Chapter 48

“Your lunch was red beans, right?”

Why are you here?

Erabelle’s thoughts came to a screeching halt at the sudden appearance of the Dog.

“And canned ones, at that.” His eyes practically radiated reproach.

Why? Erabelle was completely bewildered. Why are you here, and how is our lunch being canned beans somehow my fault?

“Canned beans!” Virgo Hag let out a bitter groan and stalked off, flanked by a few more Dogs in the distance.

What the... Wait. If they’re here, then... no way.

No way it’s—

Yep. There he was.

“......”

At the far end of her line of sight stood Commander Dezeb Avganis.

Erabelle instinctively took a step back, and right at that moment, his gaze locked onto hers.

Wait. Did I fall asleep at my desk again? Erabelle briefly questioned her own sanity. This was far too surreal to be real.

“Have you been well?”

In the blink of an eye, he was standing directly in front of her.

A nightmare. This is definitely a nightmare.

Behind him loomed a oppressive sky, filled with drifting, ghostly clouds of the dead. The wind tousled his black hair. He offered a smile—hauntingly beautiful, his deep black eyes crinkling slightly at the corners.

“G-good afternoon, Commander.” Erabelle scrambled to gather her scattered composure. “Have you had lunch? Uh, I was just heading to the cafeteria. Today’s menu is red beans, apparently. I happen to really like them, but for someone of your status, Commander, perhaps—”

“Erabelle, it’s still only ten in the morning.”

“Oh. Right.”

Erabelle, who had been rambling utter nonsense, clamped her mouth shut and stared up at him as he continued to smile.

Why on earth is he here?

Why he was there remained an absolute mystery. He claimed he had business in the area and decided to drop by on a whim. Surely that whim wasn’t her? Maybe he had business with the unit?

“Nice place you’ve got here.” Dezeb stretched out across her narrow single bed, commenting casually.

Inside her shabby little dorm, Dezeb Avganis looked utterly out of place. Seeing him invading her mundane, day-to-day space was nothing short of bizarre.

“Totally your style, isn’t it? I bet you can clean the whole place in three seconds.”

Lying back with his long legs stretched out, he rested his head against one hand, lazily surveying the room: an old stove, a standard-issue cot, a minimalist desk set, and a tiny wardrobe.

To make the space marginally tolerable, Erabelle had burned extra coal and even dragged out a portable radiator powered by her emergency reserves—something she’d nearly forgotten she owned. Sure, he probably wouldn't care if he froze in just a shirt, but Erabelle certainly did. Having him suddenly materialize in her private quarters had sent her into a panic.

“How’s the work?”

“Well, there was a minor delay due to fluctuations in the wave readings, but maintenance is underway. I’m doing my best to prevent any impact on operations.”

“Ah. Waves.” He pulled a cigarette from his back pocket, slipped it between his lips, and narrowed his eyes. “Must’ve been terrifying. It’s bad enough normally, but when the waves spike, the monsters multiply like cockroaches.”

“We’re doing everything in our power to prevent an outbreak—”

“What’s it like seeing one in the flesh? I found it utterly revolting.” He licked the filter of his cigarette with the tip of his tongue as he asked.

“...W-we’re exercising extreme caution,” Erabelle replied, her response delayed as she fought to keep her eyes averted. It’s not my fault. It’s his tongue’s fault. Staring straight at a 13-level beauty was always an exhausting endeavor.

“Like caution is going to change anything.”

It won’t. That’s precisely why I wish he’d turn on a perception filter already.

“If it ever becomes too much, let me know.” He smiled kindly.

“Yes, I’ll be sure to do that.” Once I’ve given up on living entirely, I’ll let you know. Not that I have much time left anyway.

Why now, of all times? The gods of this world were clearly taking a sick pleasure in tormenting her. The timing couldn’t be worse: right after confirming her trail had been compromised, the 41st Division shows up and makes contact? There was no way this was mere coincidence... was there?

Well, not that it mattered anymore.

Still, where on earth was the squad leader? Even if the Commander outranked him, shouldn't he be rushing over here right now to handle this?

“You’re completely lost in thought. I’m feeling neglected.”

