The fever of the cultural festival still clung to the school walls. Paper cutouts left in the hallways and the edges of posters decorating the walls fluttered faintly in the spring night breeze. Far away, the voices of cultural festival committee members cleaning up echoed, muffled by the iron doors. The classroom lights were out, and the school building was alive only in the blind spots of the orderly surveillance cameras—such was the evening. Ellie gripped her smartphone with both hands, staring down at the screen. A Whisper notification. Just two lines of text. *"Home economics room. After-festival. Tonight."* *"You don't have the option to refuse."* Mio's message lacked her usual sarcastic politeness, her cat-like, gentle emojis. It was simply an order. A business communication. But—Ellie's fingers were not trembling. (*How many people tonight?*) The question rose naturally from within her. Instead of fear, she felt a quiet curiosity settling at the bottom of her heart. The old her would have been fighting nausea right now. Would have been searching for words of refusal. Now—she was just thinking about preparation. Ellie glanced for a moment at her reflection in the hallway window. Black short hair, deep brown eyes. The face there wasn't the transfer student's face from a month ago. It was a much softer, emptier face—the face of a girl who had given up on something. At the appointed time, the hallway leading to the home economics room was dead silent. It was the time slot when teachers were moving all around the school building, cleaning up after the cultural festival. Mio always exploited this kind of chaos. The moment when everyone was busy, everyone was preoccupied with their own tasks—that became the cover that perfectly concealed Cradle's activities. As Ellie walked down the hallway, she looked at the cultural festival posters on the walls. *"A Page of Youth"*—such was the catchphrase. Photos of her classmates smiling. In this same school building, right now, no one knew what was about to happen. The space called school simultaneously contained two realities. The public face, and the hidden face. Both were true, and both were lies. (*Which one is the real school?*) She stood before the door of the home economics room. The low hum of the ventilation fan reverberated into the hallway. White light from the lamps leaked from inside, along with faint signs of people. Several were already inside—in the silence, only the rustle of uniforms and the sound of shallow breathing could be heard. Ellie took a single breath—and did not knock. Without being told by anyone, she pushed the door open herself. ━━━━━━━━━━ Inside the home economics room, "preparations" were already complete. A large cooking table sat imposingly in the center, with thick cushions and blankets carefully laid out on top. Like an operating table, or perhaps—a bed. Around it, thirteen female students were arranged in orderly positions. All of them were still in their uniforms, each seeming to share a designated role. In the corner of the home economics room, two female students were taking plastic bottles from the refrigerator and lining them up on the edge of a desk. Two others were adjusting the angles of their smartphones, checking the room's lighting conditions. The rest stood along the walls, quietly waiting their turn. And—seated in the chair at the very back of the room, was Mio. Honey-colored ponytail. Golden, cat-like eyes. Her ever-present smartphone in hand. She glanced at Ellie as she entered, then immediately returned her gaze to the screen. The gesture was as if—it was just part of the confirmation process. *As scheduled. Perfect.*—a cold indifference that seemed to speak those words. Before Mio, Sakuraba Rina stepped forward. Naturally curly bob reaching her shoulders. Upturned, cold gray eyes. Her tall figure, trained by the volleyball club, cast a shadow under the fluorescent lights of the home economics room. Staring intently at Ellie's face, she spoke without expression. "[cold]Thirteen people tonight. Water's over there. Signal if you start feeling sick during it." Her voice held neither pure consideration nor cruel sarcasm. It was simply—a business communication regarding condition management. The exact tone of a trainer checking an athlete's physical state before a sports match. (*Thirteen people.*) The number echoed in Ellie's head. But—there was no fear. She simply found herself accepting it as information. At the edge of the desk, Kuga Mizuki was neatly arranging her sketchbook and smartphone. A perfectly straight bun, side-swept bangs, large, dark blue eyes. Her small double tooth peeked out under the fluorescent lights. In a matter-of-fact voice, she declared to no one in particular. "[serious]Tonight is the culmination of this semester, so I will be especially meticulous with the records." Culmination—that single word slightly altered the air in the room. A brief tension ran through the thirteen female students. But it wasn't fear or anxiety. Rather—it was anticipation. An artistic exaltation for the "work" about to begin. Rina gave Ellie a small jerk of her chin. Ellie stood before the cooking table. For a moment—just a fleeting moment—the trapped air and the faint scent of detergent soaked into the cushions stung her nostrils. But there was no hesitation. Without being told by anyone, she lowered herself down and lay on her own accord. The softness of the cushion sank against her back, and the warmth of the blanket touched her skin. (*I know what's going to start next.