A Lucky Day
She had no idea how much time had passed.
What she did know for certain was that Seoa, Yejin, and she herself — all three of them — had felt something inside them die.
Broken beyond anything the word "wrecked" could capture.
All three of them were ruined.
"Stoooop… aaah… ghk… I don't want to go… I don't want to go… aaah… aaaagh!! Aaaagh…! Nngh… ah… ahhk… stop… aaah… I'm broken… aaaagh…! ♡ Aaaaaaah!"
Yejin, who had once flaunted her powerful body, had collapsed under the relentless cascade of climaxes. The movement in her muscles had gone quiet; all that remained was the endless sound of her wailing. She screamed until her throat tore, thrashing with noises that were neither moans nor shrieks, her hollow eyes rolling without focus.
"Uwek… ehhk… eh… hehe… eh… ah… a-aaah…."
Seoa, branded with the iron, was worse. Dark circles hung heavy beneath her eyes like someone on the brink of death. She couldn't close her mouth; drool ran freely down her chin. Her thighs were blackened and charred. Seventeen places on her body had been seared — one of them her cheek. The nails driven through the tops of her feet and the palms of her hands were stained dark red with blood. Leave her like that for a few more hours and she would die without anyone lifting a finger.
And she herself…
"…Eh… eh… s… stoooop… stoooop…."
She hung limp after hours of denied climax. Arousal had swollen past the point of bursting; the slightest vibration, the faintest sensation, sent the fluid pooling in her womb spilling out. Her body was hypersensitive, yet climax remained forever out of reach.
I'm going to die.
No — dying would be better.
If I'd just fallen to my death, or hanged myself…
I never would have had to suffer like this…
But it was already too late to choose the branding iron. The words leaving her mouth had nothing to do with her will. Mere rambling. Or the postmortem twitch of a corpse. Even if she tried to beg them to burn her with the iron, her tongue no longer moved as she commanded.
Six hours had passed since the torture they called an execution began. The condemned were being driven to the absolute limit of exhaustion when, in the underground bunker beneath the brush near the Execution Area, a taut tension hung in the air.
The room was packed with machinery, dashboards, and screens. Several people held their posts, each locked onto the data streaming across their displays. And at the center of it all, like the captain of a fleet, Diabolos issued his commands.
"A688. Body temperature up point two degrees. Blood loss two hundred seventy milliliters. Warden, should we prep analgesics?"
"Painkillers won't do a damn thing in her condition. Better to stretch the intervals between brandings a little longer. Asmode. How many left?"
"At the current pace, seven more are possible. But there's necrosis risk in the right leg… counting that, maybe four."
"We've got four hours left. Four is too long a gap. Skip the right leg and go for seven brandings. Belphegor, how's A691?"
"Brain waves are highly unstable."
"Drop sensitivity one level. Leviathan, A713?"
"Body temp thirty-seven point nine. Mucosal fluid loss at thirty-two percent. Still holding, but her brain waves are showing about fifty-six percent deviation from baseline."
"Check every fifteen minutes and report."
"Yes, sir."
This was the operations room installed inside the execution grounds. Diabolos kept his eyes fixed on the screens showing the execution floor, issuing orders based on the information his staff fed him.
Everyone was present except Ba'al and Lucifer, who were out on the floor as executioners, and Marmon, who was managing the remaining inmates in the auditorium. Franken from the Recovery Room was there as well. Aside from the control-room staff monitoring the other inmates, every person who dealt with the prisoners face-to-face was gathered in the operations room.
"I don't know why this execution has me so on edge. It's going too smoothly."
"Come on~ Smooth is good, right? That's not like you, Warden."
"…You're right. But every time I get this feeling, something goes wrong. Not that we can just cancel an execution…"
"Ah, don't sweat it. Everything'll be fine."
"It had better be. Ah. Right.… Hey! Belphegor. Close up on the branded spots on A691. Surface necrosis past twenty-two percent yet?"
"Hmm… no. Still at sixteen point two."
"Good. Keep watching that."
"Yessir!"
Six hours already. After so long focused on the work, anyone might have started to loosen up. But Diabolos held that sharp gaze of his and stayed locked on the condemned. Spurred by their warden's example, the rest of the staff threw everything they had into managing the prisoners.
The monthly execution was a system designed for inmate management and various practical conveniences, but it was still the most dangerous, highest-difficulty event on Prison Island. Everyone in that room knew it demanded the most meticulous care.
"Hey. Asmode."
