“How about you clean up this mess?” Aska’s voice floated over to me, laced with that familiar, aggravating amusement. He stood a few meters away, still entirely untouched by the chaos he had watched unfold—untouched by the water, untouched by the consequences. It was almost as if the puddles bowed in deference to him, parting before his steps.

  I studied him carefully, hoping to see some trace of suffering from the hit I’d delivered earlier. A limp, a wince, something. But aside from a faint bruise to his pride, he looked frustratingly composed.

  “You said you wanted to learn boyish stuff,” he continued, voice smooth, as if offering a lesson rather than a jab. “Well, here you go—a man always cleans up the mess he makes.”

  Was he serious? Joking? Playing some convoluted mind game again? With Aska, it was never clear. His tone left just enough ambiguity for me to wonder.

  “Is that so?” I countered, arching a brow. “Then let’s go all the way with this gender equality thing. You’re cooking half the meals from now on.”

  His face twisted in horror, a perfect mix of melodrama and genuine dread. Then, in a moment of reluctant wisdom, he snapped his fingers.

  The room shifted instantly. The puddles evaporated into nothing. The broken table reconstructed itself with a soft creak, its legs straightening like bones resetting into place. Discarded chairs slid back to their rightful spots, as if politely excusing themselves for having fallen over. Not a drop, not a splinter remained.

  I watched it all with quiet envy. One gesture from him undid an hour of my floundering. He had this effortless control, this maddening ease—and I hated how much I longed to learn it.

  Still, something remained unfixed.

  “You forgot something,” I said, dryly. I pointed at my dripping hair, then at the sodden state of my clothes, clinging like a second, colder skin.

  He glanced at me with mock innocence. “Oh? No, I didn’t forget. You’re an adult now. I can’t possibly help you clean yourself.”

  Since when had he decided I was old enough to be considered an adult? The declaration annoyed me more than it should have. My irritation was compounded by the sharp realization that I didn’t even know how to clean myself the way he used to. He’d handled it before without me ever asking. My hair, my clothes. I had taken it all for granted.

  “How?” I muttered, defeated, already walking toward the door but pausing to hear his answer.

  He took his time—of course he did. A cup of tea, steaming gently, appeared in his hand as if conjured by whim. He sipped it slowly, savoring both the flavor and the moment. Then, with a sly smile tugging at the corner of his lips, he finally spoke.

  “Normal people,” he said, “take baths.”

  I slammed the door behind me, hard enough to make it echo through the house.

  There was no way I was throwing myself into a tub full of water—not after what I’d just gone through. I grabbed a towel instead, patting myself dry in a haphazard, grumpy fashion. Once relatively less soaked, I changed into dry clothes in the bedroom and returned to the kitchen.

  He was still there. Still drinking his bottomless cup of tea. Still smug.

  I sat opposite him and fixed him with a stare, silently demanding he speak.

  He obliged, of course—Aska never let silence linger too long.

  “Sooo… your grand plan really was quite impressive. Except for one tiny little flaw.” He tapped the rim of his cup thoughtfully. “What would you have done if sleeping with me hadn’t changed anything? If I’d stayed the same?”

  It was a good question—one that had plagued me more than once. But I had already thought it through.

  “I would’ve slept with the next person I met,” I said simply, “and the one after that, and the one after that—until you couldn′t take it any more.”

  He nodded slowly, as if evaluating a strategic move on a battlefield. Not entirely approving, but not dismissive either.

  “You’re a manipulative little bitch, you know that?” he said, tone oddly affectionate.

  I smirked. “And you’re an abusive, sadistic, horrible, shitty god.”

  He chuckled at that, downing the last of his tea in a single elegant motion.

  “We’d make a perfect couple.”

  His words hung in the air.

  I tilted my head, fingers combing through my still-damp hair, trying to tease out the worst of the knots. I needed a moment—space to think, to breathe.

  “I don’t like being abused that much…” I murmured eventually, softly, not entirely denying the possibility he’d dangled before me, but not yet ready to embrace it either.

  It wasn’t a no. But it wasn’t a yes, either.

  And that, for now, would have to be enough.

  “That’s in the past,” he said softly. “I won’t hurt you anymore.”

  He’d promised that before, and I knew he meant it—this time, at least. But I hadn’t asked for his assurances. That wasn’t what I wanted. What I needed to know wasn’t about the present or future. It was about the past—our past—and the pain I still carried like phantom bruises.

