Chapter 25

His movements were neither forceful nor exhausting—they melted her body slowly, coaxing it open like warm wax. It was as though the thick sedatives lingering in her bloodstream were finally dissolving, seeping out through her pores.

“Haah...”

Her vision blurred, going soft and unfocused.

His breath tickled the nape of her neck, her shoulders pinned beneath the heavy muscle of his arms. Lieutenant Erabelle Vermilion squeezed her eyes shut and turned her head away, but Commander Dezeb Avganis gently cupped her jaw, guiding her face back to his before pressing his lips against hers.

“Mmngh...”

She gasped for air through clenched teeth, trapped in his firm grip.

He kissed her damp cheek lightly, his fingers brushing aside sweat-slicked strands of hair. His touch was kind, yet the look in his eyes glinted with something restrained—a hidden motive held strictly in check.

“...”

Reaching for the nightstand, Dezeb pulled a cigarette from its case and set it between his lips.

“Don’t fall asleep. You haven't done anything to earn it.”

As the heat faded, he disengaged and stepped out of bed. Erabelle, her gaze still dazed, was nudged until she rose with him.

“I went easy on you since it’s a weekday. Come on, up you get. You need to dry your hair before bed.”

He guided her forward, steering her half-dragged steps until she was seated on the couch.

It’s only going to get wet again tomorrow morning anyway...

He handed her a cold can of beer from the fridge, pulled a soft cotton tee over her head, and turned on her favorite television show.

While she sat staring blankly at the screen, Dezeb moved about the apartment, methodically unpacking and organizing the things they had bought earlier. Erabelle remained motionless, paralyzed by the lingering sensations trapped in her body.

Her face flushed crimson as she downed the beer. Dezeb, pretending not to notice, merely smiled with a faint curl of his lips.

Once everything was neatly put away, he returned with a hair dryer and carefully dried her hair himself.

Is this the difference experience makes? Or is it just a matter of physical rank?

Comparing herself to him felt like comparing a slug to the whole of the natural world. The gap was that vast—perhaps wider still.

“What are you thinking about?”

“...Slugs and nature. Just... thinking.”

Her mind was still sluggish, refusing to run at full capacity.

“Huh?”

Her dazed response drew a quiet chuckle from Dezeb.

Finishing with her hair, he gently rested her head on his thigh, using it as a pillow.

He truly was a gentle man. He just possessed a dreadful taste in hobbies. No wonder people misread him. Had she not known any better, she would have been fooled too—killed before she even realized what was happening.

Thirty days. That was the wager she had placed with herself again.

Her second attempt.

Aries had bet on thirty days as well. The other Dogs had likely put down similar stakes. Resting her head against his knee, Erabelle found herself wondering:

How many days did he bet on me?

***

“...You mean the ID tag?”

A few days later, in the quiet of the afternoon, Dezeb sat perched on the edge of his desk, watching Lieutenant Erabelle Vermilion as she approached.

Erabelle nodded as if bringing up ordinary business.

Her soft brown hair, usually immaculately kept, swayed slightly with her movements. Dezeb had dried it for her again that morning; he had recently developed a quiet pleasure in doing so.

“Yes. Today is the renewal date.”

She spoke as casually as someone mentioning overdue rent.

“...”

Naturally, Dezeb had no intention of treating her any differently. He had no plan to take her tag away—as far as he was concerned, nothing between them had shifted. It seemed Erabelle held the same understanding.

Renewal Day.

As she always did, she arrived carrying her own towel and handkerchief, heading straight into his office.

“...Lie down.”

He was well aware of the date. Part of him had wondered how she might react if he brought it up first.

Would she hesitate? Attempt a joke? Had she done so, her experience today might have been considerably harsher.

Erabelle was not his only match, after all.

Others before her had acted similarly—playing coy, resisting—and all of them had met the exact same end. Two months was the longest he had ever gone without conflict with a match.

Unlike the overly emotional Dogs, Dezeb rarely grew agitated over such matters. It was simply that his previous matches had been foolishly naive. Had any of them acted with even half the prudence Erabelle displayed, things might have unfolded differently.

Following her usual routine, Erabelle spread a towel over his desk and bit down firmly on the handkerchief.

The pale nape of her neck trembled violently. She could not entirely conceal her terror; the pain to follow was indistinguishable from torture. The tag system had been engineered that way from its inception.

Dezeb slowly traced his hand down her neck. Taking a deep breath, she forced her rigid body to loosen.

