This wasn't love, nor was it even a venting of desire. It was a more primitive, more direct method of conquest—a violent means to break all external pretenses and reach the soul's defensive line. Kanjuro used the most direct way to show her the absolute disparity in power and how irresistible he could be when he decided to obtain something.
After an unknown amount of time, everything returned to silence.
Only Kuraki Mai's suppressed, broken sobs remained in the room. She curled up in the corner of the sofa, covered by that crumpled black trench coat. Startling marks were visible on her exposed skin. She stared blankly at the cold ceiling, tears sliding down silently.
Kanjuro had already adjusted his clothes and stood before the one-way glass again, his back to her, as if everything that had just happened was merely an insignificant interlude. His silhouette remained upright and cold.
"Get some rest." His voice came calmly, devoid of any ripples. "Starting tomorrow, you will receive some necessary 'training.' Your voice is good, but you need to learn... new ways of expression."
He didn't look at her again and left the room directly. The heavy metal door closed and locked silently.
Kuraki Mai lay there, motionless.
Her body still ached, and her soul was in ruins.
But within these ruins, something had been completely changed. The will to resist seemed to dissipate as her final line of defense fell, replaced by a total void. And deep within this void, a faint but gradually clear, twisted mark of the man who had inflicted all this began to emerge.
Did she hate him? Of course she did.
Was she afraid? To the very marrow of her bones.
But besides that, there was something more complex and darker, seeping in like venom. It was his power, strong enough to cause despair; it was his cold, heartless control; it was his directness in breaking all pretenses... These traits that had originally terrified her, after she experienced the most thorough deprivation, instead branded themselves onto her soul in a morbid way.
She was once the Diva of Light.
But now, her world was left with only darkness, and at the center of that darkness, the only existing figure.
Kanjuro walked out of the room. Outside, Vermouth was already leaning against the wall, fiddling with an unlit cigarette. Her silver hair flowed under the cold light.
"That was quite rough, Kanjuro." Her voice carried a lazy smile, yet her purple-gray eyes were as sharp as knives. "However, it seems the effect was significant. Has the 'training' of the little Diva officially begun?"
Kanjuro didn't answer, only giving her a faint glance.
Vermouth chuckled and asked no more, turning to disappear into the shadows of the corridor.
Kanjuro walked alone toward the control center. He knew that Kuraki Mai's singing would soon change. In that clear, encouraging timbre, dark vibratos, desperate flourishes, and a complex, unspeakable dependence on her controller would inevitably be blended.
This was exactly what he wanted.
A piece of art personally shattered and then reshaped according to one's own will has a value far higher than an intact collection that belongs to someone else. And this process itself was also a manifestation and enjoyment of his dark authority.
The organization's Diva was about to be born. In her tears, in her humiliation, and deep within her forcibly twisted soul. In the days that followed, Kuraki Mai was brought into an isolated yet highly sophisticated "training" environment. There was no bloodiness of an interrogation room here, but there were "courses" that were even more mentally exhausting. She learned how to identify surveillance blind spots, how to use specific voice frequencies to interfere with simple listening devices, how to quickly extract parts the organization needed from complex information, and even... how to use her uniquely gifted voice to embed encrypted instructions or information within specific melodic turns or lyric gaps of a song.
She was taught by Vermouth and Jodie. The former provided playful scrutiny and occasional sharp pointers, while the latter was calm and efficient, as if completing a technical task. In those blue eyes that once belonged to an FBI investigator, there was only absolute obedience to Kanjuro's instructions. Kuraki Mai learned in silence, like an exquisite doll whose soul had been hollowed out, mechanically absorbing these dark skills. The physical pain gradually faded, but the soul's brand grew deeper by the day. When alone at night, Kanjuro's calm purple eyes and his figure from that night—mixed with the scent of gunpowder and coldness—would uncontrollably barge into her mind, bringing tremors, but also bringing a... strange throb that she even despised herself for.
