The wheelchair bearing Erika continued its journey down the seemingly endless pale corridor.The initial silence was broken. They began to encounter other passersby frequently.
All sorts of people.
Young and middle-aged sisters, walking hurriedly or with composed dignity. Elderly sisters, faces like wind-dried fruit, yet eyes still sharp or kindly. Occasionally, sisters of unusually tall stature glided past in silence, casting long shadows. They even passed several Blue-clad individuals along the way. Their faces were handsome or ordinary, but their demeanors calm, their eyes profound—seeming more… integrated into this environment.
Erika observed in silence.
He noticed that whoever they encountered, without exception, whenever the other's gaze fell upon them—or rather, upon him and the sister pushing the wheelchair—they would either stop or at least slow their pace, offering a sincere smile and a brief greeting:
"The Merciful Father blesses us."Or,"The Merciful Father watches over us."
The pushing sister always responded immediately and appropriately with the same phrase, her voice clear, her posture respectful.
At first, Erika felt tense and uncomfortable, requiring the sister's soft reminder: "Erika, polite."But quickly, after many repetitions, it became mechanical—almost thoughtless.
When another's gaze swept over, when their lips parted to utter that familiar opening phrase, Erika knew he was expected to speak. He mimicked the sister's intonation, replying dryly, yet with increasing fluency:
"The Merciful Father blesses us.""The Merciful Father watches over us."
It's just repeating what they say, Erika gradually thought. It's nothing special. It's as natural as breathing. Everyone does it.
It seemed to be basic etiquette for moving through this place—a way to confirm identity, express belonging, or perhaps maintain some invisible order. He stopped probing the meaning behind the words, treating them merely as a necessary action, a passcode that allowed him to pass smoothly through the corridor without drawing extra attention.
However, there were exceptions.
Occasionally, they encountered people clad in black.
These black-clad figures stood in stark contrast to the sisters' plain white and the Blue-clad's vivid hues. Their garments were a deep, light-absorbing black, unadorned and severe in cut, wrapping the body completely. Faces were often hidden in hooded shadows or behind high collars. They moved with even lighter, almost silent steps—like shadows sliding across the floor.
When the sister offered her greeting—"The Merciful Father blesses us"—to these black-clad figures, their reactions were entirely different.
Most remained silent, as if they had heard nothing. Their pace never faltered. Their gaze might briefly sweep over Erika in the wheelchair—cold, assessing, stripped of any warmth of "blessing" or "watching"—before turning away indifferently.
A very few might offer an extremely slight nod, so subtle it was nearly imperceptible, acknowledging her presence without a word.
And whenever they encountered the black-clad, regardless of response, the sister no longer reminded Erika to be "polite." She seemed to tacitly accept that in this situation, Erika neither needed—nor was perhaps permitted—to respond. She maintained the wheelchair's steady pace and, once the black-clad figure passed, subtly quickened her steps, as if eager to leave the invisible, low-pressure zone their presence created.
Erika noted the distinction.
The silence of the black-clad, paired with the sister's quiet permission, formed a glaring and unsettling exception within this corridor saturated with invocations of the Merciful Father.
Who were they?Why could they remain silent?What relationship did they have to a place that emphasized blessing and watchfulness everywhere?Or were they… tolerated anomalies, fundamentally out of place within the dominant order?
There were no answers.
These questions simply followed the wheelchair's advance. With every silent passing of a black-clad figure, they spread like cold drops of ink, seeping into Erika's consciousness—now accustomed to polite responses—leaving blurred yet unmistakable dark stains.
He continued repeating "The Merciful Father blesses us," because everyone did.
But toward the black-clad, he learned to remain silent as well, marking them inwardly as unsettling shadows in this seemingly harmonious world—entities either not yet assimilated, or governed by entirely different rules.
Just as Erika was beginning to sink back into the numbness induced by repetitive etiquette, the wheelchair stopped.
The sister positioned it beside a cream-colored door indistinguishable from any other. She bent down first, carefully checking the fastenings of Erika's restraint garment and the lay of his empty right sleeve. Only then did she straighten, her professional smile unchanged.
"Wait here a moment, Erika."
Her voice was calm, but he caught a flicker in her eyes—something like the gravity of an impending handover.
She did not act immediately. Instead, with near-ritual care, she readjusted her immaculate hairline, collar, and cuffs, ensuring every detail was flawless. Then she turned to the door, inhaled quietly, curled her fingers, and knocked twice with a clear, measured rhythm.
Knock. Knock.
The sound echoed down the corridor.
A very low, muffled acknowledgment came from within. The sister's smile deepened with prepared reverence. She opened the door gently, slipped inside sideways, and closed it silently behind her.
The corridor was left with Erika alone.
Left waiting outside a closed door, the unknown bred unease easily.
He withdrew his gaze from the door and looked around instinctively, until his eyes settled on a long mirror set into the wall opposite him.
It was highly polished.
The reflection made him pause.
A person with disheveled hair. Dark strands fell messily across shoulders and cheeks, obscuring half his face. His complexion was unhealthy, pallid, shadows lingering beneath the eyes. Most striking were the dried brown sauce stains at the edge of his high collar—remnants of yesterday's lavish meal, evidently left uncleaned.
The image was wretched, displaced, profoundly out of place amid the corridor's immaculate order—more like a used instrument set aside without proper cleaning.
The reflection's lips moved.
Erika heard his own dry voice murmur softly, tinged with numb self-mockery:
"The Merciful Father blesses us."
He paused. The corner of his mouth twitched into an almost imperceptible, faintly twisted curve.
"Including you, of course."
So this is Erika, the reflection thought vaguely.
Disheveled. Stained. Wheelchair-bound. Incomplete.Capable only of repeating blessings.
A surge of absurdity—and irritation—rose in him.
He lifted his still-functional left hand and gave a weak, purely symbolic wave. The reflection mirrored it. The gesture was feeble and meaningless—perhaps confirming the mirror obeyed him, or perhaps a minute, unseen act of resistance.
As his hand dropped back to the armrest and his gaze met his own hollow eyes—
"Hahaha, leave him to me."
A hearty, almost breezy male laugh shattered the corridor's silence.
Erika jolted violently.
The door was open.
A Blue-clad figure stepped out, half-turned, still speaking casually toward someone inside:
"He's quite strong, as I recall."
As if discussing the known performance of a tool.
Then the man turned fully, his gaze landing precisely on Erika.
His face was unusually young, even handsome—bright in a way that clashed with the usual serenity of the Blue-clad. His robes were finely made, trimmed with silver piping. But his eyes—
Pale blue. Clear. Bright.And filled with undisguised, amused appraisal.
Not the gaze of one observing a patient or subject,but of someone evaluating a newly acquired, interesting toy.
He's quite strong, as I recall.
Recall—from where?
The Blue-clad smiled wider and stepped closer.
"Alright then, 'Erika,' is it?"He leaned forward, eyes level."Rest time is over. Let's see how much strength you have left."
His smile was brilliant.
His eyes were sharp as a scalpel.
Erika sat rigid in the wheelchair, facing this Blue-clad whose evaluative amusement stood utterly out of place amid all the blessings and watchful mercy—
his mind in turmoil.