Erika slumped in the wheelchair. Every breath tugged at the places where he'd been struck, sending fresh waves of sharp or dull pain shooting through him. The ache from hitting the floor hadn't faded either, mingling with the throbbing in his chest and the lingering, alien warmth left by the pressed Mark on his face. All he wanted was to get out of this room—now and forever—away from the maddening presence of Lynus.
Sela seemed to sense his agony and desperation. She gave the disarrayed restraint garment on Erika one last, swift, thorough adjustment—smoothing creases, straightening the empty right sleeve, checking the wheelchair's components. Then she bent down and reached out, clasping Erika's only functional left hand firmly—almost tightly—in her own. Her palm was warm and steady, a stark contrast to his ice-cold, trembling hand. Her other hand took a sure grip on the wheelchair handles. With a deft turn, she aimed for the door.
The wheels began to roll, whispering against the cold, smooth floor.The door wasn't far ahead.
Hope—frail and wavering—struggled to pierce the darkness of his pain.
Just as the wheelchair reached the doorway, just as Sela's free hand extended toward the handle—
"Wait."
Lynus's voice came from the depths of the room. Not loud—but like a block of ice dropped into still water.
The wheelchair jolted to a stop. The hand Sela held tightened, almost imperceptibly, for a single instant.
"Wait, wait, wait…"
Lynus's voice repeated, growing closer, clearer. Not the sound of running, but of a deliberate, unhurried approach—one that carried undeniable pressure. Each step seemed to land squarely on Erika's taut nerves.
Erika's breath caught. Helplessly, with all the strength he had left, he yanked back on Sela's hand, his nails nearly digging into her palm. He didn't dare breathe. His eyes locked onto the grain of the door panel ahead, while every ounce of his hearing strained to catch the slightest sound from behind.
Finally, the footsteps halted—just two or three paces behind him.
A pause.
Then they resumed.
Closer.Closer.
Every muscle in Erika's body strained to its limit beneath the restraint garment, before breaking into fine, uncontrollable tremors. He instinctively tried to curl in on himself. The hand held by Sela pulled back unconsciously, as if he could shrink into something smaller, less noticeable. His eyes were screwed shut, teeth clenched, waiting—for a touch, for words, or for another wave of violence.
Lynus's footsteps stopped almost flush with the back of the wheelchair.
So close Erika could feel a body heat different from Sela's—tinged faintly with the scent of metal and ozone—slowly enveloping him from behind.
Silence, taut as a drawn bowstring.
Sela's hand still held his. She didn't let go. She didn't turn.
"Allow me," Lynus's voice came again, right behind Erika's head, his breath almost stirring the sweat-damp hair at his nape, "to handle this."
The tone was even—almost polite—carrying the air of a request.
It plunged Erika into an icy abyss.
Handle what? Handle how? The questions swarmed like panicked fish through his numbed mind. What else in this room needed "handling" besides his own battered, wheelchair-bound body? No… please… not that…
A silent scream lodged in his throat, morphing into another, more desperate pull—
Erika yanked on Sela's hand again, with all the desperation-fuelled strength he could muster. Harder than before, his knuckles whitening. It was the only feeble act of resistance and pleading he had left.
Sela's hand remained steady. She didn't let go. She offered no other response.
"Then we are obliged, Lord Lynus."
Sela's utterly placid voice rang out like a final verdict, cleanly shattering Erika's last shred of meagre hope. Her tone held no emotion—only the obedience of duty.
In Erika's sheer terror-distorted perception, time stretched and twisted into infinity. Every second became viscous glue, coated in despair, slowly suffocating him. His eyes remained squeezed tightly shut, but his other senses were magnified to extremes by fear.
He heard the faint rustle of fabric.Felt the metallic warmth behind him shift.
Then—he saw it.
Even with his eyes closed, the approaching pressure cast a shadow in his darkness—a hand reaching from the side, its outline blurred yet unmistakable, slowly entering the periphery of his left eye's awareness.
Closer.Closer.
The expected grab, the blow, or something worse—
Didn't come.
The hand didn't pause mid-air.Didn't clench into a fist.
It moved steadily, directly—over Erika's shoulder, past him—toward the door handle.
Click.
A crisp, mechanical sound.
The door swung open.
A stream of slightly cooler, unfamiliar air flowed in from the corridor.
Then footsteps passed by his side, carrying that familiar scent of metal and ozone—leaving the room ahead of them.
Lynus… was leaving?
Erika's nerves, stretched to the brink, went momentarily blank at this utterly unexpected turn. He remained curled and trembling, eyes aching from being squeezed shut too hard, his mind struggling to process it.
Not "handling" him.Just… opening the door.Leaving.
Sela's hand still held his—firmly.
Then the wheelchair began moving again, steadily, toward the now-open exit, where the light was subtly different.
They emerged into the pale, silent corridor.
The slightly cool corridor air brushed over his tear-streaked, stinging face, bringing with it a sharp sense of clarity.
The wheelchair stopped.
Right behind Lynus.
He had only taken a few steps from the doorway and now stood with his back to them, blocking the center of the corridor.
Facing him were several figures in blue robes. They seemed to have been heading toward this very room.
"He's mine."
Lynus's voice cut through the empty corridor—not loud, but carrying an unequivocal, possessive declaration. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze sweeping over the blue-clad figures, a provocative curve twisting his lips.
"Don't even think about it."
There was no argument. No clash.
The blue-clad exchanged glances. One of the older ones gave a slight curl of his lips, his expression a mix of disdain, resignation, and a weary here-we-go-again familiarity. Without a word, they turned as one and walked away.
The potential confrontation was dissolved into nothingness by a single sentence.
Sela pushed Erika's wheelchair past Lynus. She inclined her head slightly, her voice calm.
"Our thanks. The Merciful Father blesses us, Lord Lynus."
Lynus waved dismissively, muttered something inaudible, and turned back into the room. The door closed behind him.
The wheelchair continued down the corridor.
But Erika's gaze lingered on the retreating backs of the other blue-clad. As they reached the corner, just before vanishing, the older one who had curled his lip earlier suddenly—without warning—threw both arms high into the air.
He began waving them in an exaggerated, almost comical display, arms carving wild arcs, his body swaying side to side, while letting out a long, meaningless cry:
"Aaaaaaaaaaaah—!"
The abrupt, grotesque behavior clashed violently with the corridor's solemn silence.
The others didn't stop him. Instead, they let out low snickers—clearly mocking, as if witnessing a familiar farce. Then they turned the corner and disappeared.
The echoes of that bizarre dance and cry seemed to linger faintly in the air.
Erika looked away, his heart sinking even further.
Propelled by Sela, the wheelchair continued its steady journey through the endless corridor. Aside from the whisper of wheels and her light footsteps, silence reclaimed the space.
But now he knew—
Beneath that silence lay something far more complex, grotesque, and perilous than he had imagined.
Lynus's claim.The others' retreat.That final absurd performance.
And he remained the prisoner—bound to the wheelchair, moving passively forward, utterly ignorant of his fate.