(Ros's POV)
The moment my body left the ground, there was no pain.
Only air.
The air compressed into a thick wall,
slamming toward me.
The sound by my ears stretched—
becoming a low, heavy roar.
The corridor tilted within my vision.
Ceiling and floor exchanged places.
My back hit something.
Hard.
Cold.
The impact climbed up my spine.
Light shattered.
Dust fell from cracks in the ceiling.
Fine particles rolled in the air,
like mist shaken loose.
My nose filled with the scent
of lime and old wood.
My body lost control.
I hit the ground.
The floor came from the side.
My cheek pressed
against a cold surface.
The wood was rough.
Tiny fractures running through it.
With my ear against the ground,
I could hear distant, chaotic footsteps.
Someone was shouting.
The sound was separated.
Like it came
from underwater.
The nuns' footsteps grew urgent.
Cloth dragged through the corridor.
A door was pushed open.
The metal hinges
shuddered sharply.
A burnt smell filled the air.
Not fire.
Just the trace
of instant heat.
I tried to breathe.
There was pressure
in my chest.
Then—light.
My vision blurred.
Dust drifted slowly
through the light.
Someone knelt beside me.
Cloth brushed the floor.
He dropped to his knees.
The impact was heavy.
He looked at me.
Pupils dilated.
Lips pale.
"...This shouldn't be like this…"
The voice broke.
His throat seemed blocked.
His hand hovered in the air.
Did not dare touch.
His fingers trembled.
A nun pulled him away.
The motion was sharp.
Fabric scraped in quick succession.
More footsteps approached.
Someone called names.
Someone told others to move aside.
Air compressed.
The corridor narrowed.
My vision went dark.
Sound retreated.
Like a tide pulling back.
I lost consciousness.
There was no sound in the dream.
Only light.
The sunlight in the yard
was brighter than reality.
The sky was clean.
The wind light.
When I was young.
Seven stood across from me.
A ball in his hand.
Old.
Fine cracks on the surface.
Leather edges worn pale.
He tossed it.
The arc was steady.
I caught it.
My fingertips touched the surface—
rough texture.
I threw it back.
The ground beneath my feet was dry.
Dust lifted lightly.
Seven's back stretched long
in the sunlight.
Shoulders straight.
The wind moved the edge of his clothes.
We didn't speak.
Only the ball
moving back and forth.
Again.
Again.
Steady rhythm.
Suddenly—
The trajectory shifted.
The ball hit the wall.
A dull echo.
The next second—
Explosion.
Light split from the center of the ball.
Sound filled the entire yard.
Air tore apart.
Dust surged upward.
Vision drowned in white.
I opened my eyes.
The ceiling was above me.
Gray.
Light filtered through
a gap in the curtain.
The air was quiet.
No smoke.
No burnt scent.
Only the smell
of medicine.
My skin rested against sheets.
Soft.
My shoulder should have hurt.
But it didn't.
I slowly raised my hand.
Light movement.
No pulling.
No stabbing pain.
My fingers touched the bandage.
Wrapped neatly.
Dry fabric.
No seepage.
I sat up.
The motion was smoother
than expected.
No dizziness.
Breathing steady.
I reached to unwrap it.
Cloth loosened
layer by layer.
Fell lightly
onto my legs.
The final layer came off.
Skin revealed.
The wound
that should have been there—
was gone.
No tear.
No bruise.
Not even a faint mark.
I stepped down from the bed.
My feet touched the floor.
Coolness climbed upward.
I walked to the mirror.
It was old.
Edges darkened.
I looked at my shoulder.
Skin intact.
Lines smooth.
No abnormality.
I raised my arm.
Moved it.
Joints smooth.
No resistance.
The person in the mirror
was the same as always.
Breathing steady.
The door opened softly.
Wood gave a low sound.
A nun stepped in.
Her steps paused at the doorway.
Her gaze landed on me.
Her pupils contracted noticeably.
Her hand tightened
on the doorknob.
As if confirming something.
Her eyes stopped
on my shoulder.
For a long moment.
Then slowly—
she relaxed.
Her shoulders dropped.
A breath left her.
Not loud.
Just long.
She walked closer.
Fabric brushed softly.
Stopped in front of me.
Still confirming.
Then finally—
the tension disappeared.
The air returned
to its usual dryness and quiet.
Light outside the window
remained unchanged.
Footsteps suddenly grew heavy
outside the door.
Not the nun's rhythm.
Fast.
The door slammed open—
hitting the wall
with a sharp sound.
77 rushed in.
His breathing uneven.
Sweat at his temples.
Hair sticking to his forehead.
Shoes scraping the floor
in short bursts.
He stopped at the doorway.
As if he didn't know
whether to step forward
or back.
His gaze landed on me.
First my shoulder.
Then my arm.
Then my face.
His throat moved.
His lips parted.
No sound.
The air froze between us.
Wind brushed leaves outside.
A faint rustling
filtered through the glass.
I looked at him.
Didn't speak.
He was confirming something.
Whether I stood steady.
Whether I was breathing.
Whether I might collapse.
His fingers trembled slightly
at his side.
Dust still marked his knuckles
from kneeling earlier.
I raised my hand.
A small motion.
A slight wave.
"I'm fine."
My voice steady.
No emphasis.
Just a statement.
77's shoulders dropped
visibly.
As if something
had been removed.
He took a breath.
Still uneven.
"...Good."
His voice was low.
Softer than usual.
A dryness at the end.
After that,
he did not come closer.
Just stood there.
Sunlight fell
on the side of his face.
Sweat glistened
in the light.
The air slowly
returned to normal flow.
The nun glanced in
from outside.
Did not enter.
The door remained half open.
Wind slipped through the gap.
Carrying the scent outside.
A few days later—
Morning was pale.
The air cold.
The ground in the yard
still held moisture
from the night.
The iron gate opened.
The familiar dragging sound.
An engine idled outside.
The vehicle stood there.
Its body reflecting faint light.
Windows semi-opaque.
The inside unseen.
77 and I stood
before the gate.
Behind us—
the orphanage wall.
Peeling.
Wind moved through our sleeves.
Fabric pressed
against our arms.
77 did not speak.
His gaze moved
from the car door
to the ground.
His fingers tightened.
Then loosened.
The nun stood nearby.
Expression steady.
No extra instructions.
The driver opened the door.
Metal clicked clearly.
The air inside the car
carried a faint oil scent.
I stepped in first.
Foot on the step.
A slight vibration.
77 followed.
The door closed.
A dull sound.
Cutting off the wind outside.
The car began to move.
The iron gate
slowly receded in the window.
The wall shrank.
The yard disappeared
at the edge of sight.
Engine vibrations traveled
through the seat
into my back.
The road uneven.
The car swayed slightly.
77 sat beside me.
Hands on his knees.
Fingers tightening
and loosening occasionally.
The scenery outside
flowed backward.
Shadows of trees passed.
Light flickered.
The air inside the car
grew quiet.
I looked forward.
The Academy
lay farther ahead.
I would meet Seven again.
The car continued forward.
Without stopping.