The reflected image and the silent self-confrontation seemed to freeze time. Erika was almost sinking into the pale, colorless gray reflected back at him, a mirror of his entire current predicament, trying to find an unerased coordinate within those empty eyes.
However, this brief, forced introspection was not allowed to last.
A hand—warm, soft, yet carrying undeniable force—reached out abruptly from behind and to the side, gently covering his eyes.
Vision was instantly stripped away, plunging him into a darkness tinged with human warmth.
"Don't think so much anymore, okay?"The new sister's voice sounded right against his ear, her breath carrying a faint, clean scent of soap, stirring the hair by his temple. Her tone remained gentle, yet held a decisiveness that cut off thought itself."Sorry to have kept you waiting."
The hand over his eyes did not press down; it merely covered them steadily. Then, the wheelchair began to move again—smoothly, evenly.
So soon?
The sister had only been inside for a moment, hadn't she? Erika couldn't understand. Had his perception of time grown even more sluggish under the influence of drugs and weakness, or were the "matters" behind the door simply that brief and efficient?
"Really, my apologies," the new sister continued whispering into his ear, her voice dropping lower, almost to a breathy murmur—intimate, like sharing a secret, yet threaded with a strange regret."They won't let us out for air today… even though the weather should be nice."
As she spoke, her warm breath brushed across the sensitive shell of Erika's ear and the side of his neck, bringing an indescribable itch and numb tingle. He instinctively tried to pull away, but the restraint suit and wheelchair held him fast.
This closeness, this breath, acted like a gentle mental intrusion. His already-fragile focus began to dissolve against his will. The whisper at his ear became a hypnotic chant, drawing him toward a state of passive acceptance, of not-thinking.
"But then…"Her tone shifted suddenly, taking on a mysterious, almost playful lilt, as if bestowing an extraordinary favor."This is my little reward for you."
Reward?
The word sent a cold ripple through Erika's disordered thoughts. In a place that stripped everything away—where even bodily integrity no longer mattered—what could possibly qualify as a reward? More plentiful but tasteless gruel? An extra, meaningless "cleaning"? Or… the prelude to something deeper, more covert—processing?
He couldn't imagine it. He didn't want to.
Fear and vigilance surged back, overwhelming the pull toward numbness.
The wheelchair rolled on.
The surrounding sounds shifted subtly. The absolute silence of the empty corridor fractured, replaced by a low, indistinct hum. Listening closely, he could make out layered noise—voices, footsteps, rolling wheels, the faint beeping of instruments—all blended together, filtered by walls and distance into a blurred murmur. It felt as though they were passing through a more crowded, more active zone.
The wheelchair finally stopped.
The new sister leaned in again. This time, she nearly half-embraced the back of the wheelchair, her lips brushing close to his other ear. In a voice meant for no one else—slow, deliberate, unmistakably clear—she said:
"Just for you."
Her warm breath, laced with an inexplicable expectancy, poured into his ear.
Then the hand over his eyes withdrew.
Light rushed back in, bringing a brief, blinding glare. Erika blinked instinctively, struggling to focus—
Ahead of him was not a bustling hall, not another door, not the entrance to any specialized chamber.
It was only a wall.
A smooth, milk-white wall, indistinguishable from all the others.
It filled his entire field of vision—flat, empty. No doors. No windows. No ornamentation. Not even a visible seam. The overhead light strip washed over it evenly, producing a blankness so pure it was disorienting.
Erika froze.
A reward?
A… wall?
He instinctively tried to turn his head, to see what lay to either side or behind him, but the restraint suit limited his movement. He could only stare straight ahead, trying to extract meaning from this utterly informationless white.
Was it a visual prompt? Something hidden, meant to be perceived?Or was the wall itself the entirety of the reward—an absolute, unquestionable emptiness?
The new sister said nothing more. She simply stood behind the wheelchair, silent. The distant noise around them seemed to recede further.
It felt as though an invisible hand had turned the volume of the world down.
The constant background murmur was slowly absorbed, swallowed, as if wrapped in thick soundproofing. In its place emerged a low, steady hum—the sound of some vast machine or foundational energy system—seeping from the walls, from beneath the floor, even from the air itself.
Absolute silence settled in. Only the hum remained.
Erika's heart clenched violently. Every scattered thought snapped back into place. His eyes widened, pupils dilating with extreme focus as he stared at the wall, as if trying to see through it. His body tensed to its limit within the restraint suit, despite his immobility.
Tears rose without warning.
