The covered wagon jolts. Wheels crush rubble. The sound beats steady. Saki sits in the corner, hugging her knees. Rough planks press against her back. She lets the shaking take her. Thoughts blur. Where she is grows hazy. The smell of ash still clings. In her hair. Her clothes. The lingering scent of the burned camp. She doesn't try to brush it off. There's no reason to anymore. "[serious]One comfort woman, survived. That is all." At the smoldering ruins at dawn, the clerk said it without looking up. Just ran his quill across parchment. He didn't ask Saki's name. Didn't ask where she came from. Just the two characters for "survived"—recorded to mean the tool called her was still usable. Saki took it as a matter of course. She climbed into the wagon when prompted. The word resistance sat somewhere in her head. It never reached her limbs. She'd forgotten how to make it reach. A horse whinnies. A whip cracks. The wheels begin to turn. In the shaking, Saki keeps her eyes open. Nothing else to do. Thin light slips through gaps in the cover. Dust dances in the stale air. She tries folding her fingers. One. Two. Three—she stops. (What day is it now?) She doesn't know. Doesn't matter anyway. She presses her face to a gap in the cover. She can see outside. Early-summer fields stretch endlessly. Green grass ripples in the wind. Far off, forest green blurs into haze. The sky is high. White clouds drift slowly. Beautiful, she thought. And that was all. She tries to remember the scenery of Japan. Her room. The route to school. The lights of a convenience store. Her friends' faces. All of it is blurred. No outlines emerge. A fog hangs over everything. She reaches out. Can't grasp any of it. She could jump off right now and run. The wagon bed is less than a meter from the ground. The horses are slow. Even a child could jump. The soldiers aren't watching now. Her legs wouldn't move. She can't think of anywhere to go. Even if she went back to Markenhafen, the Gekka Pavilion is gone. She can't go back to Japan. Doesn't know how. (Nowhere to go.) Saki pulls her face away from the gap. Her gaze drops to her lap. The hem of a dirty skirt. Fingertips covered in scars. Her own body feels terribly distant. The corner of her mouth moves. She's smiling. Her facial muscles move the way they were taught. Slightly lowered outer brows. Upturned corners of the mouth. A natural smile. No one asked for it. She's just forgotten how to make any other face. The smile is the only thing that feels certain now. The wagon heads north. To a supply camp. To the next hell. But in Saki's head, there is no "next." No "hell." Just the shaking. The smell of ash. The smile. Everything else has drifted away into the distant fields. --- The wagon stopped. Shouts from outside. Horses whinnying. The sound of wooden crates being unloaded. The cover opened. "[cold]Get out." Saki looked up. The sunlight was blinding. She squinted. Standing before her was a sergeant, around fifty. Short white hair. A sunburned face. Sharp eyes glanced at Saki, then checked the papers in his hand. "[cold]You the girl from the Seventh Comfort District?" Saki didn't answer. There was no need. The sergeant said nothing more. He turned on his heel. "[serious]Usable." He muttered it over his shoulder. Saki climbed down from the wagon in silence. Her feet touched the ground. The feel of dirt. The smell of early-summer grass. The supply camp was simple. Surrounded by a wooden palisade. Rows of tents. Soldiers bustling about. Some carrying supply crates. Some tending horses. Some sharpening swords. The sergeant led her through it. No one looked at Saki. More precisely, they looked—then immediately looked away. The eyes of men in uniform swept over Saki's body for an instant. Then went right back to work. Appraising the goods. That was all. They reached a small tent. The sergeant pulled the flap open. "[cold]Here." Inside was dim. Just one cot. A rough blanket. A bowl of water. That was the room. Saki went inside. The sergeant said nothing. He dropped the tent flap. Footsteps faded away. She was alone. She sat on the cot. The blanket was coarse. Not like the sheets at the Gekka Pavilion. But it was still just a piece of cloth. Same thing. The air was stagnant. Sweat and dust. Something like old blood. Saki hugged her knees. --- Night came. The tent flap opened. The sergeant returned. Three soldiers behind him. Young. One around twenty. Another in his thirties. The last near forty. Each man's eyes glinted with anticipation and desire. Saki stood up. She made her smile. "[gentle]Let me heal you." The sweet voice slid naturally from deep in her throat. Words repeated hundreds of times. They came out without thought now. Like