Doubts and Suspicions
S-Class.
There were not many S-Class inmates in Madman's Waltz.
Only four people were currently serving S-Class sentences; even counting the new arrival, the total would still be a mere five.
"It's not a rumor—it's practically confirmed. I heard they're choosing between resignation and an S-Class disposition."
"Disciplinary S-Class? So it's one of our employees, then."
"Well… among those who've experienced S-Class imprisonment, only three weren't our employees to begin with. Two of them are currently in A-Class, and the remaining one died the moment their S-Class term ended, so of course it's one of ours."
"That tracks. Though 'died'… we killed them, didn't we?"
"Come on, 'killed'? That was suicide."
"Whether that really counts as suicide is debatable. Hmm~ This coffee's good."
An S-Class disposition for a fellow company employee.
Leviathan took a sip of coffee to soothe his dry throat.
Unusual company though it was, Waltz Production's disciplinary measures were not so different from those of any other firm.
A sliding scale of severity applied according to the offense, but most cases resolved through pay cuts, suspensions, or recommended resignations—nine times out of ten, that was how it went.
Yet, as befit a company whose entire program revolved around inflicting suffering on people, those facing suspension or worse had another option: substituting imprisonment for conventional discipline.
A way of repaying the damage done to the company with one's own body.
The conditions, however, were strict.
A minimum of one year of prior imprisonment experience was required, and anyone without A-Class experience was ineligible for substitute confinement.
Even those who met the criteria rarely chose it; the company set the imprisonment options so excessively harsh compared to ordinary discipline that most preferred simply to resign.
Though the 2050s had seen government authority shrink and the rule of law weaken—labor laws among them—public sentiment regarding workers still carried weight.
In that climate, Waltz Production preferred to avoid any risk to its reputation and therefore minimized the use of a substitute-imprisonment system that directly inflicted pain on the disciplined party. The system might well disappear soon.
For now, however, it remained in force, and every so often someone still received an A-Class or higher disposition.
Employees who had once voluntarily enjoyed life on Prison Island, in particular, sometimes preferred the imprisonment option when such a decision arose…
And even when the terms were excessive, there was still a scale.
A ten-day suspension was roughly equivalent to one month of B-Class imprisonment; the kind of discipline that could be replaced by S-Class confinement was far beyond anything that could be called a simple dismissal.
"S-Class for discipline… Do you know what they actually did?"
"…Hmm. I heard the rough outline. Apparently a professional counselor—dereliction of duty, embezzlement, counseling manipulation, a whole list of charges."
"That still feels a little light…"
"I thought so too. Still, counseling manipulation is a fairly big deal. Word is they even committed Incomplete Sale on the options, then siphoned off inmate footage for personal embezzlement."
"Is that so? Well, that level would justify S-Class. Tch. Incomplete Sale, though… I wonder if that applies to any of the current inmates as well?"
"Hard to say. I don't know that much. Anyway, the order came down from quite high up. Probably VIP influence, don't you think? Otherwise they'd never hand down an S-Class disposition."
"VIP, huh…"
As Franken said, no matter that the person was an employee, the only people who could warrant a disciplinary measure severe enough to be replaced by S-Class imprisonment were those VIPs.
If the company combined resignation with civil litigation over the embezzlement and other damages the person had caused… that life would plunge straight into the abyss. Social death might make seizing one last chance through imprisonment look preferable.
And if such a person were offered S-Class confinement?
Especially a professional counselor?
Waltz Production's professional counselors were positions open only to those who had experienced every rank from C through S; the odds were high they would have accepted without hesitation.
I wonder if Luia had something to do with this?
The word "VIP" made Leviathan think of Luia, who had only recently been released.
Among those currently registered as VIPs at Waltz Production, she was the one who had most recently lived on Prison Island herself—and she had been an inmate under his own charge.
No. She left only a few days ago; connecting her to this disciplinary case is a stretch.
The memory of handling a human being so far above ordinary society with such casual roughness.
