By the time the morning light streamed through the window, the day had already begun. The second floor of the brothel "Crimson Chamber," an east-facing private room. The chill of winter crept through the gaps in the stone walls, and her breath now misted faintly white. Aria sat on the edge of the bed, dipping her hands into a cold copper washbasin. Her fingertips were numb. Yet her movements held no hesitation. Three months— Since that night in the sixth chapter, when she had resolved to kill her emotions in the aftermath of the fever, the seasons had shifted from autumn to winter. Frost settled on the cobblestones of Noir Street, and the morning mist wrapped dimly around the brothel's red door. Through the walls, she could hear the sounds of market porters passing by, their breath white in the cold air. Aria wiped her face with the water from the basin and stood before the mirror. Gaunt cheeks. Deeply etched dark circles. Pallid skin. And yet—a faint smile lingered at the corners of her mouth. More precisely, she had shaped her mouth into a smile. By now, she had come to recognize it as her own face. *(Just do what needs to be done today, too.)* Japanese murmured within her mind. But the words no longer carried the bitterness they once had. It was merely confirmation. Merely the signal that the day's work had begun. Aria took out the designated pale pink dress from the wardrobe. The lining was thicker, made for winter. It was something Curtis had provided for the sake of "maintaining product value." Eight silver coins had been deducted from her wages for it. That, too, no longer mattered to her. She put on the dress and fixed her hair. Her short black hair, even left unadorned after washing, drew no complaints from the customers—ever since she had begun to compete with the lower half of her face and the skill of her mouth, her reputation had shifted; now they called her "demure." —The "new service" she had started was an anomaly within the brothel. She did not accept semen inside her body. She did not use her vagina. She handled customers using only her mouth. From the fragments of memories of her past life in Japan, the word *pink salon* had surfaced vaguely, and she had assembled it into practical knowledge. Centered around fellatio, she satisfied customers with her hands, tongue, and lips—efficient, hygienic, and above all, free of the risk of pregnancy. The customers' reactions were swift. At first, some said it was "unsatisfying." But as word of Aria's oral techniques spread, regulars began to request her. Not by name, but by number—Number Seventeen. Aria knew what that meant: a higher tier of evaluation. "[excited] Gimme Number Seventeen. That woman's mouth, it's really somethin' else." "[excited] She actually smiles after you finish. Doesn't make a disgusted face at all. It's incredible." Such rumors flowed through Noir Street. Aria's number of shifts more than doubled in three months. Even exceeding thirty times a week, her body did not break down—by not using her vagina, the blood in her urine and the fevers she once suffered had vanished. Her body was worn down, but it did not break. Aria had unconsciously calculated that razor-thin line. Ten o'clock in the morning. The errand boy came running up the stairs from the first-floor office. "[cold] Number Seventeen, the manager's calling for you." Aria checked the corners of her mouth one last time in the mirror, then left the room. —The office was dimly lit, as always. Only the light of an oil lamp illuminated the ledger on the desk. Curtis had sunk his lean frame into his chair, his quill pen racing across the page. Thick ledgers lined the shelves against the wall, and the air was stagnant with the smell of paper, dust, and ink. "[cold] Enter." Aria quietly closed the door and stood before the desk. Her knees no longer trembled as they once had. Her fingertips did not grow cold. She simply stood there. Without lifting his gaze from the ledger, Curtis began to read off numbers. "[cold] Inventory Number Seventeen—shifts this month: one hundred twenty-four. Revenue: two hundred forty-eight silver coins. Average revenue per customer: maintained at two silver coins. Days worked: twenty-nine out of thirty. Depreciation rate: zero." The numbers echoed flatly through the room. "[cold] Your share of the brothel's total monthly revenue is twelve percent. The average for other inventory is just under four percent, so you stand out prominently." Curtis raised his face for the first time. His thin eyes, set in a nervous countenance, looked at Aria. But within that gaze, though there was appraisal, there was not a shred of warmth for a fellow human being. "[cold] I'm designating you as premium inventory. Starting next month, your nomination fee will increase from one silver coin to two. Your cut will rise accordingly—however, do not offer unauthorized discounts without my permission." Aria listened to his words, still standing. Anger—did not well up. Neither humiliation, nor the bitterness of self-mockery, nor anything. In the past, every time she was called "inventory," Japanese curses would have lashed out deep in her chest. But now—it was just information. Called by a number instead of a name? That merely signified an upgrade as a product. To Curtis, this woman was nothing but a string of numbers, and if the numbers were good, she was evaluated. That was all there was to it. "[gentle] Understood." Her own voice echoed in the room. Curtis had already returned his gaze to the ledger, moving on to the next matter. Aria's existence, as an item already processed in his mind, instantly became a thing of the past. Aria gave a bow and left the office. As she walked down the hallway, she checked her inner state. The movement of emotion—as expected, there was nothing. So much nothing that the act of checking itself felt meaningless. —That afternoon. Aria returned to her private room on the second floor and stood before the mirror once more. There was a little time until the next customer. Outside the window, the weak winter sunlight cast a pale glow over the cobblestones of Noir Street. In the room where the oil lamp's flame flickered, Aria gazed at her own face. Beneath the makeup, the color of fatigue seeped through. Her eyes were hollow, her cheeks sunken, and the silver collar of Eughm glinted dully around her neck. But—that face was smiling. It perfectly maintained the shape of a smile. *(Let's try to remember.)