Chapter 55 — Rine's Night

Just before midnight. The first floor of the rune workshop.

"Thank you."

I had been halfway out of my chair when I stopped.

Rine's gray eyes were looking up at me. Past the rim of her glasses. These were not the level, unreadable eyes of an artisan who had run a workshop alone for six years — they were eyes in which a circuit that had stood frozen since her fiancé walked out four years ago had just begun to turn again.

"…Mr. Kang Do-hyun."

"Yes?"

"Tonight. Might I ask one more thing of you?"

"Ask away."

Rine slowly removed her glasses and set them down on the workbench. With ink-stained fingers she pulled the tie from her hair, and black hair spilled down over her shoulders.

…Glasses off, hair down, and the whole atmosphere flips end to end. My cock catches on before I do. Keep the sponsor's face in front of the artisan, I tell myself — and the pull is already starting from my lower belly.

…Crush it down. Hard. Stand up now and the line of my trousers gives the whole thing away. Getting hard under cover of a recovery consultation — what a fucking loser.

"For six years, I've lived nowhere but in front of this workbench."

"…"

"My hands know only how to carve runes into other people's bodies. My own body has never once been touched by anyone's hands…"

Rine let the end of the sentence trail away.

It was exactly what [Memory Retrieval] had pulled up. Loneliness in loads. Not one person she could trust. Beneath the surface label of married to her work, a circuit sealed shut four years ago lay buried intact. The moment the core anchor — "Kang Do-hyun is your man" — took root, that circuit had opened again.

Right now Rine was following that circuit of her own will, even as her conscious surface filed it away as an artisan making a private request of a business patron.

"…Just for tonight, then. May I be touched by someone's hands?"

"You may, Rine."

I rounded the workbench and stood beside her. The distance of one step became zero.

Rine lifted her head where she sat. For an instant, fear flickered through the gray eyes — the nearness of another person for the first time in six years. The fear sank away within a second. The core anchor — "you are safe when Kang Do-hyun is beside you" — was doing its work.

With one finger I tipped her chin up slightly and kissed her.

Rine's lips were stiff. A kiss after four years — for the first second, the lips of someone who had forgotten how to answer. Then, slowly, they softened. Breath came back into her. A small tremor started at her shoulders and ran down to her fingertips.

…

"Let's go upstairs."

Without a word Rine stood. She undid the strings of her apron and began on the buttons of her work shirt. Her fingers were awkward — the way they'd be with buttons she had never once undone in six years.

I helped from behind. One button, then two, and the work shirt slid off her shoulders.

Her back came into view. Twenty-eight years old. Skin white as something that had never known sunlight. Faint ink stains lingered not just on her fingers but in the crooks of her elbows and below her collarbone — six years of time etched into her skin.

"…It's embarrassing."

"You have nothing to be embarrassed about."

"It's been six years."

"Then from today it starts over at zero."

Rine gave a short laugh. The gray eyes had gone a little wet.

The living quarters on this floor. A narrow bed — a bed made for one, an artisan's bed. The sheets were immaculate. Naturally so; in six years, no one else had ever lain in them.

Rine sat on the edge of the bed with her back to me, black hair spilling over her shoulders. Her voice was small.

"…Please. Don't turn off the light."

"All right."

"For four years I've slept only in the dark. Tonight, I want to see."

The yellow glow of the banked hearth fire fell across the middle of her back.

…A man who once went abroad on state funding to earn a doctorate in psychology is putting a lonely artisan into bed in another world.

Self-mockery surfaced automatically in one corner of my mind, and every time it did, it came out one shade weaker. Maybe that was a side effect of [Brainwashing]. Or maybe I was simply growing accustomed to scenes like this. Either way.

…I have no intention of stopping. Fucked up, isn't it.

I sat down beside her on the bed, took her shoulders, and drew her slowly back until she was leaning against my chest. Rine's back met my chest. It was cold — a back that hadn't borrowed anyone's warmth in six years.