At the time he had known her true identity and had been constantly careful… yet looking back now, the sight of someone of such high station fallen to the very bottom stirred a strange excitement whenever he thought of her.
Still, another thought sometimes crossed his mind.
What if Luia had undergone imprisonment for the purpose of an audit or inspection?
When he first heard she was to be confined here, Diabolos had urged him to consider that possibility as well, so he could not help weighing the connection from that angle too.
Well, that isn't the important part. And if there had been any mistake on our side, or if Luia were involved, I would have received some notice about the discipline myself. Still… a professional counselor…
The probability that any client of the counselor in question was currently on Prison Island was extremely low.
Given the tiered structure of Waltz Production's programs, applicants for Grade A made up only one or two percent of total clients; and because Grade A tended to attract re-inmates, many of them skipped professional counseling entirely, proceeding with general counseling or selecting options themselves.
Even so, the "what if" remained.
Leviathan intended to investigate the inmates under his charge.
One in particular.
Inmate A713, Lee Nayoon.
A recent arrival who, for a newcomer, had shown a remarkably fragile side…
Thinking of how she looked when Shatan was training her throat… I should check on that later.
In the dissonance he had felt from the way she still retained a sense of self—unlike the other inmates who had discarded their human rights—Leviathan thought he might have found a clue.
Of course the odds were higher that he was wrong.
But if the suspicion proved true, the recent changes in her situation would make sense.
If she had received an Incomplete explanation, she would inevitably begin to question the many acts she was supposed to endure on Prison Island.
Moreover, her profile listed information about her only family.
Long experience as a guard had taught him how heavily a new inmate, cut off from society on Prison Island, leaned on human relationships.
That was why Leviathan could guess the reason Nayoon was struggling.
"Haa…"
He turned his head and looked at Nayoon, who was receiving treatment.
The sigh that left his lips was not solely from work fatigue.
In the corridor leading back to the cell.
Handcuffs locked behind my back, shackles on my ankles, I had to walk behind Leviathan.
— Clink-clank. Clink.
The sound of the chains dragging across the floor rang in my ears.
Already a full month.
No—nearly a month and a half of being locked in this place.
The corridor had grown so familiar I could walk it with my eyes closed; I could picture every fixture in my mind.
The only times I saw sunlight were when I labored at the execution grounds.
A fresh wave of wretchedness washed over me.
I understood now why prisoners kept their eyes on the floor.
Humiliation and shame.
And the reality that one's own crime had brought one to a place like this… one simply could not face it head-on.
My crime was clear.
[The crime of locking myself in here of my own free will]
The phrase the guards flung at us whenever they had the chance.
That people who had lost to lust had come here at all was itself the crime against me.
This was no accident.
Just as criminals commit wrongful acts through bad judgment and wicked hearts, I too had been imprisoned here through judgment driven mad by lust and through twisted desire…
I was a sinner no different from them.
That was why I had become an inmate…
"Get in."
"…Yes."
— Clang. Thud.
The familiar cell door opened and I squeezed my body into the cramped space.
Inside, Jaehee, Seoa… and Yejin were already sitting.
They must have fallen asleep once and woken again; Jaehee and Seoa kept blinking against the light seeping through the cell door.
"…"
— Bang! Clang.
The familiar sound.
The cell door shut and once more we were locked in the narrow cell.
This was the one stretch of the day when we could rest, however little.
The place itself was harsh, yet it was a space where we could at least fold our bodies and close our eyes.
Normally I would have exchanged written notes at ease, reflecting on the day and steeling myself for tomorrow, but today I could not.
Are you okay?
Seoa, sitting beside me, asked.
Ordinarily I would have answered that I was fine, but… was I really okay right now?
Doubt stirred.
My body, thanks to the visit to the recovery room, was completely free of wounds.
So completely that flesh had already grown back over the places the piercings had pierced, and they would have to be re-pierced tomorrow.
