Ooka Momiji's scream sounded hollow and broken in the cold basement, eventually turning into suppressed, intermittent sobs.
She curled up in the corner, as if trying to shrink herself into the wall to escape this absurd and cruel reality. Tears flowed incessantly, yet they couldn't wash away any pain; they only made her cheeks sting from the cold.
Just then, the faint sound of clothing rubbing together rang out.
Kanjuro—no longer 'Disguise', but in his true identity and appearance (though still pale and injured)—slowly stood up and walked over to her. He didn't force her up; he simply knelt down, keeping a moderate distance, his gaze resting calmly on her trembling shoulders.
"Have you cried enough?" His voice rang out, his own voice now, deep and magnetic, yet strangely devoid of the previous coldness and mockery, instead carrying a hint of... almost gentle exhaustion.
Ooka Momiji didn't answer; she only buried her face deeper, her body shaking even more violently.
Kanjuro fell silent for a moment before speaking again, his voice soft and slow: "It is a fact that the man wanted to kill you. It is also a fact that I was injured. And it is also a fact that you picked up a weapon to protect yourself and... the 'me' you believed in."
He paused, "These were not part of the script I designed. In this Annex, everyone makes choices to survive, descending into madness. I merely blended in, observed, and waited."
His words were like a strange detachment, stripping the life-and-death struggle from 'Kanjuro's conspiracy' and restoring it to the naked survival competition of a cruel environment.
Ooka Momiji's sobbing paused slightly, as if she were trying to understand his words.
"As for the words I said to you, the things I did..." Kanjuro's voice lowered further, carrying an indescribably complex meaning, "'Disguise' was fake, but those moments... weren't all fake."
He reached out, his fingertips lightly brushing past Ooka Momiji's hair, which was soaked with tears and stuck to her cheeks.
This action was so similar to what 'Disguise' had done, yet because she knew the true identity of the person behind it, it brought a completely different, shivering sensation.
"I saw your fear, your persistence, and the way you made up your mind to protect someone important to you..." Kanjuro said slowly, his fingertips stopping at her chin, applying slight pressure to force her to lift her tear-stained face and meet his gaze.
His eyes were as deep as the night sky, churning with emotions Ooka Momiji couldn't decipher, but undoubtedly, they lacked the pure mockery or cruelty she had expected.
"I am moved, Momiji." He called her by name, no longer 'Miss Ooka', his tone solemn. "Regardless of who you thought I was at the time, that sentiment, 그 that resolve, was directed at me. To me, that is something more interesting... and more precious than any treasure or secret."
These words were like a magical incantation, mixing the cruelty of truth with a certain twisted'sincerity', striking hard against Ooka Momiji's chaotic mental defenses. Hatred, a sense of betrayal, and shame still existed, but a deeper longing to be recognized and cherished (even in a way she couldn't understand) began to coil around her like vines growing in the dark.
He said... moved? Precious?
Seeing the violent struggle and hesitation in her eyes, Kanjuro knew the timing was right.
He said no more, but directly reached out his arms and pulled her cold, trembling body, which was still slightly resisting, firmly but gently into his embrace.
"Don't..." Ooka Momiji instinctively struggled, her voice weak.
"Shh." Kanjuro held her tighter, wrapping her in his own body, which was equally cold but seemed to contain some internal heat source.
He rested his chin lightly on her head, his voice vibrating through his chest, deep and with an unquestionable force: "Discussing truth or falsehood, right or wrong, is meaningless now. You are about to die of cold; that is the reality."
He felt the body in his arms still stiff, but the trembling seemed to have eased.
"I'm going to keep you warm so you can live," he continued, his tone flat yet carrying a strange persuasiveness. "Don't refuse. This has nothing to do with who I am or what I lied to you about. It only has to do with the fact that 'you want to live'."
Ooka Momiji's reason was screaming, telling her she should push away this demon, this bastard who had deceived her and played with all her emotions. But her body's instinct—the longing for warmth, the fear of death, and that shameful attachment deep in her heart sparked by his words—made her struggle weaker and weaker.
Kanjuro noticed her softening and tightened his arms, as if to transfer his remaining body heat to her.
He lowered his head, his lips almost touching her ear, his warm breath brushing against her frozen earlobe, sending a shiver through her.
"Nothing is more important than letting you live," he repeated, his voice as soft as a sigh but with a resolute finality, as if it were the only truth in the world.
These words completely shattered Ooka Momiji's final defense.
The instinct for survival, the extreme thirst for 'warmth' and'safety' (even knowing it was false), and the complex, hard-to-describe feelings for Kanjuro that had been carefully guided (a mix of hate, fear, and a twisted sense of belonging) flooded over her like a tide.
