The aftershocks of the collapse churned within his chest like a surging undercurrent after a storm. Rage, resentment, despair, self-loathing—all those violent fragments of emotion still spun and collided deep within his consciousness, sending waves of suffocating, dull pain through him. Time lost its meaning. In this deliberately constructed, absolute silence, every second stretched into agony. All that remained was his own ragged, unsteady breathing, and the tight, stinging itch left behind by dried tears on his face.
Loneliness had never felt so tangible, wrapping around him as tightly as the restraint suit itself.
Just as he thought this cold, abandoned stillness would go on forever—
Sensation.
Warm hands reached out from behind the wheelchair, from either side of his body, slowly yet firmly encircling him. A solid embrace, carrying an unmistakable sense of containment and inclusion. Arms slipped around his restrained shoulders; palms pressed flat against the thick fabric of the restraint suit over his chest, holding him there.
Warmth. So real. So profoundly out of place. It seeped through the fabric into his stiff, frozen body, bringing with it a near-painful rush of returning blood.
Softness. The feel of arms and hands was utterly different from the cold metal, smooth walls, and rough cloth he had known for days—carrying the elastic warmth of living flesh.
Erika went completely rigid. Shock drowned out the remnants of his emotional storm.
What was this…?
Then a warm cheek pressed against his own tear-streaked face. He could feel the smoothness of her skin—and fresh, wet tears, warmer than his, silently soaking into his own.
The new sister's voice sounded at his ear. No longer the trained calm or deliberately lowered, mysterious tone—but threaded with clear sobs, trembling, and a grief that felt as though it had been suppressed for far too long.
"It's not… your fault…"Her voice fractured, breath unsteady."It's the sin… of all of us…"
She held him tighter, as if trying to drive away the cold and despair clinging to him with her own body heat and strength.
"The Merciful Father… will forgive us… He must…"
The last words dissolved into a prayer on the edge of tears.
Erika's mind went blank.
All his vigilance, all his cold calculations, all his bitterness and resistance were swept away at once, drowned beneath this sudden, human-warm embrace and her broken sobbing.
He felt it.
The warm body pressed against his back. The near-trembling force in the arms around him. The mixed tears on his cheek—his cold, hers warm. The raw, unmistakable pain and empathy in her voice, no longer the procedural performance of a guard or caretaker.
He even… began to crave it.
Yes. Crave it.
Like a dying traveler in the desert clutching at water. Like a frozen body lunging toward the only source of heat. This warmth, this touch, this tearful declaration of shared guilt—it was a fatal temptation, a fleeting illusion of salvation for a heart steeped too long in coldness, isolation, and denial.
Without meaning to, he relaxed muscles that had been clenched until they ached, letting his weight lean back slightly, sinking deeper into the embrace. He closed his eyes, allowing the warmth and the sobbing voice to wrap around him, shutting out the pale, merciless world beyond.
Even if this embrace came from an enemy.Even if these tears hid another purpose.Even if this "forgiveness" was nothing more than another exquisitely crafted cage.
Right now, he was too tired. Too cold. Too desperate to feel—touched,to have his pain seen,even briefly, as a human being.
Time blurred again. Only the tightly pressed body heat, the mingled tears, and the sister's low sobs—gradually fading into quiet, broken breaths—remained in the silence, forming a brief, fragile, yet achingly real world.
"The Merciful Father will forgive us…"
For the first time, the words did not sound cold or ironic. Within the warmth of the embrace and the reality of her tears, they felt like mutual comfort in despair, a vague promise one could not help but cling to.
He was still bound to the wheelchair.His body broken.His future unknown.
But for this moment, he was not alone—not facing that blank wall,nor the world behind it that had never belonged to him.
Warmth.An embrace.Tears.
That brief, fragile solace—one that almost let him drown in it—like stolen honey not yet melted on the tongue—
An anomaly stabbed into his hazy perception.
A surge of warmth—sudden, uncontrollable—rose from deep within his lower abdomen, from a place too intimate to name. It spread outward before he could understand what was happening, his body betraying him before his mind could react.
He felt it with horrifying clarity.
