The brass doorknob turned. The heavy wooden door opened without a single creak—well-oiled hinges.
Erika stepped out from the swirling mist.
The warm, damp air chased him out, immediately crashing into the freezing corridor draft like an invisible wall. The extreme shift in temperature instantly raised fine goosebumps across his exposed skin. The dark blue soft robe was too thin. So impossibly thin that it offered absolutely no defense against the chill.
"Hey, Erika."
The voice came from the side. Close.
Erika turned his head.
Cole was sitting backward on a chair. The chair had been dragged into the corridor at some point, facing the bathroom door directly. Cole straddled it, his arms crossed over the backrest, his chin resting on his wrists. He looked like a predatory bird perched on a branch, waiting for its prey.
"It's a formal occasion later," Cole began. His voice wasn't loud, but in the empty, echoing corridor, it was unnervingly clear. "Good thing you don't talk much anyway."
He paused. Those eyes—impossibly dark in the dim light of the hall—locked onto Erika.
"I don't want a single word coming out of your mouth to ruin the plan."
Erika nodded.
He didn't ask what plan. He didn't ask why it was a formal occasion. He didn't ask what he needed to do. He just nodded, the same way he had nodded countless times along this wretched journey.
But he quickly realized something else. The garment wrapped tightly around his legs.
From the waist down, the fabric clung to him. With every step, he could feel the sickeningly slick friction between the material and his skin. Even with his vision cleared, Erika didn't dare take a wide stride. The sensation was too bizarre. Like being tangled in something, yet simultaneously feeling completely naked. Walk too fast, and he feared it would tear. Walk too slow, and it felt like a burdensome shackle.
What a pain, Erika muttered quietly.
He wanted to reach down and grab the hem. If he could just pull it up above his knees, maybe it would be more bearable. The empty right sleeve swayed uselessly at his side, but he still had his left hand. He raised it, reaching toward the excess fabric clinging to his thigh.
Just as he was about to look down—
A finger. Firm. Hooked under Erika's chin.
The force wasn't heavy, but it was absolute. It propped his chin up from below, forcing him to keep his head raised, completely preventing him from looking down at his own hand.
It was Cole's finger.
Cole had stood up from the chair without making a single sound. Now, he was standing directly in front of Erika. Close. So close that Erika could smell the mix of well water, sweat, and something else entirely radiating off him. So close he could see every broken blood vessel in Cole's eyes.
"Didn't I just say?" Cole's voice dropped even lower. It sounded like it was being scraped out from the very bottom of his throat. "From this moment on—keep your mouth shut."
Their eyes locked.
Erika froze. The raised left hand hung suspended in mid-air, neither dropping down to grab the fabric nor pulling back. It just stayed there, trapped in the dead space between them, like a bird that had forgotten how to fly.
He looked into Cole's eyes.
They were too close now. Close enough that Erika could see his own reflection trapped within them—a reflection of himself wearing a dark blue silk robe, hair still dripping wet, his chin propped up by a single finger. A reflection of himself, completely powerless.
There was no anger. No fear. None of the things that should rightfully follow such an absolute violation of personal space.
He just watched in silence. Staring dead into Cole's eyes.
One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.
Cole didn't speak. Erika didn't move.
That finger remained hooked under his jaw, impossibly steady, as if testing a boundary, or perhaps confirming a horrifying reality. The corridor was left with nothing but the faint, muffled sound of voices from some distant room, and the occasional drip of water falling from Cole's own damp clothes.
Plink. A drop of water hit the stone floor, shattering. Plink. Another drop.
Erika didn't look away.
He simply stood there, encased in that slippery, restrictive silk, feeling the foreign heat and force of the finger under his jaw, staring directly into Cole's looming eyes.
Waiting.
Waiting to see what he would do next.
"It's nothing, Erika. It's just clothes."
Cole's voice drifted down from above, airy and soft, like he was coaxing a startled animal.
What does that mean?
Erika froze in place, the phantom heat of that finger still lingering under his jaw. He stared into Cole's eyes. They were too close, close enough to see every microscopic shift within them. Something flickered in the dark depths. Was it guilt? Or something else?
What's wrong with these clothes?
"Linglong isn't as easy to handle as he looks," Cole continued. His voice remained low and steady, simply stating a fact. "At least, not on the surface, Erika."
A pause.
"I had no other choice."
—
Erika seemed to realize something.
The sensation didn't hit him all at once. It crawled over him slowly—creeping up from the soles of his feet, from the overly snug fabric clinging to his thighs, from the strange, soft constriction around his waist.
He violently jerked his head away, breaking free from Cole's finger.
The finger didn't follow. Cole simply stood there, watching him.
Erika began to scrutinize the garment he was wearing.
He looked down. He raised his remaining arm. He twisted his torso.
—
Then, everything made sense.
No wonder it didn't fit right. It wasn't that it didn't fit; it was that it fit too strangely. The waist was pulled too tight. The chest area was left too hollow. The tailoring of the shoulders wasn't the broad, rugged cut he was used to, but a sloping, delicate curve.
No wonder the fabric was so slippery. Slippery like water, like skin, like something that absolutely did not belong in the category of "everyday wear."
No wonder...
He looked down at the draping hem, at the excessively elongated waistline, at the subtle, undeniable contour over the chest that had no business existing on men's clothing.
These weren't clothes he recognized. More accurately— This was a formal gown. And it wasn't made for a man.
—
"Are you kidding me?"
Erika's voice squeezed out of his throat, so hoarse it didn't even sound like his own.
He felt his face burning. It wasn't the flush of bashfulness; it was a different kind of heat. A scalding, humiliating fire that made him want to rip himself in half.
