"Alright, alright."
Cole's voice drifted down, sounding as if it came from a great distance. The iron grip that had been ruthlessly crushing Erika's foot—had let go at some point.
Erika only felt... a void.
It wasn't that the pain was gone. It was the heavy, deadened numbness that sets in after agony too intense for the nerves to bear. It felt as though the limb had completely severed its connection to his body. Only an empty, floating sensation remained, leaving him unsure if his foot was even still attached.
"How about black?" Cole's voice mused lazily. "Or red?"
Erika hunched over, curling into a tight ball on the sofa.
His left hand moved purely on instinct, frantically kneading the abused flesh. He rubbed the instep, the ankle, the sole—he didn't even know exactly where he was touching. He just rubbed blindly, desperately trying to drag that vanished sensation back into his flesh.
He completely ignored the lunatic chatting to himself.
Black? Red?
To hell with black and red.
Right now, he only wanted his foot to belong to him again.
"I know what you're thinking."
Cole's voice drifted over again.
Erika didn't look up. He kept rubbing. Feeling was finally starting to return—not pain, but a prickly numbness, like thousands of ants burrowing beneath his skin.
"You're thinking that if you ever get strong enough one day—" A calculated pause. "—you'll force this madman to wear a woman's dress every single day."
Erika's hand stopped moving.
"And you'll make him take it off, and put it on again."
A hint of amusement crept into Cole's tone. It wasn't his usual, infuriatingly smug mockery. It was something else—like he was sharing an intimate secret. "Preferably right on the street. Or in front of the other colleagues."
Erika didn't look up. But he had stopped rubbing his foot entirely.
Those words hit like a precise needle, perfectly piercing a dark, hidden corner of his mind. A fleeting thought he'd had while lying paralyzed on the sofa earlier. A thought he hadn't even dared to fully examine himself.
Cole's voice paused.
Then—
A hand appeared in Erika's field of vision. Palm up, fingers slightly curled. As if waiting to receive something.
Erika didn't even look at it. He slapped it away. Smack.
The hand was knocked aside, wavered in the air, and withdrew— Only to stubbornly reappear in front of Erika a second later. The exact same posture. The exact same offered palm.
"If that day really comes—" Cole's voice sounded from behind the hand. "I would be more than willing to do it."
A heavy beat of silence. "Truly."
Erika's head snapped up! The movement was violently fast, his neck emitting a faint crack. He stared hard into Cole's eyes!
Those eyes were impossibly close now. Close enough to see every hidden detail—a hint of exhaustion, a touch of absolute seriousness, and something else... something he couldn't name.
"Truly," Cole repeated.
Very softly.
That outstretched hand still hung in the air between them.
"Gahhhhh—fuck, it's boiling—!"
Linglong's exaggerated, bloodcurdling wail drifted up faintly from downstairs. The sound pierced through the floorboards, traveled up the stairs, and burrowed into Erika's ears. It was gruesome, highly theatrical, carrying that intentional 'meant-to-be-heard' quality—like a bad performance, yet as if he had actually just scalded himself.
Erika didn't look up.
He remained huddled on the sofa, hugging his foot, and went back to rubbing it.
What did that wailing have to do with him? It would be a blessing if Linglong just scalded himself to death.
—GRRRRRRRRRR—
A much louder, infinitely more pathetic wail erupted from his own stomach.
The sound was devastatingly loud. Loud enough to echo in the dead silence of the room. Loud enough to startle Erika himself.
Erika withered in absolute mortification.
He buried his head sharply between his knees, hiding his entire face, leaving only a messy, damp crown of hair exposed. His ears burned with scorching heat.
He reached out, his hand slipping through the gap between his knees, mechanically touching his ankle, his instep, his sole. The movements were robotic, as if by doing this, he could fold himself out of existence entirely.
Sigh.
Cole sighed.
It was a very soft sound. But in this quiet room, in a space where only Erika's shallow breathing remained, that sigh landed like a heavy stone in a still pond.
It made Erika jump.
He curled up even tighter. Shoulders hunched, back arched, head buried lower, wishing desperately he could stuff himself into the cracks of the upholstery.
Don't mind me. Don't look. Don't—
The next moment—
His entire body suddenly lost all sense of weight!