*) Ellie's body had already learned. She had built the circuits within herself—to anticipate Cradle's procedures. Everyone in the room accepted that spontaneity as a matter of course. No one even commented on it. The silence was broken by Rina's quiet voice managing the proceedings. "[cold]First group, forward. Second group, prepare." Under Rina's direction, the thirteen students took their positions in groups of two or three. Their shadows fell as if surrounding the home economics room's cooking table. The white light of the fluorescent lamps illuminated everything with clinical sterility. ━━━━━━━━━━ The assembly line began to move. The first two used Ellie's mouth and body simultaneously. A third reached in from the side, guiding Ellie's hand to her own body. Three people at once, processing different parts, at different rhythms. Ellie's body—became a machine. Her mouth accepted the foreign object while her throat adjusted the timing of her breathing. Her body subtly shifted the angle of insertion, smoothly following her partner's movements. Her hands, as independent units, stroked another person's genitals, reading their reactions through her fingertips. (*My body is no longer personal property.*) While being used by multiple people from front, back, left, and right simultaneously—Ellie's mind was strangely calm. She understood, with her very flesh, the fact that her body was functioning as a shared tool that multiple people could efficiently access. The first group finished, and the second group stepped forward. Ellie's mouth was released, her breathing resumed—in those few seconds, her body anticipated the next move. Before her partner's hand touched her waist, she shifted her knees on her own, arching her back to the appropriate angle. (*Ah...*) The anticipation that had surprised the six committee members on the rooftop—tonight, it was processed as a standard that surprised no one. That fact became a measure for Ellie to gauge the depth of her own transformation. The rotation repeated. Third group, fourth group—the thirteen students shared the task, using every part of Ellie's body simultaneously and continuously. The air in the home economics room grew heavy and stagnant with body heat, breath, and the faint smell of bodily fluids. Only the hum of the fluorescent lights droned on incessantly. Midway through, Rina knelt beside Ellie. Expressionless, she held a plastic bottle of water to Ellie's mouth. With cold fingertips, she gently brushed aside the hair plastered to Ellie's forehead with sweat. She slightly adjusted her position, touched her shoulder for just a moment as if to ease the tension—and then handed her over to the next group. The series of actions was a management task completely devoid of emotion. But—Ellie's body responded to the touch of those cold hands with relief. Her muscle tension eased, her breathing deepened, and she became ready to accept the next partner. (*Rina's hands are cold, but—warm.*) The contradictory sensation reached her brain like a distant alarm. But she had no leeway to think deeply about it. Immediately, the next group covered her mouth, penetrated her body, and began using her hands. Kuga Mizuki continued to press the shutter from a distance. The sound of her pencil racing across her sketchbook echoed rhythmically between the acts. Occasionally, she murmured as if to herself. "[whispers]That angle just now... it's good. The way the light hits is very beautiful..." The exaltation of an artist faced with the finest material. In her voice, there was not a shred of recognition of the act's cruelty. There was only—an intoxication with the beautiful composition. ━━━━━━━━━━ Around the time the act had exceeded two hours, a short pause was inserted. Time for hydration. Several of the thirteen picked up plastic bottles and exchanged light small talk amongst themselves. The tension eased slightly, and the atmosphere of the home economics room relaxed just a little. That was when it happened. One of the thirteen—a petite female student with a face that still retained a hint of innocence—slipped a new cushion under Ellie's head and said: "[gentle]We're taking good care of you, right?" It was an innocent voice. A voice that completely failed to understand the cruelty of what she was doing. Eyes so pure—believing that within Cradle's twisted logic, they were even providing "compassion." Ellie reflexively tried to nod. She became conscious of that impulse for just a moment. (*Ah...*) Once—she would have noticed the insidiousness of those words and felt anger or despair. She would have rejected with her whole being the cruel irony hidden behind the question. But to Ellie now—that question reached her as a confirmation of fact. Water was provided, her physical condition was managed, someone was by her side. The complete severance from the outside world, and the indulgence in this closed room's internal logic—were quietly made visible by her reaction to that single phrase. Ellie gave a small nod. "...Yes." In a hoarse voice, but she definitely answered that way. The pause ended, and the act resumed. Fifth group, sixth group—the remaining members continued to use Ellie's body in turn. Her sense of time had long since melted away. In the corner of the room, Mio stopped the fingers operating her smartphone. Her golden, cat-like eyes intently observed the scene on the cooking table. She did not directly lay a hand on anyone. She simply—overlooked the whole from a distance. The position of a commander. A look of satisfaction surfaced in Mio's eyes. She opened Whisper and quickly typed a message. The message's recipient—Souma. *"Preparations to connect to the outside network will be complete tonight. Final confirmation."* A few seconds later, it showed as read. A reply came. *"Understood. Day after tomorrow, at Café Le Lien."* Mio turned off the screen and gazed at Ellie on the cooking table once more. It was the eye of a predator. ━━━━━━━━━━ Late night. All thirteen people had finished the act. Each straightened their clothes, gathered their belongings, and began preparing to leave the home economics room. They returned plastic bottles to their bags, put away sketchbooks, and tidied up the cushions. The cleanup of the after-festival was efficient and without waste. But—Ellie did not move.