The Reenactment
The counseling space, completely transformed overnight by the Founder, looked exactly as I had imagined it from Nero's story. Even if the details differed slightly, the relentlessly bright lighting installed inside would erase any trace of shadow, and from her perspective my face would be backlit, making it impossible to read my expression clearly. Yet after finishing my session with No. 18 and stepping out of that place—which felt unpleasant for no reason at all—I stood there blankly watching the Team Leader take the dented metal can from my hand.
"The priest robes suit you surprisingly well. Your acting was quite convincing too."
"..."
I didn't bother replying, but the Team Leader pressed on with another question.
"Or perhaps it wasn't acting at all?"
"...I don't know myself."
"You looked a little angry. Was that just my imagination?"
"..."
The core of the plan the Team Leader had proposed was to first break down her overwhelming pride. She hadn't always been like this. Above all, she had once been a prisoner. Prisoners were simply assigned numbers in the order they were captured, and the only way to raise one's number was when the owner of the previous number died or had it stripped away. That meant there had been a time when she, like the Alchemist, had been an ordinary low-numbered prisoner with no special role. To recreate her trauma with the highest possible fidelity, an actor was necessary. If there was a prisoner, there had to be a guard, and that role naturally fell to me, the counselor.
When the Team Leader handed me the exact same priest robes worn by the priests who had assisted the Archangel Sarakael in the Inquisition's underground interrogation rooms and explained what I had to do, I hesitated. Even if it was to save her, was it right to go this far? But what she pushed toward me instead was a thick file. Placed heavily atop the robes I was holding, it contained damage reports from every incident No. 18 had caused. The great fire, the gas explosion. Her flame-type ability had been deemed suitable for an executioner because it could burn away every trace, every piece of evidence, even the witnesses themselves. Fires and explosions were the kinds of disasters that could plausibly be dismissed as accidents in daily life.
...And the fires she left behind without a second thought never discriminated in what they consumed as they grew and spread.
"I thought it would be good for you to see at least once what kind of person the prisoner you're trying to save really is."
"..."
I felt she was being too cruel, yet I couldn't say she was wrong. Still... whenever I recalled the sight of her trembling naked and bound before me, her complexion shockingly pale...
"My head hurts a little."
"Was the role too difficult for you?"
At this point, it was too late to say that.
"No. I'm the one who said I'd save her. I won't change that choice now."
"Hmm... I see."
Given the competitive structure the Inquisition fostered among prisoners and her habit of looking down on others, she understood all too well what it felt like to be compared and belittled. She had experienced it firsthand. That was why we expected this method to draw out another side of her. The effect appeared far more immediate and direct than anticipated.
I had no right to punish anyone. Rationalizing this as punishment would be meaningless. So even while feeling guilty, the memory of the things she had done quickly threw me back into confusion. She had only followed orders; with the Stigma in place, she couldn't refuse. Yet that excuse didn't work either, because she had actively worked to rise higher and earn favor. That had been the only form of survival offered to her. I pitied her from a third-party perspective, but when I remembered the day she attacked us—me, Nero, the Team Leaders, civilians and all—trying to burn everything without distinction, I knew that as one of her victims, I could never easily forgive her.
"I need to prepare for the next counseling session, so I'll be going now."
In the end, I had accepted the proposal because its chances of success seemed high. I decided to set aside for now any defense that her environment had forced her into this, or talk of a difficult childhood. For the moment, the only thing I could hold on to was the hope that if this counseling succeeded, we might be able to save many more prisoners in the future.
Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...!!
"Hkk...! C-cold... It hurts... Ngh..."
Click. Click.
When I shut the valve, the hose—which had no middle setting, just like the lighting here—stopped its violent spray at once. Drip... Drip...
Her sensual body hung limply from the chains like meat in a butcher shop, soaked through. Water droplets gathered and fell steadily from beneath her full, heavy breasts. Her once-vibrant red hair now clung wet and heavy to her skin. I tore my gaze away from that decadent sight and watched as she kept her head bowed, breathing in small, trembling gasps.
In this cramped cell, the floor beneath her bare feet was tiled like a bathroom, with a drain right beside her. The strange stench I had noticed upon entering was clearly from that. With her limbs never released from their restraints, she had to handle eating, relieving herself, and sleeping all while standing in that awkward position. The shower just now—or rather, the act of washing her like an animal—had also served to clean the waste that had soiled the floor between her legs.
"No. 18. Raise your head."
"..."
"...!"
When she finally lifted her head with difficulty, I drew a sharp breath. Her eyes were like those of a corpse, devoid of any emotion. Even under the bright lights, their dull red color had lost its luster. On the first day she had been confused, but from the second day onward she had begun to speak. She accused me of wearing priest robes even though I wasn't a real priest, of trying to psychologically pressure her by creating that atmosphere. She was far from stupid and had quickly seen through our intentions. Yet whenever her eyes met the priest robes I wore, her voice would shrink and she would suddenly mumble apologies, saying she was sorry.
Her personality swung wildly between confusion, fear, and sudden outbursts, resembling the early symptoms of bipolar disorder. I wondered again if proceeding this way was right, but having already made my choice, I had no choice but to see it through. A week of confusion passed for both of us, and today I finally noticed the unusually strong stench and the waste on the floor. Until now I had assumed she simply wasn't touching the meager meals out of final defiance, but perhaps she had also been holding back her bodily functions as long as possible. I hadn't considered that at all. The luxurious final dinner she had enjoyed in her silk slip and robe must have felt bitterly ironic to her now.
Aside from the weak cries she let out while enduring the cold, merciless spray of the hose, she had been unusually quiet today. There was no other reason for it. Even just being seen naked was humiliating enough; being forced to soil the floor and then having someone else wash between her legs with a rough stream of water would naturally leave her in a daze. And for someone whose pride had once been so high...
"Today's rations."
Thud...!
"...Hah... Slurp... Hup..."
"...."
Perhaps because of that, her reaction to today's meal was different from before. Without hesitation she lowered her head and buried her face in the bowl, tongue darting out to lick at the food.
"Lick... Hup... Ugh..."
I stared blankly at the crown of her head as she skillfully moved it, licking the bowl clean down to the bottom. Then I realized this was her first meal in a week. Without thinking, I scooped another ladleful into the bowl even though it went against my instructions. When more food appeared in the bowl she had just emptied, she looked up at me with those emotionless eyes. I flinched, realizing my mistake, but she only parted her lips—still messy with food—and spoke in a trembling voice.
"...Thank... you..."
The sound of the ladle I dropped clattering loudly against the floor followed me as I fled the cell.