She tried to use past memories and the values of the world of light to resist this erosion, but every success in her "courses," every bit of slightly surprised recognition from Vermouth, or every flat "pass" evaluation from Jodie would cast a small pebble into her hollow heart, rippling with a sense of "value"—even if this value was built on a foundation of darkness.
She began to vaguely realize that she was being systematically reshaped, from the inside out. Fear remained, but numbness and a strange "adaptation" were also breeding.
Until one day, after a practice session combining vocal techniques with cryptography, Kuraki Mai did not immediately return to the exquisitely furnished yet cold room assigned to her as usual. She stood at the door of the training room, hesitated for a moment, her fingers curling and uncurling. Finally, as if having made a decision, she turned and walked toward the core control area deep within the base where Kanjuro usually was.
The corridor was so quiet that only her own footsteps and heartbeat could be heard. Some organization members she passed along the way had different looks in their eyes, but they all tacitly did not stop her. She seemed to already have some invisible mark on her.
She stopped before that heavy metal door embossed with a simple dark pattern. Taking a deep breath, she raised her hand and knocked.
"Come in." Kanjuro's voice came through the door, still calm and without ripples.
Kuraki Mai pushed the door and entered. The room was more "everyday" than she had imagined, looking more like a high-tech study. A huge circular screen displayed flowing data and surveillance footage from around the world. Kanjuro sat in the central chair and did not look back, seemingly reviewing something.
She stood at the door, a few meters away from him, able to feel the quiet yet oppressive aura belonging to him permeating the air. The psychological preparation and courage she had built up over the past few days were somewhat shaky at this moment.
"Something the matter?" Kanjuro finally turned around, his gaze falling on her. His purple eyes were deep and unreadable, as if he were looking at a work in progress.
Kuraki Mai clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms, using the slight sting to maintain her clarity. She lifted her head, looking directly into his eyes, striving to make her voice sound steady, even bringing a hint of the gentle, heart-stirring power that used to characterize her singing:
"Mr. Kanjuro... I... I want to talk to you."
Kanjuro raised his eyebrows slightly, appearing somewhat surprised that she took the initiative to find him and address him by name, but he did not interrupt.
Kuraki Mai took a small step forward, her voice carrying a barely perceptible tremor, yet she struggled to maintain her sincerity. "These past few days... I've learned a lot. I've also... seen some things. I know you are very powerful, possessing strength and... means beyond the imagination of ordinary people." She paused, seemingly weighing her words. "However, power should not only be used for conquest and destruction. I... I once used my singing to bring hope and courage to many people. I... I thought, perhaps... perhaps I could try to... reform you."
She spoke those last few words softly, yet with exceptional clarity, a remnant of light flickering in her blue eyes that bordered on naive. This was the final bit of persistence belonging to 'Kuraki Mai' within the ruins of her soul, her last, faint, and futile resistance against being swallowed by the darkness. She even fantasized that perhaps her 'uniqueness' could become a beam of light illuminating this abyss.
However, her response was a very soft low hum, with almost no hint of a smile.
Kanjuro slowly stood up from his seat and walked toward her. His steps remained composed, yet they carried an invisible pressure that made Kuraki Mai instinctively want to retreat, though her feet felt as if they were nailed in place.
He stopped in front of her, looking down slightly at her elegant face, which could not hide its pallor and exhaustion, and at the 'hope' she was forcing into her blue eyes alongside her deep-seated fear.
"Reform me?" His voice was very soft, like a feather brushing past, yet it possessed a cold quality. "Kuraki Mai, you don't seem to fully understand your situation, nor do you understand... what 'I' am."
He reached out his hand, his fingertips not touching her but hovering beside her cheek, as if feeling the accelerated flow of blood beneath her skin due to fear.
"Reform is the mercy of the strong for the weak, the light shining upon the shadows. But here," his finger traced a gentle, invisible arc, pointing to his surroundings and then to himself, "darkness is the source, the power. I am the abyss."
His gaze locked onto her eyes, that deep purple seemingly wanting to pull in and crush the last bit of light she had left.