Not from sadness. Not from gratitude. But from a flood of shock, inexpressible longing, and bottomless pain and grievance that shattered every remaining barrier of reason.
His vision blurred . A tear slipped free, tracing a silent, straight line down his gaunt cheek, gathering at his jaw before falling onto the gray restraint suit, leaving behind a small, dark stain.
Behind him—where only the quiet presence of the new sister had been—space stirred without warning.
Muffled, broken sobs rose. Not one voice, but many. They carried the same shock, the same pain, perhaps a flicker of long-numb despair reawakened. They were close, just behind him, forming a mute congregation of shared suffering.
"These people… are like me…"
They were rejects too. Processed. Brought here to face the same wall. The reward was not personal at all—it was a collective, merciless display.
Then—
A breeze.
Infinitesimally faint, yet undeniably real. Cool, like night or early morning, carrying a whisper of freshness—soil, vegetation, perhaps the scent of free air itself.
It brushed across Erika's damp cheek, swept over his cracked lips, slipped into the narrow gap at his collar.
The sensation, the scent, were utterly alien to this sterile white interior—yet undeniably real.
The final defense collapsed.
The breeze was weak, bearing that outdoor chill mixed with dust and faint earth—nothing like the eternally filtered, medicinal air inside. It was like a rusted key, violently prying open a sealed corner of memory—
The wind over the wild grass near the border village at night, carrying the scent of green and distant campfire ash.The dry wind scouring dead grass and stone beyond the Sanctum's walls.The scorching wind over the Black Tower's ash-blasted ground, heavy with residue and heat.
Outside. Freedom. A whole body. Running. Choice.
All of it was dragged violently into the present by that insignificant breeze, forming a catastrophic contrast with his reality—bound in a wheelchair, surrounded by sobbing kin, unable even to wipe away his own tears.
"Gods damn it…"
The curse tore free—hoarse, scraped from clenched teeth and the fractures in his soul—shattering the numb silence he had forced upon himself. It wasn't loud, but against the surrounding sobs and the violence of his inner collapse, it rang sharply.
"Why… is it like this…"
Once a dam cracks, the flood cannot be stopped.
Why had it come to this?
A cripple. An incomplete reject. A prisoner stripped of power, dignity, even the ability to move. Sitting here like merchandise—inspected, labeled, awaiting processing—crying before here.
He had never been given the right to choose. Nor the ability not to.
From surviving the border village, to being taken into the Sanctum, to the Mark's awakening, to Wolfgang's brutal training, to fleeing the ritual, to the Black Tower, to being retrieved, treated, dressed in this cursed suit—every step had been a shove. Every choice made inside an illusion of options, each leading only to a slower death.
Free will?What was that—choosing the method of harvest, or the posture of imprisonment?
He had tried.
He endured the training. Exploited loopholes. Fought back in desperation. Even defeated that broken golem. He tried to protect Anna. To understand the truth. To survive—using everything this wretched body and chaotic mind could muster.
Why had it ended like this?
Rage, refusal, grievance, despair without bottom—everything boiled inside his chest like magma.
If gods truly existed… was this all deserved?
The thought cut through him with self-destructive sharpness. Had he erred by refusing to become fuel? By not kneeling before Quinn? Or simply because his existence itself was a flaw?
"DAMN IT ALL!!!"
He roared, expending every shred of remaining strength. Not a cry for validation—but a howl that poured out all the insoluble rage and absurdity.
"I just… wanted to keep existing!!!"
The sound echoed, ragged with sobs and blood.
"That 'me' was all I wanted!!!"That whole self—the one who could run, jump, hurt, rage, question, yearn. Not this thing bound to a wheelchair, facing a wall, one sleeve empty, one cheek stained with tears.
His voice peaked—and broke.
Behind him, the sobbing crested in response. Then, as another steady hum rose—final, conclusive—it faded away. As though that shared pain had been soothed, dispersed, or removed by some unseen system.
Wheelchairs rolled away. Footsteps retreated.
The space emptied.
At last, only Erika remained.
Alone in the wheelchair. Facing the wall, once again calm and white. Tear tracks cooling on his face. The breeze gone.
Only the cold restraint, and the heart still hammering inside a broken body.
A reward?
Had he received it?
Perhaps the breeze. The scent of the outside. The shared sobbing. His own collapse.
That was all.
A meticulously designed, cruel consolation—meant to force him to understand the cost.
And now, even that was gone.
Only him.
And the pale silence that had swallowed everything.