Mors walked alone on the street, her pace hurried.
The last time she got out of a man's bed and rushed to leave was over twenty years ago, during Mors's experience with her ex-boyfriend in the "real world."
She felt pain, just as described online, and the bleeding wouldn't stop. She desperately needed a sense of security, and the person who could give her the most security wasn't her ex-boyfriend. She wanted to go home, to go home immediately, back to her mother.
Home, only to be scolded by her mother for being useless.
Old habits die hard, Mors thought, facing someone weaker than herself, yet still choosing to flee. On the surface, she had grown stronger, but inside, she was still a timid coward with no real progress.
This time was the complete opposite of her experience in the "real world," yet reaching the opposite extreme could also be disorienting.
Due to the effects of her brain surgery, her emotions were blurred, like a layer of fog, indistinct. Mors only felt her breathing become slightly erratic. She raised her hands and used the cooler backs of her hands to cool her flushed cheeks.
This is terrible. The feeling still lingered in her body.
Mors's state must have been quite unusual, as a passerby struck up a conversation with her in a flirtatious tone. Mors's killing intent-filled gaze swept over him, turning his face ashen. As if seeing an extremely terrifying ghost, he turned and fled in fright.
The fleeing figure overlapped with Mors's memory of herself. She couldn't help but mock herself inwardly: ...A coward.
Her phone received a string of messages.
Xiahke: Are you going out to clear your head?
Xiahke: Suddenly being left behind, I'm so lonely o(╥﹏╥)o
Xiahke: It's my fault! I'll readjust the power!
Xiahke: Where are you? Can I pick you up? (*^▽^*)
"..." Even though she recognized her act of avoidance, Mors was still reluctant to see Xiahke immediately.
Therefore, Mors placed her phone into her game backpack, [Retrieving] it, thereby cutting off the phone signal.
After a long time without a reply, it was within expectations. Xiahke wasn't in a hurry. If she were an ordinary woman, he would have pursued her relentlessly. But Mors was someone he couldn't force, so he had to know when to stop chasing a cornered rabbit.
"Sigh—Is this the bitter taste of love?" The damp bedsheets were un-sleepable, so they were put in the washing machine. Xiahke lay on the freshly changed sheets. He hadn't changed the pillow, so when he rested his head on it, he could still catch Mors's faint scent.
Mors showered very frequently; he usually couldn't smell her. This time, it was only with the help of hormones that she had a slight scent.
Unlike the sweeter scents of women he'd encountered before, Mors's scent was fleeting and faint, a bit like the fresh scent of plants after rain. Because the scent was so faint, he had to concentrate and try to smell it, which led to a slight obsession. "...This is tormenting."
Physiologically normal, a man in his early twenties, in his prime, after painstakingly laying so much groundwork, before even getting to the main course, the cooked duck flew away. This kind of suffering was enough to bear.
The cold shower's effect was temporary. The still-unextinguished embers reignited. After a fruitless internal struggle, thinking that Mors wouldn't reply anytime soon, Xiahke sighed, gave up his internal battle, placed a box of tissues by his side, and chose self-sufficiency.
Taking an airship, Mors returned to her rented apartment four days later.
This time, she remembered to send a message in advance, so the man who served as her personal chef waited indoors, having prepared the food she decided she wanted.
The routine after a long journey was to shower first, then change into her favorite cotton dress. Pure cotton was soft and comfortable to wear. With too many clothes to change, she didn't have to worry about the drawbacks of cotton like wrinkling, shrinking, or attracting lint; she could just change into another one, making the drawbacks nonexistent.
Before mealtime, after showering, Mors requested only a bowl of douhua to drink.
The delicate, smooth sweet douhua, with milk added. Soy products and dairy products were both things Mors liked. Two likes combined made for double the happiness. Although there was also a way to eat it with chocolate syrup, the chocolate flavor was too strong, not as mild as milk. Mors felt a simpler flavor was better.
The living room television was not on. While drinking her douhua, Mors observed the man's state.
In fact, she felt the man's state was very strange when he entered, as if he were trying hard to conceal something.
Could it be... that there was a reason for poisoning?
Unfortunately, poison was generally ineffective against the Zoldycks.
Mors checked her character panel.
[Poison Resistance: Level 8]
The maximum skill level was 10, so level 8 was already quite good.
Indeed, she felt no discomfort until she finished the bowl of douhua.
Now, she could ask.
The vocal device pressed against her throat was uncomfortable. Mors had never used it in front of the man. As an alternative means of communication, she had placed notepads with pens throughout the room for writing.
The pen next to the notepad was very small, clipped to the first sheet of the notepad, only slightly longer than the notepad itself.
Mors picked it up, feeling as if she were picking up a half-eaten Pocky stick.
"Did something happen?" Mors wrote on the notepad.
The man's lips twitched. He finally dropped his pretense, revealing a face full of dejection and sorrow.
