«Even if you’re not thirsty, drink a bit more. We don’t know when we’ll get another chance to feed,» Kimberly urges, handing a bottle of water.
After going down the steep stairs to the basent—with on her back because of the sharp pain in my spine from the recoil of Blood Word Burst, which still keeps from moving—we shut ourselves inside a small, dark storage room. It’s dimly lit by the faint glow of a few surviving bulbs filtering through the cracks of the door.
I sit with my back against the wall, and Kimberly sits the sa way in front of , slightly to the side. We’re exhausted, breathing heavily, as if we’ve just finished the New York marathon. Our faces and clothes are sared with dust and stained with blood—both human and not.
Next to us lie the provisions ant for familiars: water, vegetables of doubtful freshness and origin, and bread. Because of the dominant violet hue of Mildelar’s vegetation, almost everything here has that sa strange tint. I still can’t get used to eating purple-tinted bread or bright pink greens.
Our plan, of course, is to take advantage of this small island of peace to recover our strength before diving back into the chaos upstairs—to save Aron, Gerard, and anyone else we can. Kimberly, all things considered, is rather optimistic about their safety. The high walls surrounding the dormitory, as we saw from the lobby window, are still intact—the vampires’ defenses are holding. It’s ironic that, after all the suffering and cruelty we familiars suffer every single day because of them, we’re now rooting for them.
That ans, for now, only those annoying winged demons have managed to get inside the dormitory—and luckily, their strength, according to my companion, isn’t enough to make her truly worry about Aron’s life.
«My brother is very strong. I’m sure he won’t let himself get killed so easily by those things,» she said earlier, though it sounded more like she was trying to convince herself than .
Either way, Kimberly’s right. I grab the bottle she’s offering, but as soon as I take it, the sharp pain flares up again and I almost drop it.
«Can I ask to see your back?» she says, her tone slightly awkward, as if she had just said sothing inappropriate.
I agree, but taking off my tunic alone is a challenge, so I naturally let her handle it. As she pulls down the upper part of my uniform, I notice her embarrassnt growing—an uneasy hesitation mixed with a faint tremor, almost like fear.
Not that I bla her. I’m terrified too. Everyone reacts differently; maybe she’s just processing it later than .
I turn around, struggling a little, and show her my back.
«God...» she murmurs under her breath.
That’s not reassuring at all.
«Is it really that bad...?» I ask, uneasy, intimidated by the worry in her voice.
«The muscles in your back are completely stiff from the impact—and there are bruises and contusions too—but thankfully your spine seems fine,» she answers, barely brushing my back with her fingertips.
That gentle and unexpected touch sends a shiver through —a faint tremor, almost like a tickle.
«Did I hurt you?» she asks, worried, seeing flinch.
I shake my head, and she continues, «In cases like this, the only thing that helps is... a massage...» She says the word with visible difficulty. «...It won’t make the pain go away, but it’ll at least loosen the stiff muscles so you can move a bit easier.»
«I don’t want to be a killjoy,» I interrupt, uncertain. «But massaging such a delicate area requires proper knowledge—it could make things worse.»
«Well, um... before I died, I was studying to beco a doctor, and I often trained in hospitals...» she admits in a soft, timid voice, so different from the confident and determined Kimberly from before. «...I’m not an expert, but this kind of procedure isn’t too hard to perform.»
The hesitation in her voice doesn’t reassure at all, but I have no choice but to trust her.
She makes lie on my stomach—the storage room is so small that my legs stick out past the door—and then, moving slowly and carefully, she straddles , her knees on each side. Her bare thighs brush against my ribs, sending a chill through with every accidental touch, being careful not to press her body against mine.
«L-Lyon...» she murmurs. «I know it might sound silly, but... could you keep your eyes closed while I massage your back? I know it doesn’t make sense, but it’s important to ...»
It’s honestly a silly request. I’m lying face down while she’s sitting behind . From that position, she can’t even see whether my eyes are open or closed, so... why? And why would it bother her if I kept them open, when all I can see in front of are water bottles and supply crates?
«Alright, no problem,» I reply simply, making sure not to sound confused, and actually close my eyes as she asked. If she made such a request, she must have her reasons—and this isn’t the ti to pry.
Then her hands finally rest on my battered back, pressing carefully on several spots.
I grit my teeth at her touch, trying my best to endure the pain. Despite the lightness of her hands, the pain is sharp, but I have to bear it.
Eventually, her movents turn into true massages: slow, circular motions around my shoulder blades, then down along my spine to the sacrum, before sliding back up to my shoulders with growing yet controlled pressure.
Needless to say, the pain keeps tornting without pause. It feels as if my whole back were on fire, like burning coals were resting on it. But it’s a ridiculous pain compared to what those outside are going through, and even the thought of letting out a groan would feel like a deep insult to those truly suffering—or worse, to those who’ve already died in horrible ways.
Throughout all this, Kimberly stays completely silent, probably focused on performing the massage properly—one wrong move and my motor functions could be seriously damaged. But when the steadiness of her hands begins to waver, when her thin yet hardened fingers—hardened by a life of combat—start trembling against my skin, I know sothing’s wrong.
That suspicion turns into certainty when her breathing, once heavy but steady, becos irregular and strained, as if she were struggling to breathe. And then...
...small drops begin to fall onto my back, one after another.
«Kimberly... what’s happening...?» I ask, worried, but she doesn’t answer. Her breathing turns into quiet sobs, as if she’s fighting to hold back her tears. Her trembling hands keep moving for a few more seconds.
She doesn’t respond, but her breath turns into sobs, like she’s struggling not to cry. Her shaking hands continue for a mont longer, as if she’s forcing herself not to break down.
«T-This... should be enough to let you move...» she murmurs with difficulty—her words broken by sobs—then I feel her suddenly move away from , as if she had jumped back.
At that point, I can’t pretend not to notice anymore.
I lift myself up on my arms—after that miraculous massage, I can move more easily now, though the pain hasn’t gone away. And when I see her, my heart tightens; she’s curled up in a corner of the storage room, her knees pulled to her chest, her arms wrapped around them. Her face is a mask of terror and despair, her wide, tear-filled eyes staring into emptiness.
Is it my fault...? Did I do sothing to scare her? But... I did exactly as she asked. I kept my eyes closed and hardly said anything. Then why this reaction...?
I ask her, but she shakes her head.
«I-It’s not you, Lyon. You didn’t do anything...» she answers in a trembling voice, pleading for to put my clothes back on.
When I do, her distress and that strange fear seem to ease slightly as she closes her eyes and starts taking deep breaths.
If I’m not the cause... maybe it’s so trauma inflicted by her cruel mistress, Countess Alia Dulcar? Or perhaps a painful mory from before she before she was dragged into this world?
Whatever it was, I doubt she’d tell —and even if she wanted to, certainly not now.
After what feels like endless minutes of absolute silence, broken only by distant screams and muffled explosions echoing from above, Kimberly finally seems to regain her composure and determination.
«We’ve rested enough,» she declares firmly, standing up as if nothing had happened. «Let’s go save them!»
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