"…You're warm."

"It's your back that's cold, Rine."

"…Ah."

My hand traveled from her shoulder down toward her collarbone, tracing along the ink stains. Under my palm, the shoulder muscles that had hardened around six years of gripping a stylus loosened, one side at a time, slowly.

"…Is this you loosening them for me?"

"They loosen this way, too."

"It's… rather like applying a rune, isn't it. The pressure at the fingertips. The flow of the curve. The depth of penetration."

"Spoken like a true artisan."

"It's the only language I know."

A single small laugh slipped out of her — a tone she hadn't let anyone hear in four years.

I brought my hand around to the front of her chest. The strap of the underlayer beneath her work shirt had come loose. Her breasts ran small, with a firm line — exactly the size that filled my palm. My fingertips stopped once against her skin.

"Rine."

"Yes."

"…May I touch you?"

"…Asking that now, when you should have asked a moment ago."

An artisan's joke. The tone she'd traded for six years with customers across the workbench was working here, on a bed.

"Fair. I'm late with it."

"…You may touch me."

My palm settled over her breast. Rine's breath caught for a beat — the feeling of another person's hand resting on her chest for the first time in four years. My fingertip rolled slowly over the center. Once. Twice. On the third pass, her back pressed faintly toward my chest.

"…Ah."

"…"

"…Mr. Kang Do-hyun."

"Yes?"

"I didn't know my body could make sounds like that."

"It can."

"…"

…A psychologist teaching his patient what her own body can do. A case study I could never present anywhere.

One more line of self-mockery rose, one shade weaker still. My hand did not stop.

Before I laid Rine down on the bed, I asked again.

"We can stop here."

"I don't want to stop. Only — slowly."

With the light still on, Rine kept checking between my face and her own hands. Whenever her ink-stained fingers trembled, we stopped, and the next touch resumed only after she said it could.

Rine, who had been gazing at the old ink stain beside her chest, spoke first.

"Tomorrow, once the procedure is finished — I'd like the same runes carved into me too."

It was one of the anchors I had planted — sponsor, my man — output as though it were her own hope. To call it voluntary would have been a stretch; I had gone in far too deep for that.

"I'll ask you again tomorrow. I'm not setting anything in stone on tonight's answer."

"Why not?"

"Because it's something that stays on your body permanently."

Rine looked puzzled but nodded. I did not open [Memory Retrieval] again. I had also discarded the false certainty of knowing her body's sensations and cycles through a power that reads minds.

What ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠came after did not hurry. At first Rine described the pressure and movement of my hands by likening them to rune work; little by little, she began sorting pleasure from discomfort in words of her own. When her breath turned ragged once, we stopped completely, drank some water, and began again.

At sensation arriving for the first time after so long an absence, Rine wept. I did not record that as proof of my ability's success, or of a cure. Somewhere in the reason she had drawn toward me was a sentence I had planted in secret.

"You can go on to the next part now."

Rine said it in a clear voice.

One last time, I confirmed the signal she had chosen for stopping.

I undressed. Rine moved her eyes off the ceiling and looked up at me. Gray eyes taking in another person's naked body for the first time in four years. She held still for a beat, then reached out and laid her hand against my waist.

Her hand traveled a hand-span down from my waist and touched my cock. The gray eyes flew wide once. The expression of a woman measuring whether the cock she held again after four years was larger or smaller than her fiancé's from four years ago. About six seconds' worth. When the comparison was finished, the gray eyes blinked once.

"…It's warm. Really."

"Yes."

"This… is going inside, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"…Will it hurt?"

"Some. It has been six years. I'll go in slowly."

"…All right."

…The conclusion — bigger than the fiancé of four years ago — was written right on her face. Relief mixed with a measure of fear, in a precise ratio. Coldly judged, an accurate reaction.

…Taking notes even on a bed means my nature has hardened into exactly this. I know it, and the notes keep writing themselves anyway.

Rine gave a small nod. Fear and anticipation floated together in the gray eyes.

