Annoyance.
The red berries he had painstakingly collected, the pristine gifts he wanted to present cleanly to Sela, now clung to him like living parasites, entwining and enveloping his body. It was all because of this strange ground. If not for this cold, slippery surface making him lose his footing, his precious gifts wouldn't have been crushed.
Erika gasped for air, struggling to steady his tumbling body. Only after confirming that his feet were truly, solidly "planted" did he look down in mild, frustrated anger at the ground that had caused him to fall.
It wasn't dirt.
Beneath that transparent, hard, icy surface, something moved.
Curious, he lay flat, pressing his face close. The heat of his rapid breath condensed into a thin layer of white mist on the "water" beneath him, but in the very next second, that mist was violently wiped away from the other side.
He saw them.
Sheep.
So many sheep.
They were packed incredibly densely beneath that water's surface. Their postures were grotesque—not standing, not lying down, but suspended upside down. Exactly mirroring his own posture now. Countless white, gleaming hooves kicked desperately upward in his direction.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
It was like they were treading water, or like they were desperately clawing at a lifeline they could never grasp.
Their hooves struck the transparent barrier, producing very soft, nearly inaudible, dull thuds that were heavily crushed by the immense water pressure:
Tap... tap...
One sheep, however, was not moving.
It was pressed dead against the glass, its face staring directly at Erika. It was incredibly close. So close that Erika could see, mirrored in those eyes, his own reflection, currently smeared with sticky red juice.
Those eyes were not the pure, gentle black of a sheep. They were cloudy, a sickening grey-white, seeing absolutely nothing. Something was welling up from its eye sockets, running down the glass, leaving a dark red, viscous trail across its pale face.
Its mouth was moving.
As if it were trying to say something. No, not speaking. Gasping. It was using its last ounce of fading strength to desperately squeeze the remaining air from its lungs, forcing it out into this silent, icy void.
In that grotesque, surreal silence...
Erika lay pressed against the glass, staring blankly at that mouth.
That mouth opened impossibly wide, closing, opening, closing.
Erika couldn't understand it.
Tap.
A soft, limp "hoof" hit the glass again, pitifully weakly.
It was very soft.
—
Then, his eyelids began to droop.
Those red "berries" were slowly coiling around his arm, coiling around his neck, coiling around his empty right sleeve, wrapping him tightly in an airtight, fleshy cocoon. Warm. Viscous. It felt like countless greedy tongues licking him, like countless hands pulling him down, dragging him back into that soft, sweet, thoughtless chaos.
"You did very well," Sela's voice drifted over from somewhere far away, carrying the comforting warmth of a sun-baked cotton quilt. "Good child. So good."
He sank deeper and deeper into the embrace of that voice.
Until—
Pain.
Agonizing, unbearable pain!
It hurt so much his mouth snapped open in a silent scream, yet no sound came out. It hurt so much his eyes flew wide open, yet his vision registered absolutely nothing.
Only light. Only that blinding, violent, white-gold radiance surging explosively from his left arm, madly blazing!
Air.
Freezing, pungent, real air carrying the nauseating stench of metallic preservatives rushed in through some unseen, ruptured crack. It forced its way violently into his nostrils, down his throat, piercing lungs that were nearly choked to death by the cloying sweetness.
He felt the Mark on his left arm depleting at a terrifying rate.
Those sacred, intricate patterns dimmed, contracted, and extinguished bit by bit. Like a candle burned down to its very wick, desperately using its final flicker of life to illuminate the true hell before him.
White-gold light burst from the conduits of his flesh, briefly piercing the thick layer of red berry-flesh wrapping him, piercing this sweet, soft darkness that was trying to devour him alive.
In his ears, there was no more peaceful bleating. There was only the harrowing, ear-splitting shriek of twisting metal. Only the wet, squelching gurgle of some thick, viscous liquid flowing through rusted pipes and shattered limbs.
His vision shook violently. The Mark's light rapidly faded. Those peeling red filters frantically surged back from all sides, greedily squirming at the very edges of his vision, waiting. Just waiting for him to resign and close his weary eyes.
In this very last second of absolute clarity...
He saw that "sheep" again.
It was still pressed dead against the blast glass. Still staring right at him. Those cloudy, grey-white eyes, now visibly bloodshot with absolute despair, stared directly at his face through the pane. So close. So close he could see the dark liquid welling from its eye sockets, running down the glass, flowing directly over his own palm pressed against it—separated only by a thin, rapidly cooling layer of...