* She murmured in Japanese within her heart. The university campus. The ginkgo tree-lined avenue. Yellow leaves, translucent in the autumn sun. In that place—she should have been with someone. A friend. A club mate. A face from the seat next to hers in a lecture. Someone who was always smiling, always by her side— The name wouldn't come. Only a sound surfaced faintly. But no face attached itself to that sound. There was only an outline; the eyes, nose, and mouth blurred and refused to form. *(Mom—)* Only the texture of a voice remained at the bottom of her memory. A gentle, slightly low voice. It was speaking to her about something. But—she couldn't hear the words. She couldn't understand what it was saying. *(The ginkgo trees—)* A still image, drained of color, surfaced for an instant. Yellow leaves. But there was no sound of wind. No scent. No warmth of sunlight. It was just a picture. The life that had once been there had completely fallen away. Aria slowly gripped the frame of the mirror. Strength entered her fingers. But her heart did not stir. Neither fear of losing her memories, nor despair at being unable to reclaim them—neither welled up anymore. It was simply a fact: her memories had vanished. That was all. "[whispers] I can't remember anymore." She murmured in Japanese. That voice held no emotion. It was neither a lament nor a release. Just a sound confirming a fact, leaking from her mouth. The heat from the time when Japanese had been the only refuge in her heart was completely gone. The language itself had lost its function as a vessel for emotion. Aria averted her eyes from the mirror. For the next customer, she arranged her expression. She raised the corners of her mouth slightly, narrowed her eyes, and let out a breath. A perfect smile was there. —That night. Late at night, as the brothel's bustle began to quiet, Lisetta walked down the hallway. Her long, dark crimson curls swayed in the lamplight. She stopped in front of Aria's room. From beyond the door, there was no sound at all. A silence so deep she couldn't even tell if Aria was still awake or already asleep hung there. Lisetta opened her mouth. She started to say something— And swallowed it. This silent exchange had been repeated countless times over these three months. Lisetta, who had once told her, "Hope will kill you," saw the result of those words taking effect on Aria every day. A girl who had completely killed her emotions and functioned as premium inventory. A product that wore a perfect mask of a smile and continued to work without breaking. *(Do I even have the right to speak to her?)* Lisetta's grayish pale purple eyes wavered for an instant. Even if she did speak, what would change? Would change even be a good thing? Or—would it only widen the wound? The silence that stretched between them was neither friendship nor a shared resignation. It was simply stillness. Frozen time, unable to move, unable to be moved. Lisetta walked away down the hallway without a sound. Inside the room, Aria stared at the ceiling. —Later into the night. As Aria lay in bed, voices reached her through the wall from the adjacent room. The hushed whispers of the prostitutes. At first, she couldn't tell what they were saying, but as she strained her ears, fragments of words began to come through. "[whispers] ...Do you think the Solvet Document really exists?" "[whispers] I don't know. But someone said they saw it. Apparently, it contains a ritual to destroy Eughm." "[whispers] If we're found out, it's execution. But—" "[whispers] —for that, maybe—" The voices whispered forbidden words, mingling excitement and terror. The power to destroy the slave collar. The possibility of freedom. A rumor that someone in this city possessed it. Listening to those voices, Aria—checked her inner state. Did hope well up? Did fear well up? Anger. A thirst for liberation. Something that her former self would have undoubtedly felt— Nothing came. The fact that a collar was around her neck, and the rumor of a ritual that might be able to destroy that collar. Those two things passed through her brain with perfectly equal flatness. Aria slowly closed her eyes. She settled into a position to wait for morning. The voices beyond the wall continued for a while—and eventually, ceased. —That same late night. The back corridor of the brothel was dim even in the daytime. That place, beyond the reach of even the lamplight, was ruled only by the coldness of the stone walls. Lisetta walked down that corridor without a sound. Her gait was completely different from the indifferent one she showed Aria, or the obedient employee's stride she used when dealing with Curtis. It was a step filled with tension, yet without hesitation—harboring a quiet will. At the end of the corridor. From the shadow of stacked wine barrels, a figure emerged. "[whispers] Lisetta." The voice was low, its gender indiscernible. The face was lost in darkness, impossible even to describe. Lisetta silently extended her hand. The figure placed something in her palm. A scrap of parchment. Its surface was densely packed with minute ancient script. What it was—was not explained in words. But in Lisetta's hand, the parchment radiated an eerie coldness. As if the very letters written in ink harbored some kind of power. "[whispers] The final fragment. With this, it's complete." Lisetta swiftly tucked the parchment into her bosom.