, her voice as soft as one used to soothe a child."Let what's past… stay past, alright?"
She smiled warmly, as if offering the most reasonable, most considerate advice.
But to Erika, the words were colder than any threat of torture.
What's past—what did that mean?
The Black Tower?Quinn?The brutal battle?
Or… the part of himself represented by that empty sleeve—the part that had been "processed" away?
They wanted him to forget.To accept.To comply.
The sister released his chin, straightened, and performed a final check of every strap. Satisfied, she turned the wheelchair toward the door.
"The Merciful Father blesses us all."
Her tone was calm as she pushed Erika—fully bound, clad in the gray-white restraint suit, one sleeve hanging empty—smoothly and silently out of the pale room he had occupied for an unknowable length of time.
Beyond the door lay another corridor: pale, polished, and seemingly endless.
Erika sat rigidly secured, his gaze forced forward. The empty right sleeve swayed faintly with the movement of the chair.
Could the past truly be left behind?
He didn't know.
He only knew that he had been fitted into a "well-fitting" prison uniform, pushed toward an unknown future that demanded forgetting.
A future where even the wholeness of his body no longer seemed to matter.
The wheels rolled over the smooth floor with an even, almost deliberately muted hum. The new sister pushed at a steady pace—not fast, not slow—as if following an invisible track. She even hummed softly, the melody monotonous and gentle, breaking off and resuming like background noise.
Erika's vision was restricted by the high collar of the restraint suit and the wheelchair's backrest. He could only look forward and slightly upward.
The corridor was unusually wide and tall. Walls and ceiling were a featureless, faintly reflective off-white. The floor was pale gray, etched with subtle anti-slip texture. Light poured down from continuous strip-lights embedded along the ceiling's center, casting uniform, shadowless cold illumination—everything perfectly visible, yet utterly devoid of warmth.
They followed an invisible path down the corridor's center, a slightly darker strip worn by countless wheels, tracking straight beneath the lights. The passage seemed endless. Identical, unmarked white doors lined the sides, closed tight, silent as graves.
Gradually, more people appeared.
Most wore plain white habits, moving lightly and quietly. Some walked alone with folders or metal trays; others spoke softly in pairs or trios, voices kept low as if unwilling to disturb the absolute order. Occasionally, men or women in dark blue robes passed by, their steps heavier, expressions solemn, eyes fixed straight ahead.
Erika even glimpsed one or two figures entirely shrouded in simple black robes, faces hidden beneath hoods. When they appeared, nearby sisters and blue-robes would unconsciously make space and bow their heads.
But what tightened Erika's chest most were those in situations similar to his own.
Some sat in wheelchairs, dressed in the same gray-white restraint suits. Others lay on wheeled gurneys, bodies covered in white sheets, only heads or limbs visible—eyes vacant or closed. They were terrifyingly quiet, like lifeless cargo being transported with care.
Erika even saw a boy in restraints, faint golden light pulsing rhythmically beneath the skin at his bound wrists—as if a Mark were operating in some forced, low-power state. The sister pushing him paid no attention.
This was a vast, functioning system of processing and containment.
And he was merely another unit on the line.
As passing sisters met the gaze of Erika's attendant, they exchanged brief nods and those standard, gentle smiles. Their eyes would then sweep over Erika naturally and briefly—lingering just a moment longer on his right side.
No surprise.No questions.No pity.
Just a faint smile.
Within it was the calm of familiarity—even a trace of approval, as if the work had been properly done.
Each time such a gaze passed over him, Erika felt the empty sleeve burn beneath invisible scrutiny, bringing a sharp shame and chill more cutting than the loss itself.
The wheelchair stopped before a white door identical to all the others.
No markings.
The sister bent down, her face close to Erika's ear.
"Be good and wait here for me, okay?"
She even brushed aside the damp hair on his forehead with her fingers, the gesture natural—like soothing a well-behaved child.
Straightening, she knocked twice.Tap. Tap.
Almost immediately, the door slid open soundlessly. She stepped inside without hesitation. The door closed swiftly behind her, leaving Erika alone in the quiet corridor.
Directly opposite the wheelchair, set into the wall beside the door, stood a full-length mirror in a simple frame—clearly meant for those waiting to check their appearance.
Erika's gaze was drawn to it. Forced to it.
In the reflection sat a thin figure bound to a metal wheelchair, clad in a gray-white restraint suit. The garment fit perfectly, wrapping his torso and left arm snugly. Straps held him in a rigid, humiliating posture.
His face was sickly pale. Dark shadows pooled beneath his eyes. His lips were cracked. His hair long and unkempt.
And his eyes—
Hollow. Exhausted. Yet deep within them burned an unextinguished cold confusion and defiance.
Most striking was the right side.
The fabric at the shoulder collapsed neatly, connecting to the empty sleeve—carefully folded and fixed in place, yet all the more conspicuous.
It hung like a silent banner proclaiming "incomplete" and "processed."
This was a stranger.A broken thing.A self that had been assembled.
"Is this… me?"
The thought was absurd.
The bound, mutilated boy in the mirror bore little resemblance to the Erika who had once run through border villages, struggled in Sanctum training yards, or roared in the depths of the Black Tower.
A bitter, ironic laugh rose in his throat like a mouthful of cold wine—unable to be swallowed, unable to be spat out. The corner of his mouth twitched. The reflection answered with a distorted expression, more painful than a cry.
Was this what it meant to let the past stay past?Was this the new self beneath the well-fitting prison suit?
The corridor lights remained steady. Distant footsteps passed now and then.
The boy in the mirror stared back at him in silence.
Beyond the door waited some unknown "arrangement."
And here, outside, he lacked even the ability to turn away from the mirror.
Only the eyes in the reflection—that tiny spark deep within, refusing to go out—continued to burn, faint and stubborn, locked in a silent, desperate standoff with the well-fitting prison suit and the empty sleeve.