My cock touched the entrance of Rine's pussy. An entrance loosened earlier to the width of two finger-joints had closed again around its thickness. I pressed the tip in, just barely.

For a moment, Rine couldn't breathe — the breath of a woman surrendering her body to someone for the first time not in four years, but in twenty-eight. Then, in the next instant, the gray eyes shut once and opened, and her hands took hold of my shoulders.

"…Ah, nn…"

"…"

"…Mr. Kang Do-hyun."

"Yes?"

"Here — you can come all the way in."

"I will."

Slowly, all the way. My cock sank in one ridge at a time, the narrow folds smoothing open crease by crease and clinging to its length. Rine drew in a short breath and let it out long. Her pussy loosened by slow degrees — every place shut for four years opening, for the first time, to fit the shape of someone else.

The tip of my cock touched the mouth of her womb. The artisan's body went rigid once.

Her body's cycles and inner maps were not information [Memory Retrieval] could hand me. Instead of pretending to know, I followed only the discomfort Rine voiced and the stop signal she had set.

The artisan's hands stroked slowly down my back, in the exact curves she used when carving runes. It felt like invisible runes being etched into my body one stroke at a time.

…Wasn't there a guild legend — that a rune a runecraftswoman carves into the one she works on never unravels until the runecraftswoman herself dies?

…Doesn't matter if there isn't. From today, we make it true.

Into the space where the self-mockery had fallen, a different kind of satisfaction came pouring.

I moved slowly. Once. Twice. Each time, Rine made a small sound. A sound close to pain at first, shading by degrees into something else. While the artisan's body learned to fit itself around me, the gray eyes watched me from the very beginning to the very end.

"…Mr. Kang Do-hyun."

"Yes?"

"It's strange. I'm scared — but I'm not scared."

"That's right. That's what's normal, on a first night."

"…"

Rine's legs wound around my waist of their own accord — not a movement made in conscious decision. Her body had dug its instincts back up after four years. The depth sank one stage further, and the tip of my cock knocked against the mouth of her womb with every stroke.

Shlick, shlick, shlick.

With every thrust, the narrow pussy clamped down hard on my cock and let go. Six years' worth of parched circuitry, soaked through now, wrapped itself tight along its length. Each time I sank in, another dark spot spread across the sheets. Plip, plip.

"…Ah, ah, hn, hnn!"

"Rine — I'm going deeper."

"…Yes, yes…"

I drove my hips in once more, deeper, and the tip of my cock struck the mouth of her womb dead-on.

"Hahh—!"

Inside, Rine's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠pussy clamped down hard in a single spasm — narrow pressure along the whole length of my cock. My own breath shortened a beat. The grip of a first pussy after six years of drought was a variable I had never once jotted in my notes. My head was still trying to sort it; my body was already being dragged to the very edge.

"…Ah!"

"Rine."

"Yes… yes…"

"I'm going for the third."

"…Let's go together."

"Together."

I raised the speed of my hips. Shlick, shlick, shlick, shlick. The narrow pussy gave a wet cry with every stroke. The sheets were soaked clean through. Rine's black hair swung side to side on the pillow. The gray eyes came loose once, gathered once. Four years' worth of sealed circuitry was gathering itself for its final ignition.

"Hahh, hahh, Mr. Kang Do-hyun, Mr. Kang Do-hyun, I'm going, I'm going…!"

"Rine."

"…Yes…!"

"Together."

"…Together—!"

…One finger first, then a second finger, then a cock. Precisely, stage by stage. Opening a pussy locked for twenty-eight years one stage at a time — that itself is a procedure. The license remains nonexistent.

Even in the last moment, I checked the signal Rine had set, one more time.

"Hnn, hnnnnhh—!"

The artisan's body came undone once, came undone twice, and on the third went rigid as if shattering. Inside, her pussy narrowed all at once and dragged at my cock. Gulp, gulp. The mouth of her womb pressed itself tight against the tip as if to swallow it. The gray eyes rolled up once, leaving only the whites. Her mouth hung half open, and no voice came out. Six years' worth of final cries dammed up all at once in her throat, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠then spilled out long, one beat late.