  “Then tell me…” My voice trembled slightly, not with fear but with restrained fury. I dug my nails into the wooden table, letting the pressure anchor me. “Why did you hurt me in the first place? Why did you whip me until I couldn’t even lie down? Why did you—” My voice cracked before I could finish the list. It was too long anyway.

  Even thinking about what he’d done made my hands shake. But now, finally, I could say it aloud without flinching at the idea of punishment. The fear was gone. Replaced with fury.

  He looked at me for a moment, silent, his expression unreadable. Then he spoke, voice low and tightly controlled.

  “You weren’t yourself back then,” he said. “Do you have any idea how much I hated seeing you throw yourself at me while I was hurting you? How it made me sick?” His fingers clenched around the table’s edge, white-knuckled. “I wanted you to rebel. To fight me. To scream, to stab me, to curse my name. But you didn’t. You… you used love instead.”

  His eyes burned now—not with power, but with a deeply human resentment. “You tried to control me with the only thing I still loved about you. And the worst part?” His mouth twisted in something between a grimace and a smile. “It worked.”

  The table creaked under his hands. I didn’t move.

  It hit me then—he hated being manipulated. For someone who thrived on control, the idea that I’d turned the tables, even subconsciously, was intolerable.

  “So what is it, then?” I asked, voice calmer but no less pointed. “What do you actually need me for? You don’t keep me around just to gawk at me like a pet. You don’t need a servant. You’re a god—you could snap your fingers and have a thousand better versions of me. So why me?”

  He didn’t answer immediately, but when he did, there was an odd serenity in his voice.

  “You’ll understand eventually,” he said. “But telling you now… would ruin everything.”

  Of course. Another half-truth wrapped in riddles. I let out a long sigh. I’d had enough conversations with Aska to recognize a hard stop when I heard one. When he didn’t want to talk, nothing in the universe could pull it out of him.

  “So,” I asked instead, shifting the topic, “what’s next?”

  His mood changed instantly, like flipping a switch. He slapped the table with a sudden burst of cheer and gave his tea an unnecessary swirl. A mischievous grin crept across his face—always a dangerous sign.

  Before I could brace myself, something materialized in his hand. A gleaming object that struck me squarely in the chest.

  My body tensed instinctively—but my chest clenched. But there was no blood. The dagger, clattered to the floor after bouncing off me as though my body had rejected it. I looked down at my chest, stunned. The wound, had already healed over, the pain quickly receeding into nothingless.

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  “I thought you weren’t going to hurt me anymore,” I growled.

  “I didn’t,” he replied, far too smug. “Look at you. You’re practically immortal in purgatory. And this—” he waved his hand casually, “—is just training.”

  “Training for what?”

  “Let’s play hide and seek,” he said instead, as if I hadn’t spoken. “Each time I hit you, I’ll wake you up one minute earlier.”

  I scowled. “You’re trying to threaten me with less sleep?”

  He gave a slow, infuriating nod. “Exactly.”

  Sleep and food were sacred. I’d never admit how sacred food was—especially not to him—but sleep? He was messing with something borderline divine. Still, as much as I wanted to protest, I also knew he wouldn’t budge once his mind was set.

  Fine. I’d play his stupid game. But I wouldn’t just play—I’d win.

  “And if I hit you, I get an extra hour of sleep?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

  His grin widened. “Sure thing.”

  Before the words even finished leaving his mouth, I grabbed the dagger that had landed in my lap and hurled it at him. Quick, smooth, impulsive.

  But Aska vanished before the blade even neared him, the air rippling where he’d stood. In the same instant, another dagger materialized and flew toward me as I rose to my feet. I ducked too slowly and felt the cold metal graze past my arm.

  Two minutes later, I was panting, disoriented, and already hopelessly outmatched. So much for a fair fight.

  Fine. If I couldn’t win with speed, I’d use something else—chaos.

  I grabbed the dagger again, but instead of aiming at him, I turned toward the window and threw it with all my strength. The glass cracked under the impact. Without hesitating, I lunged after it.

  Shards of glass exploded around me like a glittering storm as I broke through the window, three more daggers finding their mark in my back mid-leap. I gritted my teeth and pushed through the pain.

  He said he wouldn’t hurt me anymore.

  But he never said anything about not making me stronger.

  Sixteen hours.

  I’d been hit for the equivalent of sixteen consecutive hours. And not just metaphorically—Aska had made a game out of it, a cruel blend of training and torment.

  Under normal circumstances, I slept for twelve. So technically, if we played this by our previous agreement, I should’ve gained four extra hours of wakefulness. Four measly hours that I could spend staring at the walls, avoiding eye contact with reality.