She stopped struggling and, as if grasping at a life-saving straw, allowed herself to sink into this familiar yet strange embrace.
Their bodies pressed tightly together, drawing the faint body heat from the other. Her cold, stiff limbs slowly began to warm up.
It wasn't because of the cold.
It was Kanjuro's hands, his breath, lingering closer and closer to the side of her neck. It was the changes in his body, transmitted clearly and unmistakably.
Ooka Momiji wanted to resist, to escape, but her body seemed to have a will of its own.
"Ye... Kanjuro..." she unconsciously murmured his name, her voice carrying a sob and confusion.
"Mm." Kanjuro responded and lowered his head.
Ooka Momiji trembled all over and closed her eyes.
Her final shred of reason told her this was wrong, a descent, a further sinking after being deceived. But her body and emotions were betraying her, catering to this man who brought warmth, recognition, and a certain fatal attraction.
In the cold basement, two figures leaned closely against each other.
Ooka Momiji completely gave up on thinking; she only knew that at this moment, she needed this warmth, this embrace, and this man who made her both hate and fear him, yet from whom she could not break free.
Deep within the cold Annex, the final countdown continued to flow silently. And in this hidden corner, a 'warming' based on deception and manipulation was evolving into the beginning of a deeper and more dangerous bond.
Ooka Momiji's tears had not yet dried, but in this emotional stir, she had already lost the final path back to her original self.
That bone-deep, soul-freezing extreme cold began to recede as strangely as it had arrived. The stagnant air in the basement began to flow slowly; though still cool, it was no longer the life-stripping bitter cold. The frost on the walls quietly melted, dripping fine water stains. Ooka Momiji's stiff and numb limbs gradually regained sensation. Under her cold skin, blood began to flow slowly again, bringing a faint warmth and... a clearer physical perception.
She still leaned in Kanjuro's embrace, her cheek pressed against his chest. She could hear that steady, powerful heartbeat and feel the warmth radiating from his body, which was no longer just being transferred to her but was his own recovery. The previous near-death cold and despair intertwined with the current reviving warmth and the intimacy of skin-to-skin contact, forming a dizzying, contradictory experience where guilt and peace coexisted.
She didn't dare move or look up, her chaotic thoughts like boiling water. Until Kanjuro's voice rang out above her head, calmly answering the doubt she hadn't asked:
"The temperature is starting to rise."
Ooka Momiji's body stiffened slightly, and she finally looked up at him. Kanjuro had regained his usual, slightly lazy expression, though his face was still a bit pale and the blood on his wound had dried. His gaze seemed to penetrate the stone walls of the basement, looking toward some part of the Annex.
"Renya Karasuma doesn't want to freeze everyone to death either," Kanjuro said indifferently, a knowing curve touching the corner of his mouth. "Extreme cold is a screening, a stress test, but if he really turned all the 'candidates' into ice sculptures, his game wouldn't be able to continue. Now, it's about time for the next step."
Ooka Momiji was stunned and instinctively asked, "The next step? He... why did he create such cold temperatures?" A terrifying guess surfaced, "Was it... to deal with you?"
Kanjuro looked down at her with approval in his eyes, as if praising her sharpness. "That is one of the purposes," he didn't deny it. "Extreme cold weakens physical strength, blurs reason, and magnifies fear and the survival instinct. In this state, those who can still maintain a certain level of mobility, observation, and even... the ruthlessness to eliminate others and preserve themselves, are the 'materials' that have undergone preliminary tempering in his eyes."
He paused, his tone carrying a hint of cold amusement: "This 'king of crows' wants to artificially cultivate and screen out one—or a few—individuals from this group of self-proclaimed clever Detectives who are most adaptable, resilient, and... cold-blooded in extreme environments. Then, he will grant them 'hope', making them think they are the chosen 'lucky ones', and then drive them to deal with the real threat in his eyes, which is... me."
Ooka Momiji was terrified, a chill creeping up her spine again, but this time it was psychological. "Select one... to deal with you?" she murmured.
"Correct." Kanjuro nodded, his gaze sharp. "What he needs is not a rabid mob, but a blade sharp enough, persistent enough, and with a 'pure' mind because it has undergone the test of killing companions and despair. This blade will carry 'gratitude' toward him and a longing for survival, pointed at me. This, in some cases, might be more useful and unpredictable than his own Code-named members who might have their own agendas."