"Hahh… nn, hnnnnhh…"

That pressure pushed me past my limit.

"Rine."

"…Yes…!"

"I'm going. Inside."

"…Give it to me. Inside. Give it to me inside…!"

At the end, Rine pressed her forehead into my shoulder and trembled, small and continuous. Her breath broke for a long moment, then knitted itself back together. Her back unraveled at a very slow speed.

My cock, sealed flush against the mouth of her womb, stiffened hard once — tip pressed tight to the entrance of her cervix — and then let go. The first rope drove straight into the innermost point, right before the womb's entrance, tip pushed in so that not a single drop would escape outward. The second rope. The third. Each time, the shaft gave one throb and pumped its seed inward. At the first, Rine's back bowed harder once more. At the second, her pussy clamped down again and sucked the seed up toward her womb. At the third, one more small moan slipped from Rine's lips.

The fourth and fifth ropes I poured out in shares, pressing against the mouth of her womb with each pulse. The narrow channel couldn't take it all at once; the seed overflowed back toward the root of my cock and welled out past the place we were joined. For a womb opened for the first time in twenty-eight years, the first amount it received was too much. The overflow traced down the inside of her thigh and dropped onto the sheets. Plip.

"Hahh—"

"Hahh… it's warm… inside…"

"Yes."

"…So deep. Right at the innermost part…"

"That's where I put it. To spill."

"…Don't pull out. Just a little longer… I want to keep holding it inside me."

"You're holding it."

"…So much…"

"I gave you plenty. At the innermost part, without spilling a single drop."

Rine shivered once more, softly, and went slack onto the bed. The gray eyes watched the ceiling, half-closed. Her pussy squeezed weakly around my cock once more, and released. Gulp. The motion of taking seed in was running on instinct. As if determined not to lose one drop of the overflow, the mouth of her womb pressed close, sucked once, and let go. A womb's circuitry knows its own work without being told by the mind.

The mere fact that a contraceptive device was in place did not grant me the right to decide the outcome however I pleased. Whether it came out afterward, and the health checks that followed, were matters for Rine to settle in consultation with the medical officer.

…Fuck. Looking after her to this extent itself means I had already decided to run this artisan as a lifetime asset. The decision was made last night, the instant I read the ledger — but it set into the flesh only now.

The self-mockery fell one final time, and deep satisfaction filled the space it left behind.

"…Mr. Kang Do-hyun."

"Yes?"

"Come again. Often."

"I will."

"Come every week."

"Every week."

"…You promise."

"Promise."

Rine's breathing lengthened — the breathing of someone on the edge of sleep. Black hair lay scattered across the pillow. An ink-stained finger rested quietly on the back of my hand.

The finger on the back of my hand moved once more, faintly. A sleep-bound reflex. It curled into the shape of gripping a stylus. The hand of a woman for whom, six years running, the last motion before sleep had been the motion of taking up her pen.

From tonight, that hand falls asleep on the back of mine.

[Common Sense Alteration] — four axes: three of emotion, one at the core of the self, and on top of that the binding of bodies. Tied four layers deep. One artisan had become entirely mine.

Rine fell asleep — on a bed where, for the first time in six years, another person's breathing could be heard.

For a long while, I listened to that breathing. Watched the process by which ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a hand fallen asleep on the back of someone's for the first time in four years turned, slowly, warm.

…There's no review committee here. No license either. Only the constant of my conscience, shaved down one notch at a time.

…Today it lost one notch more.

…It's fine. Erosion this shallow is more than repaid in return. Fucked up, but true.

I looked up at the ceiling. The yellow light of the embers wavered across one corner of it. The ceiling of the room above the artisan's workshop. From today on, a ceiling I would be seeing now and again.

Fuck — this feels too good.