breathing. One of the soldiers caught his breath. Saki knelt before the youngest one. She reached for the fastenings of his uniform. Her fingers moved without hesitation. Undid them. Parted the cloth. Skin showed. She used her hips. Let out a sweet breath. Made the sounds she'd learned. "[gentle]Ah..." A moan. That was a technique too. Her body moved without hesitation. Swayed her hips. Let her fingers crawl. Shifted rhythm to match his breathing. When to raise her voice. When to close her eyes. The exact moment to look up at his face. Her body remembered it all. But her head was quiet. No anger. No sadness. No regret. Nothing. Just empty. The second soldier. The third. Same movements. Same voice. Same smile. One soldier left the tent. Two remained. Saki changed position. From her back to her side. Just as her body remembered. Moaning, she tried to count something in a corner of her mind. (...) The numbers wouldn't come. (Today is—) She didn't even know what she was trying to count. --- Dawn broke. The last soldier left the tent. Saki was alone. She picked up the water bowl from the corner of the cot. Took a sip. The cloudy water passed down her throat. She tasted nothing. Her body was heavy. But what came before the pain was a strange sense of emptiness. She tries to recall last night. The soldiers' faces. The feel of their bodies. Their breathing. Fragments surface. But no emotion attaches to any of it. Her body remembers. Her heart hasn't caught up. No—her heart wasn't there. She looks down at her palms. She tries folding her fingers. One. Two. Three. She tries to remember who she was back in Japan. What she liked. What she hated. Who she talked to. What she laughed about. Nothing comes. No outlines. Just the name "Saki" floats in the air. Belonging to no one. Connected to nothing. Just a string of sounds. Voices of soldiers outside the tent. Saki's mouth corners lift. Reflexively. Her body has already decided. Whoever comes next, she'll greet them with this smile. --- Same morning. Markenhafen. Third floor of the Gekka Pavilion. Camila's room was dim. Morning sun through the window made the dust glow. A sheet of parchment lay spread on the table. Hasty handwriting. A copy of a military transport record. The edges were stained. Creased. No telling where she'd gotten it. Camila stood with her arms crossed. Staring down at it. Her long purple hair hung carelessly over her shoulders. Her silver eyes didn't move from the page. Across the table sat Ordo. A large man. Broad-shouldered. A presence even in silence. With the rough hands of a former mercenary, he slid another document toward Camila. "[serious]Field Camp, Seventh Comfort District—annihilated." His voice was low. "[serious]Very few survivors. One comfort woman listed among them. All transferred to the Third Supply Base in the north." Camila said nothing. Only her eyes moved. Tracing one line in the transport record. Again. And again. One comfort woman—survived. No name was written. Slaves don't need names. That was military format. But Camila knew. That idiot. "[cold]...She's alive." Ordo nodded. "[serious]Yeah. On paper, at least." Camila closed her eyes for a moment. She pictured Saki's face. Short black hair. Eyes that were always frightened. A girl who'd immediately believe weird internet knowledge. Who'd fail. But who had no malice in her. When she first came to the pavilion, she was trembling. But she stood there. Trembling. (Idiot.) Camila rose slowly. "[cold]I'm going." Short. Just that. Ordo looked up. "[serious]Where?" "[cold]To get that idiot." Camila's voice was low. Clipped, as if wringing out emotion. But there was no hesitation in her silver eyes. Ordo watched her for a moment. Then stood up without a word. "[serious]We're not ready. No pretext to leave the pavilion. No pass for the army checkpoints. Nothing." "[cold]I know." "[serious]The road is dangerous. Army patrols. Bandits." "[cold]I know." She repeated the same words. Camila walked to the window. Looked outside. The pleasure quarter was quiet in the morning. The red-light district just after dawn. No one around. The magic lamps were going out. She was thinking of her daughter. Her only daughter. Lost so long ago. Small hands. A warm smile. A life she couldn't protect. Camila's fist pressed against the window frame. "[cold]Make the arrangements, Ordo." Ordo let out a short breath. "[serious]...Understood." The man left the room. Footsteps descended the stairs. Camila stood alone by the window. The morning sun lit the thin scar on her left cheek. Cold silver eyes gazed at the northern sky. The direction where Saki would be. "[cold]...Don't die." The murmur reached no one. It dissolved into the morning air.