The skin, post-cleaning, retained a faint chill, making the friction of the thick restraint suit unusually distinct. The room was dead silent, holding only the almost inaudible hum of the ceiling light panel, and his own breathing—deliberately slowed, as if trying to prove some semblance of calm.
Erika kept his eyes shut, but his consciousness was unnaturally sharp, sharp enough to catch the subtle pulse of blood beating at his temples. He knew he was forcing his thoughts—deliberately, strenuously—toward a muddled blankness, or chewing again and again on the most superficial sensations: the ache in his body, the pressure and texture of the restraint suit.
Because once he loosened control, certain images, certain feelings would surge up uncontrollably—
The sudden, encircling warmth.The wet tears against his cheek.The choking voice whispering, "It's not your fault."
And… the sister's glance as she looked down at him. He hadn't dared open his eyes to confirm it, but the imagined gaze—shock? pity? disgust? or something deeper, more complicated?—hovered at the edge of his mind like a brand, carrying a piercing ache that made him want both to flee and to look closer.
What am I doing?
The thought surfaced coldly, edged with ruthless self-scrutiny.
What was he doing? Lingering on the warmth of that embrace? Savoring that fleeting, fabricated sense of being understood? Even… anticipating the return of the person who had just cleaned up his most humiliating state?
A deeper shudder ran through him, laced with self-disgust and fear. This wasn't right. This was dangerous. The sister was a jailer, part of the system—the same one who had smiled as she dressed him in the restraint suit, who had displayed the empty sleeve without hesitation. Her gentleness was a program. Her tears might have been performance. The embrace… perhaps just a more refined method of control, designed to dismantle his last defenses and hurry him toward accepting that the past should stay buried.
He should have been vigilant.He should have been hateful.He should have kept himself cold and sealed shut at all costs.
But—
His body remembered the warmth.
Skin and soul, soaked for too long in extreme cold and isolation, had shamefully remembered that brief comfort. Like someone freezing in the snow, unable to resist craving the flame even while knowing it could burn him.
He began, unconsciously, to listen for sounds beyond the door. Every faint footstep—even one echoing distantly down the corridor—made his heart miss a beat. Would she come again? What would she say? What would she do? Would she… touch him again?
He even found himself paying attention to the shifts of light overhead. The once-indistinct changes in brightness, which had only muddled his sense of time, now became his measure of waiting. One cycle of light and dim marked a "period." He counted them silently, clumsily—but the futility of the act itself became his only anchor against the void, and against that nameless anticipation growing inside him.
Expectation.
Yes. He was expecting.
Expecting the next change of light.Expecting the next time the door opened.Expecting her to appear again.
That expectation was fragile, yet stubborn, like a pale shoot forcing its way through a crack in stone—fully aware of the hostile environment, yet still twisting upward toward the faint possibility of warmth and light.
It devoured his attention, eroding what little will he had left to resist. He lay there, outwardly still a restrained, silent prisoner, while inwardly he was locked in a wordless, violent tug-of-war:
Reason screamed danger and shame.Instinct thirsted for that illusion of warmth and connection.
And the memory of that warmth was carefully sealed beneath a layer of rational ice—untouched, unexamined. As though the slightest contact would shatter it, revealing something even more unbearable beneath: either a deeper trap of control, or his own pathetically fragile dependence.
So he remained suspended in this rigid, self-fractured state—exhausting himself trying not to think, while hopelessly continuing to wait.
Waiting for the next cycle of light and dark.Waiting for the next contact—whether it would be salvation or a deeper fall.
The pale room.The constant hum.The bound body.And a heart repeatedly scorched between cold reality and illusory desire, slowly losing its sense of direction.
Time continued to flow in its viscous, indistinct way.
The new sister still came every day, performing the now-familiar routines: feeding, cleaning, simple passive exercises. Her movements remained professional, gentle, flawless. Her smile stayed warm and natural, its curve precise. She no longer hummed—but before leaving, she would always say in that even, peaceful tone:
"The Merciful Father loves us all."
As if the embrace by the wall, the tears, the choking sobs, and the rushed cleanup afterward had all been nothing more than a brief hallucination they had both agreed to forget. She never mentioned it. There was no trace of anything unusual in her eyes. When she looked at Erika, her gaze was clear and calm—as if he were simply another object requiring care.
At first, this unchanged normalcy allowed Erika's tightly strung nerves to loosen slightly. Perhaps the secret of his shame could be buried after all.
But soon, a deeper unease replaced that relief.
Were those tears real?That trembling embrace—was it truly just part of the program?Or, to her, had it merely been a minor workplace incident, something to be efficiently erased without leaving a trace?
He began searching for cracks in her flawless composure. A barely perceptible pause at the edge of the spoon during feeding? Fingertips that felt cooler than usual while wiping his arm? A smile so perfect in one fleeting moment that it seemed almost stiff? He couldn't tell. Everything remained meticulously within regulation.
Pity?
The thought surfaced now and then. Had the embrace and tears come from a genuine sliver of human compassion? If so, how could she now act as if nothing had happened? And if not—what was the purpose behind such a flawless performance?
These suspicions and doubts gnawed at the cold defenses he was trying to rebuild, like silent ants.
That day, after finishing all the routine work, the sister didn't leave immediately. She walked to the door, then turned back. The familiar smile rested on her face, her gaze settling on Erika's body—which seemed a little stronger than before.
"You look lively," she said lightly, with encouragement. "Recovery is going well. You'll be even better soon."
Erika watched her in silence, waiting for the usual blessing and her departure.
Apparently not expecting a response, she continued in that light, suggestive tone:"Perhaps… once you're a bit better, we could try our luck again. Go outside for some air."She paused, her voice softening, the final note lifting slightly—carrying a hint of invitation."If you'd like."
Having said this, as if concluding the day's final scripted exchange, she turned to leave.
The air froze for a heartbeat.
Just as her fingertips were about to touch the doorframe—
"Mm."
A dry, short sound—barely recognizable as his own—was forced out of his throat.
Erika froze. His ears rang, as though the sound had come from someone else. His jaw tightened and loosened without his permission, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed the absurd echo of it.
What am I doing?The thought stabbed in sharply. Was he expecting what lay beyond that wall? Another public collapse? Or… the hands that would push the wheelchair—and whatever might follow?
He didn't dare think further. Heat flooded his face; blood rushed to his head. The response was stupid. Passive. Like a dog reacting automatically to the sound of a bell.
The sister's hand on the door stopped—noticeably so. The motion froze for the span of a heartbeat.
Then, slowly, she turned back.
The practiced smile was gone. The curve of her lips deepened; her eyes softened and crinkled slightly. Her whole face bloomed into something almost radiant, carrying a vivid warmth Erika had never seen before. Within it was something he couldn't decipher—surprise? satisfaction? or… the quiet pleasure of a plan falling into place?
She looked at him, eyes bright, and answered clearly, gently:
"Mm."
Just one word.Yet it landed with weight in the pale room.
Only then did she open the door and leave. As it closed, Erika thought he caught a glimpse of her step—lighter than usual.
Silence reclaimed the space.
Erika's heart still thudded violently against his chest. The lingering warmth on his face mixed with sharp self-doubt—and a trace of shameful relief that wouldn't fade.
Glad she heard.Glad she smiled.Glad… something seemed to have changed because of that stupid "Mm."
He raised his still-functional left hand, his fingertips unconsciously digging into the thick fabric of the restraint suit at his thigh, leaving a shallow mark before releasing it.
"Air"…
He rolled the word over in his mind—and for the first time, alongside the unknown fear it carried, he found within it a faint, blurred thing he was almost ashamed to name.
Expectation.