He opened the ID tag case, revealing a fine metallic syringe fitted with a delicate nanotech chip.

Selecting one, he wiped her skin with an alcohol swab, filling the air with the sharp scent of ethanol. Erabelle clenched her fists [N O V E L I G H T] so tightly that the bones stood out sharply against her bloodless knuckles.

“N-No drugs! Please...”

He remembered it vividly—two months ago, her desperate voice pleading:

“Please don’t use the drugs... I-I can’t... I’m begging you...”

Recalling the moment, he slowly drove the syringe home.

The long needle plunged deep into the back of her neck. A single bead of blood welled up, then trickled down the line of her spine.

Erabelle endured it without a sound.

Her clenched fists shook violently, her fingernails digging into her palms until blood seeped between her fingers. Her entire frame trembled, her knees—pressed hard against the floor—straining to push back against the floor.

Twenty minutes passed.

Time seemed to drag, as though the world itself had ground to a halt.

“I’ll take you to your room,” he said to the woman who could no longer move.

He should have done this at home. Yet he hesitated to bring this side of their life into a space so personal. Home was different—a little too private.

There were moments at home when Erabelle let her guard down, and whenever she did, it left Dezeb with an unfamiliar sensation. Perhaps because it happened so rarely. Occasionally, she would doze off beside him or laugh softly at the TV. It was... disarming.

Still, his hesitation was not born of guilt. There was no remorse here. This was not about withholding her identification tag, nor did it signify a shift in their dynamic. Erabelle seemed to understand that as well.

“...Mi... Miro...” Her words were slurred, her tongue refusing to cooperate.

“Erabelle, I’ll take you,” he repeated softly.

Wondering if the handkerchief was choking her, he reached out to adjust it, tugging lightly at her shoulder. But she resisted, her body locking up as she fought to hold her ground. The sheer weakness of her resistance startled him.

“Erabelle.”

He spoke her name gently, as if soothing a frightened animal.

“...Mi... Miro... I-it’s... fine...” The words came in fractured, barely audible fragments. She did not even lift her face from where it remained buried against the desk.

“I said I’ll take you.”

Yet, as though something inside her had snapped, she continued to repeat the same broken phrase.

“...It’s... fine... M-Miro...”

“...”

“Miro... it’s fine...”

“Erabelle.”

“Miro...”

Fine. If that is what she wants.

“Alright.”

The moment he relented, Erabelle’s Signum activated. A pale light from the Great Spirit enveloped her, and in an instant, she vanished, leaving behind only a faint lingering warmth on the clean surface of the desk.

“...”

As always, not a single trace of saliva was left behind.

Dezeb tapped his fingers against the wood. Tap, tap.

***

It hurt. Erabelle curled tightly into herself. It hurts...

Her body shuddered, blood leaking from between her teeth. Her upturned fingers clawed helplessly at her scalp.

A sharp, piercing ring shrieked in her ears. Somewhere beneath the static, she could vaguely hear Miro crying.

“Huff... huff...”

She focused entirely on breathing—just breathing. Though the air caught in her throat, she forced it in, her ruined airway scraping like rusted metal.

“I-it’s... fine... Miro...”

She curled tighter still, drawing in sharp, shallow gasps. It felt as though her scalp were being torn away.

“I’m fine... Miro...”

Over and over, she repeated the rehearsed words, making herself smaller, ever smaller...

“M-Miro...”

Inside the dilapidated camper within the Great Spirit’s domain, the air was heavy with agony.

“Huff... huff—”

Erabelle jabbed a pre-prepared syringe into the crook of her elbow. Crawling on all fours, she dragged herself onto the camper bed, curled into a ball, and closed her eyes.

The sedative hit with crushing force, dragging her consciousness under.

At long last, after what felt like an eternity, she finally managed to drift into sleep—while he stood beside her, watching in silence.

“...”

A few hours after dismissing her from his office, Dezeb had breached the Great Spirit’s domain without permission.

“...Why.”

He looked around, genuinely bewildered.

Why the hell am I even here?

Miro, panicked by the presence of an unregistered intruder, trembled in agony, but Dezeb did not grant the spirit a second glance.

“...”

Erabelle looked smaller than ever, huddled on that tiny camper bed.

Empty syringes lay scattered across the mattress alongside dark spatters of blood, as though she had stabbed herself in wild desperation.

Heavy sedatives, painkillers, a lethal cocktail meant to numb the agony and force her body to regenerate—all lay discarded beside her.

All of it, just so she could survive the aftermath.