He looked at Ooka Momiji with deep meaning in his eyes: "So, those who can survive this cold and mutual slaughter, and even stand out, are the'suitable candidates' in Renya Karasuma's eyes who are qualified to face me or even try to 'eliminate' me. Of course, that is merely his wishful thinking."
Ooka Momiji completely understood. This Sunset Annex was not just a cage and a hunting ground, but a giant, cruel forge. Renya Karasuma used cold, hunger, fear, and the rules of mutual slaughter as fuel and anvil, attempting to forge the weapon he wanted. And Kanjuro, the target he viewed as the greatest threat, had not only slipped into the furnace but was also secretly observing all this, even... conveniently shifting the ownership of the materials that might have become 'weapons'.
She remembered Kanjuro's guidance and protection when he was disguised as 'Disguise', and how he had her 'make up her mind'... Could it be that he was also performing some kind of'screening' and'shaping'? This thought made her shudder, yet she couldn't shake it off.
Complex emotions churned in her chest. Fear and disgust toward Renya Karasuma, a deep, unfathomable dread of Kanjuro, and... that already uneradicable dependence and flutter of the heart. She lowered her head, her cheeks burning, not just because of the recent intimacy, but because she realized that between these two powerful and dark existences, she was as small as a pawn, yet swept into the center of the vortex.
She couldn't forget everything that happened before. She couldn't forget the gentleness and protection of "Sister Disguise," and even more so, she couldn't forget Kanjuro's real touch and those specious "truths." Hate? Of course. Fear? It was bone-deep. But there was something even stranger brewing—a twisted identification, a thrill of being swept into the edges of a grand dark narrative, and... an irresistible, abyss-gazing attraction to the devil beside her.
"Let's go." Kanjuro's voice interrupted her thoughts. He had already stood up and stretched his injured arm. Although his movements were slightly stiff, the aura of absolute control had returned. He even casually straightened the damaged, blood-stained trench coat belonging to "Disguise." Even though Kanjuro himself was wearing it now, making it look a bit strange, he didn't care at all.
He reached out his hand to her, his palm broad and knuckles well-defined, carrying scars and a sense of power. It was no longer the slightly slender hand of "Disguise."
"As the temperature rises, it means the final stage is set. Renya Karasuma should be appearing soon, or announcing his chosen 'blade' through some other means." A cold, expectant light flickered in Kanjuro's eyes. "And we should go meet this 'behind-the-scenes director' who has been painstakingly plotting for a hundred years, and while we're at it..."
He paused, taking Ooka Momiji's hesitatingly extended, still somewhat cold hand, and pulled her up with firm strength.
"Continue fighting to survive." He looked at her, the corners of his mouth curling into a faint, enigmatic smile. "Only now, our 'fight' might have a slightly different meaning."
Ooka Momiji used his strength to stand steady, feeling the warmth from his palm, her heart filled with mixed emotions. Survive... Yes, no matter what, she had to survive first. But survive with whom? Survive for what? The answers to these questions were already completely different from when she first entered the Annex.
She took a deep breath of the air that was no longer so cold, trying to suppress the bashfulness, fear, and confusion in her heart, and looked at Kanjuro. He still bore some residual traces of "Disguise's" camouflage, but his gaze and aura were entirely his own. This contradictory image perfectly matched her own conflicted heart at this moment.
"...Mm." She finally nodded, her voice not loud, but carrying a slight tremble of determination. She let go of Kanjuro's hand but stayed by his side.
Kanjuro said no more and took the lead toward the basement exit. His steps were steady, as if the previous injury and cold had not affected him much. Ooka Momiji followed closely behind. Her gaze swept over the body in the corner that had already begun to stiffen, and her heart clenched, but this time, there were no screams or breakdowns—only a cold numbness and a sliver of twisted realization.
The temperature in the Annex was indeed rising, but this "warming" brought no sense of relief; instead, it felt like the brief, oppressive calm before a storm. The final survivors, having undergone the baptism of extreme cold and mutual slaughter, were about to face Renya Karasuma's "Final Selection." And among them, an "anomaly" had slipped in—one who had long seen through everything and was prepared to flip the entire chessboard.
Ooka Momiji didn't know what awaited her ahead. Would she become Renya Karasuma's "blade," or Kanjuro's "possession"? Or would she be reduced to ashes in the final collision between the two? She didn't know. She only knew that at this moment, she had chosen to follow the man beside her down this deepest, darkest path.
To survive. And also... to see clearly what the end of this twisted fate would look like.
One after the other, the two stepped out of the cold basement and back into the Annex corridor, where the light was still dim but seemed to surge with invisible gunpowder smoke. The true finale was about to begin.
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