  I tried explaining that to him—that the number “overflowed,” and that mathematically speaking, it made more sense to subtract the excess from the total. But Aska, ever the literal god with a flair for irony, decided this meant I should forgo sleep altogether.

  In the end, we “compromised.” Six hours of sleep. Nothing more, nothing less.

  But before I could even consider curling up in bed, there was something more pressing—more humiliating—I had to do. I had to wash off the grime. Not just the physical filth clinging to my skin, but the psychological residue of being stabbed, chased, and humiliated for sixteen hours straight.

  The idea seemed simple. Fill the bathtub. Step in. Clean. Done.

  But the moment the tub began to fill, I froze. My breath hitched. My limbs locked up. The gentle slosh of water filling the basin might as well have been a roar of a storm crashing through my skull.

  I couldn’t even bring myself to pull the plug and drain it again.

  It stared back at me—that water—like it knew me, remembered me, had swallowed me thousands of times and was waiting eagerly to do it again. I hadn’t even undressed. I just stood there, fully clothed, paralyzed.

  A soft sound behind me. Footsteps. I didn’t have to look to know who it was.

  “I was wondering what was taking you so long,” Aska murmured, his voice low and curiously gentle. I felt his fingers settle on my shoulders, kneading into the muscles with practiced ease. My whole body tensed at the contact but relaxed gradually under his touch. He was good at this—unfortunately.

  His gaze, like mine, fixed on the still water.

  “Your fear of water is worse than I thought,” he said quietly.

  I couldn’t answer. I just shook my head, violently, in frustration and shame.

  I snapped, my voice thin and cracked. “I’m afraid of water. Water. W-A-T-E-R. The most mundane element in the world. And I’m terrified of it.” I let out something like a laugh, but it scraped my throat on the way up, and the sound died in a hoarse wheeze. “All because I died a few times to it. How ridiculous is that?”

  He didn’t laugh. Didn’t even smile.

  “You’ve died to it over four thousand times,” he corrected, casually but precisely. “I’d say that’s more than just ‘a few’.”

  I blinked. Four thousand.

  So he had been counting.

  “You’re surprisingly good at math for someone who pretends to be above it,” I muttered, eyes still locked on the still surface of the bath.

  There was a pause before he spoke again, this time quieter. “What I don’t understand is… how can you still fear water so deeply, and yet not fear me, after everything I’ve done to you?”

  A valid question. One I wasn’t sure I had a satisfying answer to. But I tried.

  “Because pain is bearable,” I said softly, “when you know there's a way out. I always knew you’d stop eventually. That somewhere deep down, you still had a line you wouldn’t cross. I could survive you… because I loved you. As twisted as that is.” I paused. “But with water… I don’t know if I’ll ever be free from it. There’s no clear end. Just drowning. Again. And again.”

  I didn’t want to admit how much I still relied on him. How much of my strength came from wanting to make him proud, or from sheer stubborn obsession. But I didn’t say that part aloud. I couldn’t give him that power—not again.

  He must’ve sensed the storm behind my silence because he didn’t respond right away. Instead, he said something that chilled me more than the water ever could.

  “I can’t help you for at least two hundred years.”

  I whipped around to face him, stunned. “What?”

  His face was unreadable—calm, resolute.

  “You heard me,” he said. “There are things I’m not allowed to interfere with. This is one of them.”

  I felt the air leave my lungs. Two hundred years.

  If four thousand deaths had left me unable to even look at a bathtub, what would seventy-three thousand do to me? Would I end up terrified of the rain? Of my own sweat? Would I scream every time I bled?

  The idea twisted my stomach into knots. I had to find a way through this—but how? Every step I took forward during the day would be erased overnight when I drowned all over again.

  I bit back the plea rising in my throat. I wouldn’t ask him for help. Not again.

  But then—he surprised me.

  “Solaris doesn’t have them,” he began thoughtfully, “but what if we tried a shower?”

  The water in the tub vanished instantly, as if it had never existed. My shoulders dropped. I could breathe again. I didn’t know what a shower was exactly, but I nodded numbly. I was willing to try anything.

  He walked over to an empty corner of the room, measured something with his eyes, and snapped his fingers.

  A structure appeared—sudden and seamless. Glass panels, sleek silver fixtures. A shower, complete with a temperature dial, a rainfall head, and a translucent privacy door. It was… beautiful. Elegant, even. And oddly comforting in its unfamiliarity.

  It was also the largest thing he’d ever conjured in front of me.