Not everyone, however, possessed Diabolos's powers of concentration. Franken, who rarely dealt with the inmates face-to-face, rubbed his tired eyes and looked for something to occupy himself. Ba'al and Lucifer were already monitoring the condemned on-site, and the data coming through the monitors here had already been filtered once for risk by each inmate's collar terminal. Unless an alarm went off, there was little real danger.
So Franken turned to Asmode, who was sitting closest.
"You called?"
"Yeah. At this point, I'm pretty much the only one who'll talk to you anyway. And aren't you starting to check out a little yourself? When are you leaving?"
In that regard, Asmode — on the verge of resignation — made a convenient conversation partner. Franken wore his usual sly expression. Asmode figured he was teasing her, but she had no intention of shutting him down.
Given the nature of the Recovery Room, Franken served as counselor for every guard's psychological well-being. Even if he was genuinely mocking her, she trusted he would cut it off at an appropriate line. So she answered with resigned acceptance.
"I'm planning to move all my things out on the same boat that brings the next inmate to the island."
"That soon?"
"It's a recommended resignation, so… no point dragging it out, right? And I've already been cut out of most of the work. Staying here just means eating cold shoulders."
"Yeah, I guess that tracks."
Honestly, Asmode's mood wasn't bad. She understood the company's position, and more than anything, the major mistakes she'd made — the consecutive friction incidents with inmates — had made a recommended resignation the expected outcome.
What truly unsettled her was the shift in her fellow guards' attitudes after the disciplinary action. Leviathan, whom she'd privately considered a good little brother, had started avoiding conversation simply because something had happened involving the inmate in his cell. Kind-hearted Marmon and Ba'al tried to be considerate by only bringing up other topics, but that very consideration felt like discomfort to her. The naturally quiet Shatan and Belphegor were the same.
And above all, the most uncomfortable person of all: Lucifer. For his sake alone, Asmode wanted to leave Prison Island as soon as humanly possible.
"Lucifer say anything?"
"Ha… don't even start. He even sent a petition to headquarters. Knowing full well how this company treats inmates, and still pulling a stunt that stupid."
"Kid's young, that's all. Only twenty-four."
"He's only three years younger than me. And… you know his personality."
"…That's why I'm a little worried. Lucifer scares even me."
Lucifer. Youngest of the guards, shortest tenure — and yet every officer on the island, Diabolos included, had settled on the same supreme epithet for him.
Psycho.
Even among vicious prison guards, he was a renowned sadist. Vicious, cunning, and fond of toying with people's hearts, his behavioral patterns were so four-dimensional that no one could fully understand them. The last person anyone wanted as an enemy.
And yet, despite his short career, his outstanding work performance and results — above all, the fact that he consistently ranked at the top in satisfaction surveys among liberated inmates — had made him the ace of Prison Island.
To Asmode, though, he was simply an uncomfortable colleague.
"As if that weren't enough… right before I leave, he confessed again… it was a lot."
"Heh. Figured he'd do at least that much. It's Lucifer. So you turned him down?"
"Well… yeah. Honestly I like him as a person, but that obsession of his is just… a lot. Leviathan's about the right level for me… though he's completely gone on A479, so… ahh~ I was thinking of making a play for the seat next to him after that bitch got married…"
"Why didn't you go for it?"
"You know. A713 over there is that bitch's little sister. Watching Leviathan lose his mind this time, I've decided to let it go. Even a one-sided crush has limits…"
Asmode let out a hollow sigh. The fixed stone had been pulled free, only for a rolling stone to immediately block the path. She hadn't approached Leviathan with genuine love, but swept up in the feeling of having been interfered with — and now resigning because of it — whatever feelings she'd had for him had gone cold.
If that's how it is, Lucifer would actually be better…
Everyone else kept their distance from Lucifer, but when it came to love, he showed a different face. Aggressive in both courtship and confession, endlessly sincere toward the woman he'd set his sights on. The problem was just one thing: the target was a fellow guard — Asmode herself.
Sure enough, once her resignation was confirmed by this disciplinary action, Lucifer's romantic offensive only intensified, and that was precisely why she was pushing for a quick, clean exit. She wasn't ready to accept his feelings. If they'd stayed together longer, maybe something would have changed. But that chance was vanishing with her resignation.
"Heh. If Lucifer causes an incident next, just know it's because of you."
"…What? What is that supposed to mean?"
"It'll be the accident that happens when he takes out his dumped rage on the inmates."
"Eck…. You're kidding?"
"I'll say it again. It's Lucifer. When that guy's eyes go dark, he's a complete lost cause."
"Ha… whatever. I won't be here by then anyway."
"Well, that's true enough. Anyway, finish clean. Especially where Lucifer's concerned."
"…Yeah. I'll keep it in mind."