The sensation was violently abrupt! Like the ground beneath him had simply vanished, like he had been yanked cleanly off the sofa! Erika couldn't react, couldn't even cry out. He only felt his center of gravity shifting wildly—left, right, up, down—the world spinning into a dizzying blur!
Until—
Erika felt the steady, lifting force beneath him.
One arm firmly supporting his back, the other hooked securely beneath his knees. The strength holding him was immovable, steady enough to be deeply reassuring, as if this person had carried fragile things countless times before.
He was being carried by Cole. Still locked in that curled-up position.
His head still buried in his knees, his feet tucked under him, his whole body curled into a tight ball in Cole's arms. The slick, dark blue soft robe draped down, covering his knees and calves, swaying gently against Cole's arm.
"Time to eat—" Cole's voice rumbled from above. It was close. Close enough that Erika could feel the deep vibration in the man's chest. "Princess."
Erika didn't move. His face, still buried in his knees, burned even hotter.
That nickname—from before their departure, from the camp at Dalerez, from the very first time Cole had ever called him 'Princess'—had never, until this exact moment, left him so utterly unsure of how to respond.
It wasn't anger. It wasn't shame. It was something else entirely. Something he couldn't name.
He only knew that Cole was carrying him, step by steady step, toward the door. The rhythm of the boots was unwavering. Step. Step.
From downstairs, Linglong's indistinct, pained grumbling could still be heard. "Be patient, Master. A hot meal burns the greedy tongue."
Cole laughed softly. A very light sound.
Erika heard it. He didn't look up. He simply stayed curled in Cole's arms, listening to those steady footsteps, one by one, carrying him toward the light.
"Blow on it for me, Liz, it's still too hot."
Linglong's voice grew clearer. It was no longer muffled through the floorboards. It drifted from an open doorway, carrying that deliberately cloying, whiny tone that made a person's skin crawl.
Erika tried to struggle. Tentatively, he tested the waters, searching for an angle to break free from Cole's hold.
But— Cole's arms were positioned with terrifying cleverness. One hand was tucked firmly behind Erika's back, the other bracing the outside of his knees. The posture looked casual, but the second Erika shifted, he realized the trap: there was absolutely zero leverage. He was pinned, hunched into a tight ball, unable to extend his limbs—as helpless as a beetle flipped onto its shell.
Erika smacked Cole's chest with his left hand, trying to put his weight into it. Smack. Smack. Smack.
The strikes were pitifully weak. His left arm was sore and numb, drained of all strength. Hitting Cole felt like striking solid stone.
"Quit squirming, Princess." Cole's voice drifted from above, laced with that familiar, intensely punchable amusement.
He stopped at the bottom of the stairs. But he showed absolutely no intention of putting Erika down.
Erika could feel it—the doorway was right in front of them. Through the gap, warm yellow candlelight spilled out into the hall. He could hear Linglong's whining, Liz's impatient retorts, and the soft, domestic clinking of silverware.
"I…" Erika forced the word out. It squeezed from his throat—dry, broken, and so fragile it sounded unfamiliar even to himself.
"Hmm?" Cole looked down. Erika could feel the weight of that gaze landing on his face—the face he still had buried between his knees, only half-visible, burning with humiliated heat.
"I can… myself…" The second half was so muffled that Erika couldn't even hear it himself.
Cole moved again. One step.
The footstep was incredibly light, but to Erika, it sounded like a war drum. They were now only a doorknob's distance from the dining room where Linglong and Liz sat.
The brass doorknob gleamed with a muted, dull gold in the candlelight. The door was half-open, revealing a table draped in white cloth, several place settings, and steaming plates of food.
"…Patience, Master, patience…"
"I can walk myself."
Erika's voice suddenly cut through the air, sharp and clear. So clear it startled even him.
He lifted his head—ripping that burning face from the safety of his knees—and stared dead into Cole's eyes. In the dim light of the stairwell, Erika's eyes gleamed with a startling, feral brightness.
Something raw and defiant was burning inside them.
Cole froze. The pause was infinitesimal. So brief it was almost imperceptible. But Erika saw it.
Then, Cole smiled. "Alright," he said.