Blood.
That was not a sheep.
The thought screamed up from the deepest, clearest, most uncorrupted corner of his consciousness. It was a sharp, piercing pain in his soul, illuminated by the Mark's dying light.
That was not a sheep.
That was—
Hiss.
The Mark died.
The darkness instantly snapped shut. The suffocating sweetness surged forward in a frenzy. The thick, wet red completely engulfed him. That soft, warm, reason-obliterating chaos swallowed him back down in one massive gulp.
His fingers lost their remaining strength, slipping powerlessly off the cold, transparent surface.
Those real screams, that pungent, metallic smell, that agonizing tearing pain—they all grew distant. As distant as if heard through a thick layer of the deep sea, as if they had never truly existed.
Only that unfinished, horrific thought hung suspended there, slowly, slowly sinking into the viscous sweetness.
That was not a sheep.
That was—
He closed his eyes in ultimate resignation.
"Baa."
A very soft sound. It leaked unbidden from his own throat.
He didn't know whether it was him calling out, or that dead "sheep," or if the abyss itself was making the final, mocking answer on his behalf.
—
Sela… is still waiting for me.
This single, fragile fixation floated up from the deepest depths of the chaos. And in that exact instant, Erika bit down.
Crack. A sickening, horrifying crunch echoed from the base of his tongue. Extreme, visceral agony, like a red-hot steel needle, instantly pierced his cerebral cortex. Warm, thick liquid instantly flooded his mouth. Salty, metallic, the intense, overwhelming taste of raw rust violently spread from his tongue down his throat. It acted like a dull, heavy blade, brutally crushing all the sticky, false sweetness that surrounded him.
Agony. Extreme, soul-shattering agony became the only key to forcibly reclaiming his sanity.
His fingers could still move. His eyes could still see. He was still here. He had not melted yet.
BAM—!!!
That single, only intact left hand, its knuckles still stained with dried blood and grimy, unidentified flesh, now slammed with desperate, furious force into that transparent, freezing glass separating him from her.
BAM—!!! BAM—!!!
Dull, booming impacts exploded within the sealed chamber. The thick blast glass trembled under the assault. The condensation and blood smeared on its surface shuddered violently, rippling out in faint, frantic circles around the point of impact.
Sela was right there.
She was on the other side of this glass. In the corridor just beyond. In the small chess room that belonged only to Erika and Sela, right at the end of the hall. She was behind that door he had seen through the glass, where she always knelt praying. She was right there, exactly where his fist fell, separated only by a thin, transparent barrier that he was now rapidly staining red.
BAM—!!!!!!
He threw his entire body weight into it, utilizing every last ounce of his fading strength. His forehead pressed dead against the freezing glass. The glass shuddered violently under the strain, emitting a low, resonant hum like some massive beast groaning. The condensation cleared in a small, jagged patch, revealing the glaringly white, sterile laboratory corridor beyond.
No one.
There was only his own reflection staring back—a boy hanging suspended upside down, half his face heavily smeared with fresh blood, his eyes ripped wide open in sheer terror; the reflection of a monster. And beneath his bruised fist, that warm, dark red was viscously sliding down the pane.
The condensation and blood on the glass slid faster now.
Like tears. Like someone standing on the other side, also desperately trying to wipe the glass clean.
That soft, warm, seductively thoughtless chaos began flickering at the edges of his mind once again. It came like a rising tide, warm like amniotic fluid, gentle like Sela's hand. The abyss was crooning, calling him back home.
His fist involuntarily relaxed. His fingers slipped powerlessly down the smooth glass, leaving a thick, sticky, rapidly cooling bloodstain in their wake. His body was actively falling, being physically dragged down by those red, warm, sickeningly sweet living tissues.
Can't sleep. Sela is still waiting.
He violently slammed his forehead against the glass.
Bam.
The sound was not as sharp as his fist—it was muffled, heavy, sickening, like something wet exploding inside his skull. Pain. The pain felt muted, as if travelling through thick water, like a terrible dream that was just about to end.
Bam.
Fresh blood flowed freely from his shattered forehead, running into his eyes, staining everything in his entire field of vision a nightmarish, uniform red. That red was exactly the same shade as the berries in his hallucination, the same as the slaughtered sheep's red, the same as the melting, coiling, hell-dragging fleshy things currently enveloping him. He couldn't differentiate anymore. He couldn't tell which was his own blood, which was the imagined, sweet berry juice, which was—
Bam.