"You want to reform the abyss? With those... warm but powerless songs? With your easily shattered convictions?" A faint, almost pitying curve appeared at the corner of his mouth. "That's like trying to evaporate the ocean with a candle flame—laughable and futile."
Kuraki Mai's face grew paler with every word he spoke, and her body trembled slightly. Her final 'weapon' appeared childishly ridiculous in the face of the absolute gap in their understanding.
But Kanjuro's words were not over.
He watched her tremble, watched the light flicker under the icy water of his words, and then suddenly changed his tone, his voice dropping a few decibels with a seductive magnetism.
"However, if you really want to know what kind of emotions my 'inner self' holds, I'll allow you to try a different way."
He leaned in slightly, his breath brushing against her ear like a demon's whisper.
"Reforming me is useless. Unless..."
He paused, admiring the sudden contraction of her pupils.
"You fall into this abyss with me."
"Only when you strip away all the pretenses of the world of light, personally taste the flavor of darkness, and feel the absolute freedom and... emptiness that power brings, will you truly understand what constitutes the 'me' standing here."
"By then, you might realize that there is no lost soul here for you to 'reform,' only a... kindred spirit you are about to become."
Kuraki Mai froze completely. Her mind went blank. 'Fall together'? Personally taste the darkness? Become... a kindred spirit?
This sent a deeper chill to her bones than an outright rejection, and it shook her soul more than any crude possession. It was an invitation—one that stripped away her last shred of identity as a'savior' and pulled her into the same mire.
She looked into Kanjuro's eyes close at hand; there was no mockery or ridicule, only a calm darkness waiting for a choice. He was serious.
A massive fear gripped her heart. Fall? Become like him? No... that was too terrifying; it meant abandoning everything... But... another voice whispered faintly in her heart: What if she refused? To continue being shaped as a 'work of art,' used as a 'tool,' forever looking up at him and fearing him across an impassable layer of darkness, yet never being able to understand him? What was the fundamental difference between that and her current state as the walking dead?
Perhaps... only by stepping into the same darkness could this omnipresent fear be eliminated? Perhaps... only by stepping into the same darkness could this omnipresent fear be eliminated? Could she... truly get close to him and understand the source of that power? Perhaps even... find some kind of twisted 'equality' or 'resonance'?
The thought was dangerous and insane, yet it quickly took root in the soil of despair.
Her lips trembled, and her blue eyes were filled with intense struggle, fear, and confusion, as well as a trace of morbid curiosity and... resolve ignited by this utterly mad proposal.
Time seemed to freeze.
After a long while, just as Kanjuro thought she would break down and retreat as before, Kuraki Mai nodded extremely slowly, yet with exceptional firmness.
Her voice was very soft, carrying a tremor like someone who had burned their bridges, yet it reached Kanjuro's ears clearly.
"...Okay."
"I... am willing."
"If this is the only way to understand... I am willing... to be with you."
The moment she spoke those words, she felt something shatter completely within her—the final shell known as 'Kuraki Mai, the Songstress of Light.' At the same time, a strange, cold sense of 'relief' and 'falling' swept over her.
Kanjuro gazed at her, clearly seeing the last bit of light in her eyes go out completely, replaced by a complex expression of despair, resignation, and a nascent dark determination.
Finally, a genuine curve of satisfaction and deeper interest appeared on his lips.
He reached out and, for the first time, truly grasped her cold, trembling hand.
"Then, welcome, Mai." For the first time, he omitted her surname, using an intimate address that felt more like sealing her new identity. "Welcome to... the world of the real 'me.' The lesson now enters its second stage."
"First, start by learning to enjoy the darkness."
He led her by the hand toward the console, toward the flickering screens representing countless secrets and manipulations. Kuraki Mai followed passively, her steps unsteady, but her heart beating with strange intensity.
She knew that once this step was taken, there was no turning back.
The obsession with reform was dead.
In its place was a contract of mutual descent.
And she, at the end of extreme fear and despair, actually developed a self-destructive, moth-to-a-flame longing for this unknown dark abyss. Only because the hand leading her into the fall belonged to the one she could not understand or resist, yet yearned to be near—Kanjuro.
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