The warm liquid slid down the inside of his tightly bound thighs, slow and unstoppable. The fabric absorbed some of it, but more moisture spread quickly, bringing with it a sticky, scalp-prickling sensation, utterly unlike the warmth of the embrace.
Shame.
The word burned through the last remnants of warmth and haze like a red-hot brand.
Deeper than being struck down by the Golem in the depths of the Black Tower.Deeper than being paraded in the restraint suit.Deeper than the shattered reflection in the mirror.
This was raw shame, rooted in instinct itself—the complete collapse of the most basic human dignity.
He wanted to flee. To vanish from the wheelchair. To dig a hole and disappear. To rewind time by just a few seconds.
But he couldn't.
The restraint suit locked him in place, leaving not even room to curl inward. He could only remain frozen in the posture of the embrace, blood rushing to his head before freezing solid.
At least… don't let it be discovered here…He begged in desperation—for just a few seconds of reprieve, enough to escape this place that had already witnessed his breakdown and was about to witness something even more unbearable. Not in front of this unnatural wall. Not in the arms of the sister who had just offered him a sliver of false warmth.
And yet—
"Ah!"
A short, sharp gasp of pure surprise sounded right by his ear. The sister's voice.
The warmth of the embrace vanished instantly. The arms around him fell away.
It's over.
His heart plunged into a bottomless abyss. His mind emptied, those two words echoing endlessly.
Discovered.At the worst possible moment.In the most unbearable way.
The scolding, contempt, or punishment he expected did not come. After a brief, suffocating silence, he felt the sister move quickly to the front of the wheelchair. He dared not open his eyes, only sensing her bending down for a rapid check—and then—
That familiar hand covered his eyes once more.
The movement was faster, more abrupt than ever before. No extra touch. No words. Light was cut off—along with any chance of seeing her expression.
Then the wheelchair lurched into motion.
Much faster than before. Wheels scraped against the floor with urgent friction. The direction was unmistakable—back the way they came. Her steps were quick and steady, but the force pushing the chair carried a suppressed, almost frantic rhythm.
No humming.No whispering.Only silent, rapid movement.
Shifts of corridor light flickered faintly through the gaps between her fingers. Soon, the wheelchair burst into the familiar room. The door closed behind them, sealing off the outside world.
Erika, like a puppet drained of all spirit, was unfastened from the wheelchair, lifted, and placed back onto the hard, flat bed.
The rustle of fabric being removed. A warm, damp towel pressed against his skin—wiping carefully, firmly, between his thighs, over his lower abdomen, along the inside of the soaked restraint suit trousers. Water sounds. Towels being wrung out. Replaced.
The motions were efficient. Professional. Devoid of emotion. Even more mechanical than routine care. No comments. No comfort. Even her breathing was kept steady.
Erika kept his eyes tightly shut throughout, lashes trembling violently. He dared not look. Dared not face her possible expression—nor his own utterly exposed, helpless state. Every inch of skin wiped felt as though it were being burned.
This was not merely cleaning.It felt like a silent, total stripping away.
The process lasted some time. Then dry, soft fabric wrapped around him. Fresh clothing was put on. His body was repositioned.
The sister did not speak once.
Only when it was finished did he sense her standing by the bed for a few seconds. No touch. No "May the Merciful Father bless us." Only a heavy silence, tinged with lingering shame and cold distance.
Then footsteps.The door opened.Closed.
The room held only Erika.
He still did not dare open his eyes, as though refusing to see might undo what had just happened. But the lingering sensations on his skin—the faint chill left by cleansing—and the deep, utterly shattered brand of humiliation within him screamed silently, affirming reality.
Warmth.An embrace.Icy loss of control.Efficient cleaning.
It had all happened so quickly. So absurdly. And yet—so cruelly real.
He was still bound within this pale prison. His body was "clean" now, but something far more important had drained away with that uncontrollable warmth—and the mechanical wiping that followed.
Now, Erika no longer even had the strength to cry for himself.
All that remained was a numbness sinking deep into his bones—and beneath it, a sharp fracture that would never fade, bearing a single name:
Shame.