"My sister... passed away the day before yesterday."
The man's voice was low and slow. Seeing his expression and hearing the beginning of his words, Mors could already guess the latter half – not an entirely unexpected development. After all, his sister had suffered over 80% burns upon entering the hospital, severe burns, and was in critical condition. It was already a miracle that she could be saved.
"Multiple organ failure," the man said, lowering his head, his bangs obscuring his expression. "The doctor said that after enduring for so long with severe burns, the patient was also in a lot of pain... Perhaps it's good that she's at peace."
Recalling that time, the cold black and white text of the death certificate declared the irreversible end of a life.
When overwhelming grief struck, his entire body felt blocked. The man couldn't cry; he could only tremble, his legs giving out, and he knelt on the hospital floor. His clenched fingers crumpled the death certificate.
The doctors and nurses on duty for that room knew that the man's parents had died from their injuries a few days prior. The man was the patient's sole guardian. Although legally an adult, the pain of losing his family consecutively was an unbearable tragedy for anyone, regardless of age. They offered words of comfort and helped him with the subsequent procedures.
He quietly watched his sister's body enter the crematorium, collected her ashes, and buried her.
Next to his sister's tombstone was his parents' tombstone. He couldn't feel the warmth of the sun; a chill constantly seeped into his bones. He couldn't help but feel fortunate that the young lady wasn't here, allowing him to focus on swallowing the bitterness stuck in his throat.
It was time for the cemetery to close. The groundskeeper, accustomed to similar scenes, urged him to leave.
"..." Stretching his stiff limbs, the man walked out of the cemetery as if he had lost his soul, the groundskeeper's soft sigh echoing behind him.
Birth, aging, sickness, and death are natural parts of life.
In the cemetery, there were many children younger than the man's sister lying there. When Death took souls, it paid no mind to age.
The bitterness was still stuck in his throat today, and the man couldn't swallow it no matter how hard he tried.
Mors raised her hand, pressing down, and gestured for him to sit down and talk.
The man took a difficult breath and finally knelt on the carpet, his head bowed, hands clasped tightly on his knees.
Mors handed him a recently written note: Do you need time off?
People generally digest grief in two ways: either by repeatedly chewing on it or by desperately working to distract themselves.
The man remained silent for a long time. Mors didn't know which category he belonged to.
Time flowed by like water.
There was no other way. After all, the man had lost his entire family, which was truly pitiful. Mors recalled her first hawk that died and reached out to stroke the man's head.
The man's shoulders trembled uncontrollably. His tear ducts, blocked since the day before yesterday, suddenly burst open. He first choked, then began to sob.
Mors got up from the sofa and put her arm around the man's shoulders. The man stiffened as if resisting, but after a moment, he buried the upper half of his face in Mors's shoulder and began to cry loudly.
The entire room was filled with the man's cries. Mors remained silent, gently patting his back with one hand.
The man had once boldly asked Mors if she disliked talking or was unable to talk. Mors's reply to him was the latter.
Of course, the man didn't expect the young lady to comfort him in a gentle voice, nor did he expect her to condescend to embrace him at his level.
He was overwhelmed with gratitude. His rational mind told him to restrain himself, but his emotions bypassed reason, casting aside all reservations. The young lady's pure cotton dress had good absorbency, and his tears quickly soaked a large portion of her shoulder.
Time passed so quickly. In just a few months, he had lost his family, studies, friends, and future, and was burdened with debt. What was left of him now? Only the young lady, and the embrace given by the young lady was the last trace of warmth he had.
Warmth... He remembered the family gatherings at the dining table, a bit crowded but lively. Everyone would chat and laugh, discussing recent interesting events, complaining about unlucky things, or sharing unhappy moments. It was pleasant to talk about anything.
Perhaps there were arguments? However, the filter of time and the barrier of life and death erased all past flaws, leaving only the most cherished parts. It was medicine to soothe wounds, yet also a soft knife, cutting into his heart every time he remembered.
Those cheerful voices would never return; everyone was lying in the cold earth.
When he saw his sister's body, the man had thoughts of ending his own life.
The hospital's billing statement reminded him of the young lady. If he were to die, it would be irresponsible to the young lady. The young lady, unrelated to him, had provided him with the most generous help during his most difficult times. Currently, his work was far from repaying this kindness, so how could he only think of himself?
The young lady said she was going home for a visit. She hadn't contacted him for several days, and he didn't know when she would return.
Perhaps the young lady... would also disappear.
The man knew almost nothing about the young lady's family situation; he didn't know her surname, only that she was very wealthy and lonely.
There is no true empathy in the world, so people with similar mindsets tend to resonate more, to find the warmth they desire in each other.
The man hesitated, then timidly raised his hand, reaching out to embrace the young lady. Feeling no resistance from the young lady, he dared to change his embrace, which had minimal physical contact, into a close embrace.
