I pushed the door open with the back of my hand, my nose wrinkling at the heavy stench that clung to the air like rot. He was there, hunched, still, those pale eyes fixed on me with a strange urgency that made my skin crawl. He looked ready to move but didn't — bound by the last threads of my summoning.
For a moment, I just stood there, arms stiff at my sides, my fingers itching to run. My stomach churned. But I forced a sharp sigh through my teeth and muttered,
"Ick… I am not going to live drowned in this stink."
With a quick punch to his shoulder, I shoved him toward the bathroom. He moved with the heavy reluctance of a chained beast, footsteps thudding against the tiles. I guided him into the tub. Warm water waited there, still and silent, like a trap I had set for both of us.
I tore off my gloves with a snap, the damp leather clinging to my skin before peeling away. Bare hands. Naked fingers. My pulse quickened. The thought of touching him without a barrier made my throat tighten.
Steam rose, muffling the room in a haze, but it did nothing to hide his smell. Sweat left to fester, rust, damp fungus. It mixed with the perfumed soap I had prepared, creating a suffocating cloud that stuck to the back of my tongue.
My hands trembled. My skin screamed. This wasn't what I was raised for. Touching him was like plunging into a nightmare — but I had no choice. If I wore gloves, I might tear him apart. His flesh looked that fragile.
With a swallow that burned, I dipped my fingers into the foam. My heart hammered as I pressed my palm to his arm. His skin was damp and cold, wrinkled like a frog's belly, so thin it gave under my touch. Something shifted beneath it — muscle, worm, parasite, I couldn't tell. I wanted to scream.
But I kept my hand there. And then, slowly, I began to scrub.
The first strokes were unbearable. Slime loosened from his flesh, the foam turning gray as grime seeped out in streaks. The water grew murky, clouded with filth. The stench rose sharp and rancid, stabbing at my sinuses, and I gagged, my eyes watering.
"This isn't a smell. It's an assault."
I nearly pulled back — but then I noticed it. The dirt was leaving him. The foul crust that clung to his veins, the filmy layer over his skin — it peeled away, little by little, under my hand.
And the smell… it eased. Just slightly.
A tremor shot through me. Disgust, yes, but beneath it, something darker, stranger. Satisfaction. The water darkened, his skin grew lighter, and though he was still grotesque, I could see progress. He was less filthy than he had been a moment ago. My stomach still twisted, but some hidden part of me thrilled at the result.
I pressed harder, scrubbing his shoulder, his back, forcing the foam into every crease of wrinkled skin. Clumps of filth came loose — thick, gray strands that slid between my fingers like mucus. The sound was wet, obscene, and it made my jaw clench.
And yet… I felt it again. Satisfaction. As though I was peeling corruption off with my own hands, conquering it.
The smell flared up — acidic, sour, like rancid meat — but each time I forced myself to continue, I caught a faint shift. The stench grew weaker. The air was still foul, but it no longer crushed me. The more filth I removed, the more I believed I could win against it.
I lost track of time. My arms ached, my knuckles burned, but I scrubbed harder. I dragged the cloth across his chest, down his arms, into the folds at his elbows. Each pass revealed another patch of fragile, pale flesh beneath the grime.
I almost laughed — a short, bitter laugh, bubbling out between clenched teeth. "You were born foul, weren't you? But I'll wash you clean. At least for tonight."
The foam thickened, blackened, broke into greasy streaks that clung to my wrists before dripping back into the tub. I shuddered at the feeling, but I did not stop. I couldn't stop. I needed to see the dirt gone.
When I reached his neck, my stomach lurched again. The cloth slid over the smooth coldness, so slick it reminded me of frogs dissected in class. My throat closed, but my hand refused to lift. I wanted — no, needed — to strip away every last layer of that reek.
I turned him sideways, my hand at his back. My fingers found ridges of bone beneath skin that felt too thin, too breakable. Foam spread in streaks over his spine, and the stench rose sharp again. Sweat. Metal. Sourness. My teeth clenched, but I scrubbed harder, my arms shaking with the effort.
One spot — just beneath his collarbone — resisted me. No matter how much I rubbed, the smell there grew stronger, aggressive, invasive. As if the odor lived inside him, exuding from the flesh itself.
I hissed through my teeth. "You reek from the bone, don't you?"
I scrubbed again, harder, vicious now, furious at the persistence of the stench. My face burned red, my throat raw from gagging, but the stubbornness drove me forward. Each streak of filth that loosened brought that same grim satisfaction. Even if the smell never vanished, I could see the progress in the water, in his skin, in the faint glimmer of pale flesh beneath rot.
The water grew dark, heavy with filth, until it resembled swamp water more than bathwater. Still, I pressed on, foam dripping down my arms, my own skin slick with his stench.
And the strangest thing: I found myself breathing easier. Not because the smell was gone — it still clung to me like smoke — but because I was winning. Bit by bit, filth by filth, I was forcing this creature into something new. Something almost bearable.
He let out a sound, low and hesitant. "Gobu…"
I froze for a second, cloth in hand. Then I scoffed, rolling my eyes. "Feel honored, you walking stench. No one else would do this for you."
And yet, even as I mocked him, I plunged my hands back into the foam. Again and again, until my muscles burned and my own breath came ragged.
Every layer that came off, every shift in the smell, every glimpse of fragile skin beneath rot — it fed something in me. Not kindness. Not pity. But a dark, relentless satisfaction.
Because at last, I could see him change under my hands.
And no matter how disgusting, how wrong, that change belonged to me.
My arms ached, the water around us thick with the filth I had forced off him. Soap clung to my wrists, suds collapsing into greasy foam. The stench was still there, but thinner now, like smoke after fire. For the first time, I felt something close to relief — strange, shameful relief — at watching layers of grime peel away beneath my hands.
Stroke after stroke, the body beneath my fingers was revealed: blue veins under sickly skin, scars that traced forgotten battles, folds that spoke of years without care. It was grotesque, unbearable… and yet, a part of me thrilled at stripping it bare. I could see him more clearly now, and in that clarity, I found a satisfaction that unsettled me more than disgust ever had.
I slid the cloth lower, pressing harder at a stubborn patch near his side. The skin shifted strangely. Not just soft — shifting. I frowned, leaning closer, running the cloth down again.
And then I felt it.
Not bone. Not scar. Not anything that should have been there.
Something pressed back against me. Solid. Hidden until now.
I froze. My breath hitched in my chest. My heart hammered so hard I thought it would break my ribs.
I dropped the cloth into the foul bathwater and pulled my hand away as if I'd touched fire.
For a moment, I couldn't even breathe. My eyes darted over the surface of the water, following the outline that jutted from his side — unmistakably a limb.
Another limb.
The steam wrapped around me, heavy and suffocating. My skin prickled with horror. My mind screamed at me to step back, to leave the tub, to never touch him again.
And yet, I stared. Stared as if I could will it into being something else, something explainable. But there it was, twitching faintly under the water, as though acknowledging me.
My lips parted, but no words came. Only silence, thick and choking.
The air caught in my throat.