The tent's fabric glowed faintly in the morning light. Saki sat at the edge of the cot, staring down at her palms. White fingers. Thin, bony fingers. She bent them one by one, her lips moving silently. Eighty-six. Eighty-six mornings since she knelt in chapter seventeen. Saki didn't raise her head. Only her eyes moved, shifting toward the tent's entrance. Beyond the canvas, soldiers' voices drifted in. "They lining up?" "Obviously. She's got a reputation lately." "Huh." Three of them. The first voice was young. The second, hoarse. The third said nothing. Saki's lips curled upward. She made a smile. Her facial muscles moved exactly as she'd been taught. Lower the outer corners of the eyes slightly. Don't raise the mouth too much—she'd learned that looked natural. (*Let's get through today too.*) She murmured it inside her mind. The fingers that once trembled no longer moved at all. The tent flap opened. The first soldier entered. Young. Barely past twenty. No scars on his face, but his eyes were hollow. The eyes of someone who'd seen things on the front lines. Saki stepped off the cot. She approached on her knees. Slowly. "[gentle]You've worked hard. Let me heal you." A sweet voice. Learned to make it resonate deep in her throat—she remembered that. The soldier faltered for just a moment. Then his eyes narrowed and he reached out. Saki took his hand herself. Rough fingers. Dirt caked under the nails. The smell of the battlefield—gunpowder, dried sweat, and blood mixed together—had soaked into this space. Saki placed her hands on his uniform. Her fingers moved on their own. Unfastening. Unclasping. She could do it without looking now. A motion repeated hundreds of times. (*Nine. Ten.*) Numbers counted in a corner of her mind. Her body moved separately. She didn't need the drug. Even without the Crimson Dream powder, her body moved on its own now. Whether that was good or bad—she no longer knew. The soldier's breathing grew rough. Saki moved her hips. She let out a sweet breath. A learned sigh. A short "ah" of a sound. That was a technique too. (*Eleven. Twelve.*) The numbers in her head kept going. That was the only thing barely left of her. Counting the days. That alone kept Saki as Saki. — The second. The third. It was past noon when she saw the fourth soldier off. Saki picked up a bowl of water. Cold water slid down her throat. Lukewarm. But that was enough. Voices came from outside the tent. "Should I get in line too?" "Yeah, you should. That girl's good—" "Good how?" "Try her yourself, man." Laughter followed. A waiting line. Just as Walter had said. Raise your reputation, and the treatment improves. His words were correct. No violence. Three meals delivered now. Not just water. Bread, and sometimes soup with scraps of meat floating in it, arrived properly in a bowl. (*This is the right answer.*) Saki set the bowl down. She closed her eyes. She tried, for a moment, to remember her own name. Saki. That was certainly her name. But—the sense that it was tied to her felt terribly thin. Hatred for Dagan. She tried to recall it. The bandit leader. The hook prosthetic. The man who'd violated her and sold her off. Nothing came. No emotion. Resentment toward Madame Vespa. Hazy. The manager of the Moonlight Manor. The woman who'd looked down at Saki with cold eyes. She'd sold her to the army. (*It doesn't matter.*) The words surfaced in her mind. (*Those people don't matter anymore.*) All that remained was that today was the eighty-sixth day, and that three more soldiers were coming next. Saki took one more sip of water. She began preparing to receive the next soldier. Straightening her clothes. Smoothing her hair. Practicing her smile one more time. — Evening. The air in the camp shifted. The sound of wagon wheels came from the distance. Supply delivery time. Normally she wouldn't pay it any mind. But—today, something was different. Saki peered outside through a gap in the tent fabric. The sunset dyed the camp red. Among the soldiers unloading cargo—a familiar figure. A fat body. Black clothes. A forehead glistening with sweat. The slave trader Gallon. Her heart—didn't leap. The old Saki would have trembled. Would have bitten her lip and clenched her fists in hatred. But now—she felt nothing. She just thought it was a face she knew. Gallon walked closer. He moved through the camp, supervising the wagons. Exchanging words with soldiers. Business talk. When he passed near Saki's tent— Through the gap in the fabric, their eyes met. Gallon's feet stopped for an instant. The little girl he'd sold off at the Moonlight Manor. The one who'd been slammed to the floor that day, trembling—with fear and anger in her eyes. Now she was different. Saki was smiling. A natural smile. The corners of her eyes softly lowered, her lips drawing a small arc. As if she'd always been this way. Gallon laughed. "[laughing]Finally started looking like proper merchandise, huh." A mocking voice. Still smiling, Saki tilted her head slightly. "[gentle]Thank you very much." It came out naturally. Gallon's laughter—froze. Something was off. She wasn't obeying out of fear. She was truly, naturally there. The remnants of the girl he'd sold off—were smiling. Gallon started to say something, then stopped. "...You've gotten useful." He spat the words and walked away. Saki watched his back. Still smiling. (*That man flinched.*) Saki didn't notice that fact. The emotion to notice it was already gone. — Night came. After one soldier, then another had left—the tent flap opened quietly. Walter Gräfe. Short-cropped black hair. A sharp jawline. Cold gray eyes. The same expressionless face as always. He stood inside the tent, looking down at Saki from directly in front. Saki moved on her own. She knelt. The cold of the stone floor crept up through her knees. But no trembling. No hesitation. She raised her face and smiled. The smile she'd learned. Walter looked down at Saki in silence for several seconds. There was no satisfaction in his eyes. No emotion. Just—cold observation. Like a scientist confirming the results of an experiment. "[cold]Well done." A low, short voice. Saki lowered her head. As if grateful for the praise. Walter quietly reached out and lifted Saki's chin. Cold fingers. A bony touch. Gray eyes peered into Saki's. Hollow, clear eyes. Eyes with no anger, no fear, nothing left at all. Walter extinguished the lamp without a word. Darkness fell. Saki moved on her own. She placed her hands on his uniform, produced the sweet voice she'd mastered. Moved her hips, let out the learned sighs. Walter made almost no sound. To him, this was a procedure. A cold confirmation to verify the completion of his conditioning. To Saki—it was just the motions to survive another night. — That same night. Markenhafen's pleasure district, the "Red Light Quarter." While the crimson glow of magic lamps lit the cobblestones, on the second floor of the Moonlight Manor— Camila stopped. In front of the small room Saki had used. She placed her hand on the door. It opened. Inside was dark, the air stagnant. The belongings left behind were untouched. A small scrap of cloth—something from Japan. Soft fibers to the touch. The bundle of herbs Camila had given her sat in the corner too. Camila picked it up. She stared at it for a while. Even when she'd asked Madame Vespa, the answer was just one line: "Sold to the army, that's all." Which army, where—no answer came. Camila returned the belongings to their place. Slowly. Carefully. She closed the door. Stepped into the hallway. She leaned her back against the wall. She clenched her fist. Her knuckles went white. Nails bit into her palm, a small pain shooting through. But—that alone held her emotions together now. Camila made no sound. She didn't cry. Only that fist—held everything inside her. "[whispers]That idiot." She murmured it only in her chest. "[whispers]Stay alive." She began tracing Saki's trail tonight. Nothing was moving yet. But—her fist never loosened.