The warm body temperature and soft touch transmitted through the clothes to the man's limbs sent a tremor from the bottom of his heart, as if he were floating in clouds.
He wished everything was fake, yet he also wished everything... was real.
Was the young lady more important than his family?
No, it wasn't like that. If possible, he naturally wanted to return to the past. But reality was already like this; what else could he do but accept it?
"I'm sorry," the man apologized for wetting the young lady's shoulder and for his loss of composure in front of her. "I've caused you trouble."
The young lady shook her head and reached out to stroke his head, her movements gentle.
"I'm sorry," the man wiped his tears with his sleeve and apologized again. This time he asked, "May I call you by your name?"
"..." The young lady blinked and nodded at him.
The man made a great effort, as if reciting the most difficult words from a dictionary, his pronunciation rough, "...Mors."
"..."
"Mors." He said it again, this time much more smoothly.
"..." The young lady nodded in agreement.
"Mors," the man reached out, his fingertips touching the young lady's cheek, "May I... kiss you?"
The young lady's gaze flickered. The man leaned in, close enough to feel her breath, "...May I... kiss you?"
The final distance was closed very slowly. The young lady should have had ample time to refuse.
Mors did not refuse.
The man tasted the softness of the young lady's lips, then the residual sweetness and milky flavor.
The food he made would become a part of the young lady's body. Could he... also become a part of the young lady?
The desire to be closer to the young lady, to make the young lady rely on him more, had existed for a long time.
From any angle, in any pose, the young lady was exceptionally beautiful. When he realized it, he noticed he was staring too intently, and his work was delayed because of it.
Having been together day and night until now, he couldn't find anything to dislike about the young lady, except for her particularity regarding scent adjustment. The young lady was incredibly easygoing.
When the young lady was not home, he couldn't help but think of her presence everywhere: her figure curled up on the sofa, leaning by the window, standing beside him tasting dishes, emerging from the bathroom... He could even see phantoms. He would reach out, then pat his own head, blaming himself for fantasizing too much.
How could an ordinary person like him be worthy of the radiant young lady? He had no right to touch her. Having the opportunity to carry her shoes would be considered the honor of his lifetime.
At this moment, he could actually touch the young lady, even kiss her lips. This was something he couldn't even imagine in his dreams.
No, he still had dreams about it. He felt he must be dreaming.
He was definitely dreaming.
He didn't want to confirm if it was a dream. If it was a dream, he didn't want to wake up.
The young lady's compliance and his own suspicion that it was a dream, combined, emboldened the man. He continued to seize the sweetness from the young lady's lips and teeth, pushing her down onto the carpet, his hand slipping under her dress.
His brain seemed to be covered by something, and all thought became blurred. The man breathed heavily and rapidly. Although his mouth and hands were already very unrestrained, he still held back. If he had completely unleashed the instincts constantly surging within him, he would have already torn open the young lady's clothes and, regardless of her reaction, forcibly become a part of her body.
Perhaps, this would also be a good time to confirm if the young lady truly couldn't make a sound, right?
His wildly beating heart seemed as if it would burst out of his chest at any moment. The man suppressed the screaming urge within him, kissing and caressing every part of the young lady's body wildly.
However, it was like drinking poison to quench thirst. The man felt his body getting so hot it was about to explode.
No part of the young lady's body was anything but soft, yet a hard, square object met his fingers.
He looked down drowsily and stopped in shock when he saw what the young lady was holding.
With no energy left to think about why the young lady was holding such a thing, he felt struck by lightning at this moment. "May I...?"
"May I?" He still couldn't believe it, holding the item.
The young lady below him closed her eyes.
Tearing open the packaging with trembling hands, the man cried again. Tears dripped onto the young lady, and she reached up to wipe them away.
"...Young Lady." The man took her hand and corrected himself, "Mors... May I... may I really?"
"..." The young lady closed her eyes.
It wasn't the first time the young lady had done something like this, which lessened the man's sense of guilt afterward.
As the heat that made his mind go blank subsided, the man finally remembered the item. He wondered why the young lady carried such a thing with her.
Even when doing the most intimate things, the young lady remained expressionless. It was hard to imagine the young lady having any related personal needs.
Thinking this, the young lady had already emerged from the bathroom. Her neck and calves, not covered by her dress, were all covered in marks left by the man. Her lips, once a light pink cherry color, had turned a vibrant rose red and were slightly swollen.
The man thought he had been very restrained, but he didn't expect the result to be so rough.
"I'm sorry," the man sat up from the carpet, lowered his head, and apologized sincerely. "I'm sorry, I had no sense of proportion... Did I hurt you?"
The young lady walked to his side and handed him a notepad: Are you curious about who the first person was to do this to me?