In the next second— He wanted to tear it off. Now.
His left hand shot up, grabbing the collar, clawing at the slick fabric. He needed to rip this thing off his body, to crawl back into that pile of coarse, dusty linen, to return to that ruined, filthy white robe—to anything that would let him be "Erika" again!
The moment his fingers brushed the collar— His hand was seized.
Cole's grip was terrifyingly fast, as if he had anticipated it all along.
Erika's body was shoved backward. His back slammed into something soft. A bed. A bed that had materialized at the end of the corridor at some point, plush and covered in sheets of unknown fabric. He sank into it, the softness swallowing him whole.
Cole pressed down over him. Not with the full crushing weight of his body, but with absolute control—one hand pinning Erika's wrist, another pressing heavily against his shoulder, a knee wedged firmly against his thigh.
There was no escape.
—
"Why didn't you put it on yourself?!"
Erika's voice finally shattered. It wasn't an angry roar. It was something else—something that had been suffocated for too long and finally cracked open.
Humiliation. A humiliation so profound it brought him to the verge of tears.
He glared up at Cole. Those eyes were too close now, close enough to see every infinitesimal shift. And Cole's expression did change. That constant, airy certainty, that feeling of absolute control—in that split second, a crack seemed to splinter across it.
What was hiding inside that crack? Erika didn't know.
He only knew his eyes were burning. Scalding hot. Something was desperately trying to surge out, and he fought it with everything he had, trembling violently from the effort.
"Why didn't you put it on yourself?" he asked again.
His voice dropped, scraping the very bottom of his throat, like it was the last thing he had left to give.
Cole didn't answer.
He just held him down, and looked at him.
Their eyes locked.
—
"Think carefully, Erika."
Cole enunciated every single syllable. Each word fell like a heavy iron nail, hammered into the narrow, suffocating space between them.
"That matter... put me in a very difficult position too."
That matter?
Erika stared at him. His eyes were still burning. Something scalding swirled within them, threatening to spill over, but he fought it. He gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached, desperately holding it back.
"You don't have to do anything later." Cole's tone softened slightly. It wasn't a condescending comfort; it sounded more like a negotiation. "I'll handle everything."
He paused.
"Okay?"
—
Erika remained dead silent.
He looked at Cole's face, staring into those eyes that were mere inches away. He looked at that perpetually unreadable face, which had just now splintered to reveal a terrifying crack.
Was this a threat? He didn't know.
All he knew was that he was pinned to a bed, paralyzed, wearing this damned formal gown that was never meant for him. He didn't know what Cole was plotting. He had no idea what nightmare he was about to face.
He only knew one thing: when the word "Okay" slipped from Cole's lips, it didn't sound like a question.
It sounded like an absolute ultimatum.
—
Thump. Thump. Thump.
A knock on the door. Not heavy. Three even beats.
"You done in there, Cole?"
It was Linglong's voice. It wasn't the icy declaration from the lawn, nor the childish spite from the water fight. It was different—casual, domestic, like he was asking what was for dinner.
"Any dietary restrictions?" A brief pause. "I'm going to tell Liz."
—
Cole let go.
The crushing pressure on Erika's wrists vanished instantly. The knee shifted away from his thigh. The heavy weight lifted from his shoulder. Cole stood up. His movements were swift, but completely devoid of panic.
He walked to the door. He stood before the closed wood, his back turned to Erika.
Erika lay on the bed, the slick, slippery gown crumpled around his battered body. His chest heaved violently, dragging in ragged breaths. He stared at Cole's back, his mind flooded with horrifying images of what was to come.
Himself, wearing this... thing, standing before that man.
How would Linglong look at him? Would he laugh? Would he scrutinize him up and down like a piece of livestock on an auction block? What would Cole say? Would he pin him down again, forcing him to play some twisted role that wasn't his own?
The images surged forward, one after another, scalding him until he trembled uncontrollably.
He had been strung along. Coaxed and manipulated by Cole every step of the way, and like an absolute fool, he had fallen for it.
From the training camp to Darenz. From that filthy food stall to this lavish estate. Cole said they were on vacation, so he followed. Cole said it was his first lesson, so he listened. Cole told him to slap that man, so he struck him.
And now, Cole told him to wear this— So he wore it.
What a fucking idiot.
Erika stared blankly at the ceiling. It was carved with the same intricate, suffocating vines as the bathroom, reflecting a faint, dim glow in the shadows. He stared at those vines until, finally, a single, scalding drop slipped from his burning eye. It slid down his temple and pooled into his ear.
It tickled.
—
The sound of the doorknob turning.
"I promise—" Cole's voice floated through the crack. His usual tone was back—airy, light, laced with a sickeningly sweet flattery. It was completely irreconcilable with the man who had just pinned Erika to the bed. "I won't throw up right in front of you."
A pause. "I promise."
—
"You bastard—" Linglong's voice squeezed through the gap, brimming with laughter and a skin-crawling intimacy. "You're getting picky now?"
"If you're late, I'm eating your portion."
—
SLAM!
The heavy wooden door was violently pulled shut. The echo reverberated down the corridor, leaving a vicious ringing in Erika's ears.
And then— Footsteps. One. Two. Three.
The footsteps stopped right beside the bed.
Erika didn't turn his head. He kept his eyes locked on the ceiling, staring at those intricate vines, staring at that single speck of dim candlelight caught between the carvings.
Cole was standing there.
Erika could feel the weight of that gaze landing on him. Dropping onto the crumpled, ruined silk gown. Dropping onto his damp, matted hair. Dropping onto the empty, grotesque space where his right arm used to be.
"You decide for yourself."
Cole's voice drifted down from above.
"I don't want to go hungry either."