The muscle aches that had plagued me for days were gone; the creaking jaw joint had returned to normal.
The recovery room's effect was so great that I felt no pain or discomfort of any kind in my body.
But today… my heart was far too unsettled.
I'm sorry.
Just then Yejin, who had needlessly taken Jaehee's spot, left a message on my thigh.
When I looked at her with eyes adjusted to the dark, she was watching me with an expression unlike her usual self.
A look of pity.
When someone who is never like that behaves that way, the effect is all the more intense.
Especially since Yejin still carried the composed air one felt from an older person, her childlike approach felt utterly alien.
It's fine. Sleep. I'm tired.
Okay.
So I avoided it.
Just because she was acting like a child did not mean I had to do the same.
My body, free even of fatigue, did not want sleep, yet I turned to face the wall and settled into position.
…I knew.
I knew this posture would make all of us uncomfortable.
But I simply could not bring myself to look at my cellmates.
Before I returned they would have been exchanging notes.
Yejin had surely told them that her failure had caused me to suffer.
And what had their answers been?
Sympathy, pity… or a punishment meted out to the woman who had become a burden?
…Honestly, unless I heard it from their own mouths, such thoughts were pure speculation. I knew that.
I had never been particularly slow on the uptake, even as a child.
If things were as I had always felt them to be, my cellmates would have been worried about me.
So why.
Had I taken that for granted?
Good night.
Seoa wrote on my calf.
Then she curled herself into an even narrower space than usual, giving me more room as I lay facing the wall.
…Why bestow this kind of pity on me?
Once the doubt had seeped in, it fed suspicion.
What if they were gathering all this pity and concern… and filling it with resentment in their hearts?
And then, like during torture sessions, if the chance arose, they would pour it out on me.
Thinking that way, the fact that every one of them was a re-inmate suddenly felt terrifying.
Leviathan had said this program had newly changed, yet from the way they accepted things and from their behavior, change had always been present.
In that case there must have been tortures that linked interactions among cellmates as well.
Had Yejin been waiting for just such an opportunity… to express her dissatisfaction with me?
I was uneasy.
If so, the message, the expression, the behavior she had just shown me—all of it had been an act.
No.
It was needless fretting.
That couldn't be.
………………………………What guarantee did I have?
It felt as though the anxiety nesting in my heart had given birth to a demon.
And so, all night long, I kept my eyes closed and listened to my cellmates' breathing while replaying the same futile delusions over and over.
By now I could no longer tell which was the nightmare and which was reality…
Dawn broke.
The repeated daily routine remained the same today.
The moment we left the cell we recited the Prisoner's Oath, then breakfast.
After an enema emptied the foreign matter from our stomachs, a fifty-kilometer run in the training area.
Today was the first day I was allowed to run without Special Handcuffs or a gag.
"Don't move."
"Yes… Hngh! Nngh!"
The piercings pierced my nipples again.
A sharp, electric pain shot through my entire body.
Then I climbed onto the treadmill.
Both hands were still bound behind my back in handcuffs, yet the freer posture let me increase my running speed.
I ran hard.
Just as I had resolved when I wore the Special Handcuffs and gag, I moved my legs desperately to make up for all the burden I had been to my cellmates until now.
— Thud. Thud. Thud.
"Kyaah!… Nngh!"
As long as I had the strength to move, I ran without pause.
The slack wire lines tugged at the piercings, sending a strange mix of pain and pleasure through my nipples, but I was used to stimulation of that degree.
By the time sweat droplets fell onto the treadmill and the prison uniform clung wetly to my body, a fierce pain rose from the soles of my feet in their high heels.
Blisters had formed, or the millet seeds had burst them and left wounds—that much was obvious.
Even so, I ran.
I ran even when it was hard enough that collapsing would not have been strange.
I simply felt I had to.
The trouble I had caused.
And the misunderstandings about my cellmates that had grown from it.
I wanted to resolve them, if only through this kind of action.
But… reality was not kind to me.