Taking a sharp breath, the man looked up at the young lady with a complex expression. He wanted to refuse, but the young lady had already written a second note, the sentence very short: It was my brother.
The young lady was not one to joke casually. The man did not doubt the truth of her statement. Rather, the young lady's answer seemed to explain her unusual quietness and her ability to maintain a poker face at all times. Thus, the man's face immediately turned ashen. "This... Why..."
The third note was also written: And my father.
...Of course, it was a lie.
"No, don't say any more!" The man snatched the pen from the young lady's hand with a horrified expression, stopping her from writing. "Don't say any more, don't say any more."
"..." The young lady's expression remained as calm as usual.
"What kind of messed-up things are these!" the man roared, grabbing the young lady's wrist, tears streaming down his eyes. "You... Did you go home... just to... No, don't say any more."
The man clutched his head in his hands in agony, his fingers digging into his hair.
"Why... Why would something like this happen..."
The man thought his own life was miserable enough, but he never expected the outwardly glamorous young lady to live an even more inhumane, even incestuous life.
He cried even more sadly. He realized that what he had just done was like sprinkling salt on the young lady's wounds.
He was such a scumbag! Compared to the young lady's scumbag brother and father, what was the difference?!
"I'm sorry," the man pressed his forehead against the carpet, prostrating himself in repentance. "I'm sorry, Mors, I'm a scumbag..."
"..."
Mors simply wrote another note: It's okay, I don't mind.
"...Don't go home anymore!" The man gritted his teeth. "Let's go. Let's leave here. I'll take care of you. You don't have to be... bullied by them anymore."
Mors shook her head and wrote on the notepad: I need money from home.
This incredibly realistic reason shattered the man's pride. The man sadly recalled that he was originally heavily in debt, and it was Mors who helped him clear it. Every penny he spent was actually drinking Mors's blood.
Everything around him, his daily food and clothing, was exchanged for Mors's flesh and blood.
He didn't know how many unbearable days and nights Mors had endured before. Crying or begging for help was useless. She was probably numb by then, beyond saving, which was why she always looked expressionless.
"Yes, yes, I'm useless..." The man forced a bitter smile, accepting reality. After the loss of his entire family, it seemed there was nothing left he couldn't accept. And during the days he carried his debt, he had deeply understood how distressed and powerless people without money were when facing problems. "You shouldn't be interested in that kind of thing anymore... You have no expression at all... Why are you with me..."
Mors wrote on the notepad: Comfort.
"..." The man's expression went blank. "Comfort... Me? What right do I have... I don't deserve it..."
The man lowered his head again, pounding his head forcefully, calling himself a scumbag.
Mors leaned down and hugged him, stroking his head.
When the man stopped self-harming, Mors wrote on the notepad: You can cook delicious meals for me. You are useful.
"Is... Is that all?"
Mors nodded.
"...Alright." The man pulled at the corner of his mouth with deep sorrow. "From now on... from now on, no matter what happens, as long as you don't dislike it... I will... stay with you until the end."
Since learning of Mors's "tragic past," the man had been overly worried and had been trying too hard to study cooking. Within a few days, he fell ill.
The doctor's advice was to rest at home.
Wanting to alleviate Mors's worries, he instead caused her more trouble. The man felt increasingly guilty and refused to rest in bed. Mors had to resort to kissing him again, pushing him back onto the bed, and then covering him with a blanket.
"I'm a despicable person," the man grabbed Mors's wrist, feeling ashamed but also uncontrollably curious, admitting, "These past few days, I've been thinking about... you comforting me."
"..." Mors didn't move.
"So I'm despicable," the man said. "I don't want to hide it from you. I want to say it. I'm sorry, I feel a bit better now."
"Thank you," the man released her hand.
Mors looked at him for a moment, tilted her head, and then burrowed under his covers.
...
The man's illness was cured without treatment.
The man was already indulging in it.
The man beside her was asleep. Mors picked up the man's phone. After making his vow, the man had consciously kept only her number and those of his deceased family members in his contacts. All other numbers, such as ex-girlfriends, classmates, friends, relatives, and nurses, were deleted.
Burning his bridges, having nothing left to tie him to the world, this man truly intended to sink with her.
Mors recalled the first time she met this man several months ago. The adult man still looked like a big boy, with bright eyes and a clean-cut appearance.
Now, the man had fully become a man. His eyes were still bright, but they were now mixed with a frenzied chaos.
Shame, desire, resolution.
He buried himself in Mors's body, as if clinging to a last straw, unable to extricate himself.
Fortunately, he was young and could withstand the tossing and turning. In terms of stamina...
It was roughly equivalent to a battle-worn Xiahke. Kuaishuge.
Alright, Mors decided to retrieve her phone, used for contacting her Troupe members, from her game backpack after a long time, to check for messages.
Besides Xiahke's, there were also messages from Machi.
Hmm, let's see what Machi sent first.