The body's recovery was a bizarre sensation.The deep, throbbing ache in his bones was easing. Muscle wasting seemed to have slowed, whether from sustained passive movement or medication. Even the phantom pain and lingering discomfort at the shoulder connected to his empty right sleeve had grown more indistinct. The sister sometimes supported him through longer sessions of arm flexion and extension, even guiding his still-functional left fingers to touch, to grasp light, smooth objects. He performed clumsily, but the sister would always respond with a smile and a soft, approving, "Well done."
It gave him a cautious sense of "progress."
In the silence after being helped back to bed and the sister's departure, Erika tried again. He closed his eyes, cast aside all stray thoughts, and sank his entire awareness inward, following the channels where power had once flowed.
Nothing.A stagnant darkness. A cold blockage. He couldn't even sense the existence of the Marks themselves—only the familiar, slightly raised scars on his skin reminded him of what they had once been. The attempt brought only a needle-sharp ache deep in his temples, and a deeper, heavier powerlessness.
Failure filled his chest like a familiar breath of cold air.
Just then, a thought—soft, fragile, tinged with a hint of self-abandonment—quietly surfaced:
What if… it's like this forever?
What if the Marks never returned, his right arm remained empty forever, and he remained a cripple—someone who had to be fed, cleaned, strapped into a wheelchair?
Then… could that small measure of the sister's warmth be shared with him indefinitely?Because she needed to care for a patient who couldn't manage alone. Because she would pity a complete weakling. That way, the daily touches, the occasional closeness, even… perhaps another reckless embrace, regardless of consequence—as long as he was useless enough, pitiable enough.
The thought was so naïve it bordered on foolishness, carrying a childlike, illogical hunger to take without reason. And yet, in that instant, some tightly drawn corner of Erika's heart softened—strangely, shamefully—as if, in utter desperation, even lifelong care had become something he could fantasize about.
But cold reality doused him immediately, like ice water.
Impossible.
This was the Sanctum—a place that prized efficiency and value.A reject who could never recover, who possessed no power, who couldn't even care for himself had only one destination: to be processed. Like energy waste. Like spent experimental subjects. Like the Grey Cloaks burned to ash in battle. His recovery itself was the sole reason he was still alive. Once deemed permanently damaged, that false warmth would vanish instantly, replaced by something far more final than restraints—disposal.
His stomach clenched. That brief, weak fantasy was crushed to dust.
Right. Recovering as quickly as possible was never wrong.
Whatever lay behind the sister's smile, whatever "air" truly meant, whatever the future held—at least for now, this broken body was still his.The pain was his.The faint strength was his.The pitiful grip in his left fingers was his.
Each small improvement meant a little more—not freedom, but at least leverage to prolong survival, to delay the final sentence.
He even felt an absurd calm. After all, this near-crippled state—being handled at will—was something the boy from months ago, worrying about tomorrow's meal in a border village, gritting his teeth and running in the Sanctum's training yard, could never have imagined.
What worse things could the future hold? Who knew. But having already fallen this far… could it really get much worse?
He flexed the fingers of his left hand, feeling the subtle stiffness in the joints, his gaze fixed on the ceiling's constant, cold light.
Recover.Even if only to see that smile once more.To feel fingers guiding his hand again.To have one more day… not be "processed."
This was his entire—humble, pitiful, yet painfully clear—logic of survival.
Time dissolved completely in this pale constancy. There was no sunrise or sunset, only the blurred cycle of light and dim, and the sister's punctual rhythm. Erika could only confirm the passage of time through extremely slow bodily changes—like his hair.
Once, as the sister leaned in to feed him, several overlong, nearly lusterless dark strands fell and brushed against his eyes. The tickling sensation made him blink instinctively. The sister noticed too. She reached out and gently brushed the strands aside with her fingertips, the motion natural. But in that instant, Erika realized with a start—his bangs had grown so long they nearly covered his eyebrows, even poking at his eyes. The hair at his temples lay softly against his ears and the back of his neck, the sensation unfamiliar.
Like wild grass.Untrimmed, growing silently and unchecked in stagnant time.
Days later, when the sister wheeled in the metal cart, among the usual items lay a small wooden comb, its teeth set close together.
She didn't begin the routine care immediately. Standing by the bed, she picked up the comb and gave Erika an unusually bright, almost eager smile.
"Your hair's grown so fast—it's gotten a bit messy," she said, stepping closer. She carefully helped him sit half-upright against the raised headboard. Then she moved to his side and began gently, slowly combing his overgrown bangs.
The comb's teeth brushing his scalp sent a faint, almost unfamiliar tingling through him. He could smell the comb's subtle woody scent, mixed with the sister's clean fragrance. Her movements were careful and patient, working through knots little by little instead of tugging roughly.
"Very cute," she murmured as she combed, her tone carrying a fresh, almost innocent delight."This is my first time combing someone else's hair."
She paused, using her fingertips to tuck a smoothed strand behind his ear, studying his profile as her smile deepened.
"Like a girl."
The words caught in Erika's throat. Shame rose again, this time mixed with a deeper awareness of the absurdity of his situation. He tugged at the corner of his mouth, trying to form a response, and finally forced out a dry, self-mocking whisper:
"Maybe… a doll?"
The moment the word left his mouth, he froze. Why that word? Had his subconscious already accepted his status as an object—something to be handled, dressed, arranged?
The sister let out a soft laugh. Clear, bright. Her eyes curved into crescents as she laughed more openly, more relaxed than ever before. She even patted his shoulder lightly, as if genuinely amused.
"A doll? Hmm… maybe so."Still smiling, she continued combing the hair at the back, her motions lighter.
Once finished, the previously tangled hair lay smooth and obedient against his cheeks and neck. The sister stepped back, visibly satisfied—but she didn't begin packing up as she usually did.
Her gaze shifted to the metal cart. From the lower shelf, she took out something else.
Erika's pupils contracted sharply.
He had seen it before.
In the Sanctum—on the face of the sister used as a living battery beside Balthasar. Lifeless. Hollow.
It was clean. Simply made, yet exuding something inhuman, even new—but its design radiated cold functionality. Not for blocking light during sleep, but for completely stripping vision, plunging the wearer into absolute darkness and passivity.
The sister returned to the bedside, holding the blindfold. Her smile hadn't fully vanished, but had softened, carrying a coaxing, non-negotiable gentleness. She reached out and smoothed Erika's neatly combed bangs with her fingertips, as if performing a final adjustment.
"Be good," she said quietly, like soothing a child before treatment."It won't hurt."
Then she added, her tone as casual as stating an obvious fact—yet oddly considerate:
"Your hair is all neat now."
Erika felt his blood rush to his head, then freeze solid the next instant. He stared at the blindfold in her hand, at the expression on her face—a blend of tenderness and cold execution. His teeth began to tremble uncontrollably. His left hand curled at his side, fingernails digging into his palm, drawing faint pain.
So that's what the combing was for.
That fleeting warmth from "cute," "like a girl," "first time" shattered like fragile glass before the blindfold's cold outline.
He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Thoughts of resistance rose like bubbles from a drowning man—only to be swallowed by deeper helplessness. His body was still weak. The restraints remained. The Marks were silent.
The sister didn't hurry him. She simply waited patiently, smiling, the blindfold in her hand like any ordinary piece of care equipment.
In the room, only the ceiling panel's constant hum remained—and the sound of Erika's own heartbeat, growing clearer, heavier with each beat.
"Your hair is all neat now."
So—was he ready?To be blindfolded.To be plunged into that unknown, carefully arranged darkness?