His vision shook violently, blurring at the edges. Those masses of red berry-flesh frantically surged back from the periphery of his sight. They waited, they squirmed, they patiently waited for him to completely resign and close his eyes. His eyelids grew impossibly heavy. Very heavy. It felt as if someone were pressing down on his eyelids with their thumbs—gently, softly, but with an absolute, irresistible force, pushing them shut.
Sela…
In that final, fleeting instant, just before his eyes closed completely and forever—
A face.
It appeared without any warning on the other side of the glass.
It was close. So incredibly close it almost pressed directly against that transparent barrier, now heavily reddened by Erika's own blood. So close he could see every cold, perfect pore on that face, every single, playfully cruel blood vessel in those golden-blue eyes, the cold, utterly satisfied curve of those elegant lips.
Lynus.
Erika's pupils contracted violently to the size of pinpricks. Those red, viscous, coiling assimilation tissues—as if suddenly scalded by boiling water—instantly screeched in silent agony and rapidly retreated.
That face, perfectly inverted, watched him serenely through the glass. His golden hair was immaculately in place, his white gloves were spotless, his elegant, tailored blue robe hung without a single crease. He looked exactly like a god looking down with mild amusement upon a hell he had personally, meticulously crafted.
Lynus slowly reached out.
That white-gloved hand gently, delicately—like petting a cherished but unfortunately broken toy—pressed against the glass. It pressed exactly where Erika's forehead had repeatedly struck. Through that transparent barrier, thickly reddened with blood, through that thin, rapidly cooling glass, his pristine palm pressed directly over the gruesome wound on Erika's forehead, which was still freely seeping blood.
Then, Lynus smiled. That smile was incredibly shallow. So shallow it was almost invisible to the naked eye, yet it was filled to the brim with a suffocating, despairing tenderness.
Erika watched his perfect lips move.
In this grotesque, absolute silence of the abyss, those specific syllables bypassed his ears and reached his soul with terrifying, crystal clarity:
"Come. Come to papa."
Erika's fingers suddenly, violently tightened on the glass. His ragged nails scraped furiously against that smooth, cold, unyielding surface, producing an extremely faint, bone-chilling, teeth-grinding sound.
Illusion. This has to be an illusion. His fractured reason screamed in denial.
But Lynus did not leave. He did not fade. He simply stood there, through the glass, standing in that very corridor Erika had desperately mistaken for Sela's safe domain. He watched this blood-drenched, inverted boy hopelessly scraping at the glass. His gaze was precisely that reserved for a beloved, broken, pathetic toy.
The masses of red berry-flesh began to surge back with renewed vigor. This time, they were not testing the waters—they moved frantically, almost aggressively, as if desperate to curry favor with the god on the other side of the glass, Lynus. They rushed from the edges of his vision, seeped from the gaps between his desperate fingers, poured from his empty right sleeve, flowing violently over his pale skin.
His bruised forehead remained pressed against the glass. His blood, his fading warmth, his still-welling wound from his own desperate head-butting, were all there. Lynus's immaculate hand was resting on the exact same spot on the other side. They were separated only by a thin, cooling, transparent barrier.
It was close. As close as the air in that sterile white room, when Lynus had choked him, pinning him helplessly to the cold floor. As close as the space under that heavy chess table, when Lynus had sat heavily upon him, casually playing chess with Sela above. As close as the air in that dim corridor, when he had coldly strapped him into the wheelchair, whispering, "Sela will wait for you in the prayer room."
No matter where he was.
Lynus was there.
Lynus was always watching him.
Erika's bloody fingers finally slipped, completely powerlessly, from the glass. Those red, warm, suffocatingly sweet assimilation tissues surged up with finality, completely enveloping his arm, enveloping his neck, completely enveloping his empty sleeve.
This time, he did not resist. He even felt a strange, twisted, absurd sense of relief.
The very last thing he saw before the darkness took him was Lynus gracefully withdrawing his hand. A tiny spot of red stained the tip of that immaculate white glove—his blood, somehow transferred from Erika's wound through the barrier. Lynus looked down at the crimson speck, his perfect brow wrinkling slightly, as if in mild disgust at the mess.
Then, with extreme, practiced elegance, using the fingertips of his other hand, he lightly, disdainfully flicked the bloodstain away.
Just like flicking away a speck of insignificant, filthy dust.