Welcome to the Pink Spa—
"Shut up."
He didn't speak the words aloud, but his will screamed them into the void. "I know what you're going to say. Don't speak."
On the featureless floor, the child in the pink silk dress sat, curled into himself like a dead insect.
Beneath his bare feet, the floor of the Pink Space hardened, transforming into a reflective surface—a frozen pool of solid pink water.
The child looked down. The reflection was not just that of a weeping child. It was a distorted, grotesque face. The makeup that had been meticulously painted to mask his paleness had now melted away from his tears, leaving black and red streaks dripping down his cheeks like open wounds.
The reflection attempted to smile.
It forced the corners of its mouth upward. The polite smile mask. Number three.
It tried harder, but its lips trembled, and tears erupted from its eyes against its will, washing away the remnants of the mask.
The narrator's voice returned—calm, viscous, and shattered:
"He wants to laugh... he wants to smile... but he weeps. He always weeps."
The child in the mirror hugged his knees even tighter.
"He is just a child. Spoiled. A mama's boy. He is neither girl nor man. He is not human, and not even a cockroach."
The child closed his eyes in the void. He wished he could shrink, dissolve into nothingness, become anything else.
The Pink Space went entirely pitch black.
He opened his eyes.
He wasn't in the cave. He was lying on his back upon the hard snow outside. The blind, white sky pressed down heavily against his chest.
The cold was lethal, shocking, piercing through his flesh to reach the very marrow of his bones.
How many [Tulli] cards had he burned to keep this body alive? He didn't know.
How many metal ration cans had he emptied? Countless. The supplies inside the ring seemed endless—a cruel irony engineered by Aurum to ensure his survival in this torment.
A long time had passed. Too long to be measured by growing beards or scratches on trees.
He no longer screamed. He no longer cursed Aurum, the mountain, or his family.
He was dead. This was his personal hell, and he had accepted it.
Surrender was the only luxury left. He was no Otus to shatter walls with his fists, nor was he a hero. He was a failure, and failures give up. This was the path of the golden spoon, the way of the spoiled child. His only task was to sit here and atone for the sole sin he had ever committed: his own existence.
He pulled a food can from the ring. Raising it to his blistered lips, he began to mechanically suck the cold gel inside.
He stared at the empty can. He wished he could tear into a piece of real meat with his teeth, but there was nothing here except this chemical paste.
His body shuddered violently—the lethal shiver of advanced hypothermia.
Dragging his heavy feet, he crawled back toward the cave.
He pulled a thick blanket from the ring, piled some wood together, and lit a faint, pathetic fire.
He stretched out on the cold stone floor, pulling the blanket up to his chin.
Silence.
He looked at the right wall. Nothing.
He turned to look at the fire. The dancing flames mocked him.
He turned to look up at the gray ceiling.
His eyes grew congested. A sudden heat pooled beneath his eyelids.
I don't want to cry.
He blinked harshly, trying to force the salty fluid back. His eyes turned bloodshot as the tiny veins inside them engorged. He wasn't crying yet, but he stood on the razor-thin edge of a total breakdown.
"Don't cry," he whispered to himself, his voice cracking. "Please... don't cry."
But the dam broke.
The first tear fell, followed by a torrent. He bent forward, burying his face between his knees, and burst into convulsive, ragged sobbing—the weeping of a child abandoned by the entire world.
He didn't move. He remained curled up tightly in front of the dying fire.
An hour.
Two hours.
Three... four hours.
His tears dried up, but he didn't raise his head. He merely stared blankly at the dim embers slowly eating through the wood.
The emptiness was swallowing him alive. He imagined himself becoming a part of that fire—eroding, burning in silence, turning into ash that would scatter through the maze without leaving a single trace.
At that exact, fragile moment—
The stagnant air of the cave was drawn inward.
The sound of a heavy, rhythmic, and calm breath filled the void. A breath that was not his own.
Thud.
The sound of a solid sole striking the stone floor of the cave. A single, heavy step shattered the isolation of the maze.
Then, a sturdy, dust-covered boot lunged directly toward the fire, brutally stomping on the burning logs, crushing the flames and extinguishing them completely in a fraction of a second.
Ash scattered, and near-total darkness reigned, pierced only by the faint light of the snow filtering in from the entrance.
Vanitas's limbs froze entirely.
He raised his head slowly, his eyes widening in pure shock.
A man stood there, blocking out the dim light of the snow.
He wore an outfit of overlapping dark fabric, folded left over right, and wide, pleated trousers that resembled folded wings. His pitch-black hair was long, tied back in a knot, and his eyes were as dark as two hollow voids.
Resting on his left hip was a polished wooden sheath, from which protruded the hilt of a long sword with a wooden blade of lethal fluid design.
Vanitas stared at the man, and into those black eyes.
He didn't scream. He didn't draw a weapon. His final mask shattered completely.
He shrank back aggressively, drawing his knees to his chest and retreating until his trembling back slammed against the icy wall of the cave, trying desperately to hide in the shadows like an insect terrified by the boot of its executioner.