Facing him so abruptly—without a shred of mental preparation—was simply too much. Physical strain, mental exhaustion... A little consideration for lower-ranking officers would be nice, though he was hardly the type to bother.

“Come here and undo my belt. Stop zoning out.”

Wait—wasn’t I supposed to be reassigned? Erabelle’s thoughts stumbled. Over a month had passed since her return from the capital with zero contact from him. Even reports once delivered directly to his desk had been redirected to Lieutenant Oli. She had been convinced she was permanently sidelined, doomed to rot over paperwork in the archives.

Unless she was the only viable operative remaining in the vicinity. Well, lucky her. She’d been growing uneasy about the increasing scrutiny from Private Jagom anyway; at least now she wouldn't have to bribe him for favors.

“Quit stalling.”

She obeyed, reaching out, but she couldn't stop the visible tremor in her fingers. Her face burned like hot coals, flushed a deep crimson.

By now, she ought to be used to this—able to peel back his composure as effortlessly as skinning a banana. Yet sweat pooled stickily in her palms.

“I said, quit stalling.” His voice dripped slow, deliberate, accompanied by a dangerous tilt of his head.

Erabelle bit her lower lip and hurried with the buckle. She knew better than to disobey. If he ordered her to rip out her own liver, she would at least pretend to try.

The signum in his veins made him infinitely more brutal than he appeared—quite possibly the most violent entity in this godforsaken universe. Disobedience meant learning that truth firsthand, with her entire body, just like every other "compatible candidate" before her.

They had all gambled their lives for one reason or another. Erabelle held no such illusions.

“Ah... hhhn—”

Her vision blurred. His thumb dragged across her lower abdomen, tracing scars—some of them fresh, carved over the past month. Erabelle struggled just to steady her breathing.

“Nnh—!”

Her mind flickered wildly between a white void and black static. It was unbearable.

“H-hurts... It hurts... Ah—”

Soon, her composure dissolved into ragged sobs. Commander, please stop— Dezeb, it hurts, I’m sorry—

She shook like a drenched, shivering dog, fully aware she was babbling nonsense, yet powerless to stop herself.

“I—I was wrong...!”

“Wrong? You’ve done nothing wrong,” Dezeb murmured against her skin, teeth grazing whatever patch of flesh his mouth found. “You’re always flawless.”

Then, just as abruptly, he let go.

Erabelle scrambled backward in a panic, trembling violently until her spine struck the headboard.

“H-hurts... it hurts...”

He had told her during their very first encounter: Don’t push me away. Don’t resist. Just tell me if something hurts. Naturally, she only ever brought it up when backed into a corner.

“...Hurts!” And when truly cornered, she begged for her life. “P-please... spare me...”

As if she were remembering someone who had actually died from this.

“......”

Dezeb braced one arm against the headboard, trapping her between his frame and the wall. Cornered, Erabelle had no choice but to endure. She lasted a little while longer, until her eyes fluttered shut and consciousness began to slip away.

“......”

Dezeb tilted his head, his thumb brushing the damp skin at the nape of her neck.

Tch. Again.

“Might actually have to tie you down next time,” he muttered, an amused glint in his eyes.

Her eyes were already swollen from crying. He pressed his lips to her eyelids, then dragged his tongue up her tear-streaked cheek. The gesture did nothing to settle the irritation simmering inside him.

Leaning back against the headboard, he studied her—bruised, splotchy, and still breathing in ragged gasps. Still stubbornly alive.

Her scars had doubled. In just the single month he’d ignored her, she’d managed to wreck herself. What kind of suicidal missions had she been running, dragging this battered frame—reinforced with metal at every joint—around like some disposable tool?

Dezeb reached for a cigarette and pushed off the creaking bed.

In the bathroom, he yanked a towel from the shelf, wiped himself down, and tossed it into the laundry hamper. The space was just as dilapidated as the rest of her quarters.

He turned on the shower, but froze the moment his eyes caught a familiar bottle on the shelf.

A dry, bitter laugh escaped his throat.

“...Tch. Even this damn dog shampoo is here.”

Probably some cheap buy-one-get-one special. It was nearly empty. Was it impressive that she kept using it despite knowing what it was, or that she had managed to stretch a single bottle across several months?

Either way—what an absolute headache.