  “Where do you even get these things?” I asked, half curious, half suspicious. Solaris was barren. There weren’t even trees here, let alone plumbing.

  He shrugged with exaggerated casualness. “Wish.hvn. Think of it as a divine version of online shopping.”

  I blinked. “You’re telling me there’s a marketplace for gods?”

  “As long as you’ve got credit,” he smirked. “And I always do.”

  Typical.

  Instead of dwelling on the impossible logistics, I approached the strange structure and eyed it like a wild animal assessing a trap. It was new. Clean. It didn’t look like death. That was a start. But I hesitated again.

  “It's a sealed box,” I muttered. “Are you sure this isn’t another drowning machine?”

  “You’ll be fine,” he said. Then, because he could see the confusion all over my face, he added, “Let me show you how it works. You pull on this lever… and then—here you go.”

  With a practiced flick, Aska demonstrated the function, and within seconds, a sudden cascade of water burst from the sleek showerhead. The sound—sharp, immediate, too close—made my entire body flinch. My heart didn’t beat in the literal sense anymore, but the memory of it clenched painfully in my chest. Even dead, the body remembered fear.

  The rush of water sprayed against the floor like a rainfall I couldn’t run from, and my eyes locked onto it, unable to look away. My mouth was dry again. Still, I refused to back down. I'd agreed to this. I had to try. I just… needed help, not with the shower, but with everything that led to being in the shower.

  I turned to him and fixed him with a silent, expectant stare. He stood there, entirely unfazed, waiting.

  “What?” he asked, confused, brows quirking like I’d just asked him to solve a riddle without giving the question.

  I sighed, exasperated. “What, do you expect me to go in there fully clothed?”

  He blinked. “Well, no. You obviously need to undress. Don’t tell me you’re shy about that now.”

  Shy?

  That word didn’t even begin to cover it.

  I crossed my arms, glowering at him. “I’m not giving you a show, Aska. I may have been desperate before, but I’m not parading around naked just because you're watching. I′d want payment for that, but since there isn′t anything I desire right now ...”

  His expression twitched—somewhere between amusement and disappointment. “You’re still holding onto that?” he said with a dry laugh. “Come on, Lucinda. I’ve already seen you at your worst.”

  “And I’d rather not give you anything more to add to that list,” I snapped, then added with saccharine mockery, “Besides, I’m too young to be seen naked by you, remember?”

  That made him frown. It wasn’t just frustration in his face—it was irritation touched with guilt. I hit a nerve, apparently.

  Without another word, he waved his hand. A bikini—modest, dark, slightly shimmery—materialized in his palm. He tossed it to me without comment, then vanished with a soft pop of displaced air.

  I stood in silence for a second, blinking at the empty space where he’d been. That was suspiciously accommodating for Aska. He never left that quickly unless he had a plan.

  I didn’t waste time. I changed swiftly, keeping an ear out for any sign of his return, knowing full well he’d pop back in the moment he thought I might be vulnerable. It didn’t take a full minute.

  He reappeared exactly sixty seconds later, this time wearing dark swim shorts and nothing else.

  I raised an eyebrow so high I was half convinced it would get stuck there. “Do you… plan on going on a family vacation into the shower with me? Because this is giving 'overbearing dad at the waterpark' energy.”

  He laughed—genuinely, this time—but didn’t back off. Instead, he gestured toward the still-running water, warm and steady.

  “I’m serious. Do you think you can do this on your own?” His voice had lost the teasing edge. “Lucinda… I missed it. I missed how bad your fear had gotten, and for that, I’m sorry. Let me help you through this.”

  I hesitated.

  That should’ve been my cue to say no. To push him out of the room and close the door and figure it out myself. He never gave anything without extracting something else later. He was a god, after all—and gods dealt in unspoken debts.

  But he was also the only person in this empty, strange world who knew me. The only one who had ever seen every crack in my mind and stayed. The only one who had made me this broken… and the only one who seemed willing to help piece me back together.

  So instead of shooing him away, I stepped into the shower.

  The water was warm. Almost too warm, like it wanted to embrace me in a way I couldn’t return. I felt Aska step in behind me, quiet and watchful. He didn’t touch me—just stood there, a silent presence anchoring me while I stood under the stream, heart racing, throat clenched.

  The first droplets hit my shoulders. My legs tensed, ready to flee. But I stayed. Barely.

  “I don’t like this,” I whispered.

  “I know,” he replied.

  “Don’t make me do this alone,” I said without thinking.

  “I won’t.”

  And for now, that was enough.