At Franken's warning, Asmode nodded reluctantly. Having built her career in a place as specialized as Prison Island, she didn't have many other paths left. She would inevitably end up working in a similar industry, a similar field. So she took Franken's advice as counsel. As long as she stayed in the same line of work, there was no telling where they might run into each other again. A clean break was essential.
Asmode looked at the screen, where Lucifer was branding an inmate with the iron. The way he smiled while torturing a human being was deeply unsettling.
Yeah… I need to finish this cleanly and go.
Grateful for the unexpected advice Franken had thrown her way, Asmode finished sorting her thoughts — how to close things out here, and what face to wear when she left.
But then, even after the conversation had ended, Franken kept studying her face from the side. He seemed to be turning something over carefully. When he finally spoke, it was with extreme caution, a tense expression, almost a whisper.
"Asmode."
"…Yes?"
"Does Lucifer… not know?"
"Know what…? …………Ah."
The question landed. Franken had asked without a subject, and Asmode glanced around. Everyone was focused on the condemned. No eyes were turned toward Asmode, the soon-to-be outsider, or Franken, who ran the other facilities. In that blind spot of attention, she whispered back.
"The only people who worked on Prison Island back then are the Warden and you, Dr. Franken. Just the two of you. Lucifer doesn't know."
"…You're sure?"
"…Yes. I'm sure. And the Warden doesn't know the deep details either. Even if Lucifer found out, it'd only be at the Warden's level. It'll be fine. But why are you asking?"
"No reason… just, when you were writing that petition recently, I saw you poking around the archives…"
"Heh. Pointless worry. I already handled everything on that end."
"Good."
Franken nodded at her answer. A secret between the two of them. No — including the Warden, a secret among three. That was a relief. He turned his gaze away again. He'd wanted to prepare for contingencies, but it seemed unnecessary. What mattered was the present. No good would come of carrying needless anxiety; his role was simply to advise so the one who was leaving could finish cleanly. That was as far as his part went.
And then —
A sudden commotion. The atmosphere had shifted so completely that it was hard to believe it had happened in the brief moment he'd looked away.
"Hey! Get word to Ba'al now! Inject the muscle relaxant!! Leviathan! Shatan! Get to the floor, recover A691 and A713, and put them in the holding cells next to the tribunal! Move!"
Diabolos shouted. At the abrupt change in atmosphere, Franken looked up at the largest monitor. The camera covering the execution grounds. The frantic activity on that screen showed a scene of extreme urgency.
Ba'al, on the execution floor, was taking A688 down from the cross with a grave expression. Lucifer beside him pulled the nails from her palms and the tops of her feet. Then the guards who had bolted out on the Warden's orders appeared on camera.
And an order came down for Franken as well.
"Franken!"
"Yes!"
"Get back and fire up the Recovery Room. It's been seven years, but you can do it, right?"
"Uh… what…?"
At Diabolos's order, Franken froze. He'd been so absorbed in small talk with Asmode that he hadn't registered the crisis. He couldn't parse the Warden's instruction. But the clue he'd been given — seven years — pulled one particular incident from the many accidents stored in his memory. Fortunately, it connected to what he'd been thinking about just moments earlier, so it came to him quickly.
No way?
And that memory hardened into certainty.
Seeing Franken too stunned to move properly, the Warden issued a more detailed order.
"You know! The inmate who attempted suicide years ago. You successfully regenerated the tongue back then, right? Does that equipment still work? Can the body restoration unit handle it?"
"Ah…! Yes. It's possible. If she doesn't die, two hours will be enough."
"Good. Prep it immediately! And Belphegor — contact headquarters, brief them on the situation, and request an additional medical team. Check whether the lawyer has already left, and if not, ask them to send a psychotherapist along as well."
"Yes! Understood."
"Asmode, you head back to the auditorium. Check the inmates who were watching the screens. If any of them look like they're in severe psychological shock, go through the AAC-class mental counseling list with Marmon and send anyone abnormal to the holding cells. Now!"
"…Yes!"
Everyone scrambled out of the control room. Diabolos watched them race toward their respective posts on the screens, then let out a long, heavy sigh and looked at A688 collapsed on the execution floor.
She had bitten through her own tongue mid-torture. Her face was so stained with blood he could barely make out her features. He bit down on his lip.
Leaving behind the wretched sight of an inmate who had attempted suicide, Diabolos shut off the control room screens and picked up his radio terminal to do what he had to do.
But first —
"…I knew it. Things were going too smoothly. What a lucky day this is."
He poured the tightness in his chest into the title of a classic short story, then walked out of the control room.