Chapter 16

  WARNING (18+): This chapter contains adult material and is intended exclusively for readers 18 and older. It includes graphic depictions of physical and psychological violence, as well as explicit dehumanization, which may be deeply disturbing.

  Reader discretion is strongly advised. If you are sensitive to depictions of severe trauma, systematic abuse, or the breakdown of a person’s will, we recommend that you do not continue reading and instead prioritize your emotional well-being.

  The Aftermath of the Fracture

  As she slept, the memories cwed through her mind once more.

  The echo of violent sps against a woman’s face resonated throughout the space.

  "You are an object," a masked man’s voice said, followed by the sharp, dry crack of a blow.

  "I am an object," a woman’s voice replied.

  Then, a sleeping body y beneath the sheets.

  A hand gripped the fabric ever so slightly.

  Then, foreign hands roamed slowly over the body; however, when they reached the chest, they squeezed her breasts with a firm, bruising grip.

  In the dead of night, the hand continued to clutch those sheets, pulling them a little tighter.

  Then, the impact of those sps repeated rhythmically: "You are an object," "You belong to us."

  Immediately after, the echo of submission: "I am an object," "I belong to you."

  The body y in absolute silence, without the slightest hint of movement under the weight of the bnkets.

  Yet, a series of involuntary, unconscious tremors shuddered from within, shattering that stillness.

  Then, deep within the memory, the image materialized: syringes injecting drugs into the girl's body.

  A needle plunged viciously into her shoulder, discharging an unknown substance that sank beneath the skin.

  That same shoulder, peeking out from above the sheets in the present, began to twitch violently.

  She continued to endure those sps under the mantras of "you are an object" and "you are property."

  Unconsciously, her hand tightened its grip on the sheet.

  Then, in the memory, the man’s hand traced the woman’s body with an oppressive slowness.

  After roaming over her chest, it descended along the curve of her waist until it reached her crotch, forcing a faint sigh to escape her lips.

  In the present, her hand clenched the sheet with even more violent force.

  More and more sps repeated without mercy, while her body y naked and exposed upon the chair.

  The same mantras followed in a suffocating loop, repeating over and over with every blow received.

  Under the covers, her body tensed with absolute rigidity, reacting to the violence of the memory.

  Her naked body in the memory tensed upon that table, subdued under the invasive touch of the stranger’s hands.

  Then, another memory of brutal strikes emerged—impacts that repeated with malice while the mantras echoed again with every hit.

  Meanwhile, her hand continued to wring the sheet with blind strength.

  Another memory: she remained seated and naked while the masked man poured wine over her head with absolute indifference.

  The liquid filtered through her hair, soaking it, and ran down her body until everything was stained with the thick, sticky texture of the overturned gss.

  She didn't move a single muscle, rendered a statue of flesh beneath the trail of the wine.

  In the present, the sheets churned over her in involuntary pulses, like an electrical response she could not suppress.

  Her body continued to tense upon that table, subdued by the stranger’s hands as they delved into her forbidden corners.

  It was then that a faint moan escaped her—an involuntary reaction to the invasive touch tracing her skin.

  In the present, her hands gripped the sheets with crushing strength, clinging to the fabric in blind desperation.

  She walked naked, her face hidden behind a mask, forced to parade before a crowd of men who mocked her with cutting ughter.

  They tossed coins at her as if she were a mere spectacle, and some delivered sps to her backside as she moved through that human corridor.

  The men, perched in plush chairs, devoured her with their eyes, lusting after her every step with a heavy, suffocating lechery.

  In the present, her hands clenched the sheet with absolute firmness, digging her fingers into the fabric in a gesture of desperate tension.

  Then, a series of blows struck her cheek, reinforcing those sentences: "You are our property," "You are an object."

  Suddenly, the image of the masked girl on the table faded as the man left the room. Upon opening the door, another individual—removed from the rituals and wearing a different mask—waited outside, impatient to enter.

  "It is done," the masked man leaving the room stated, addressing the newcomer with a cutting coldness.

  "So, I can do whatever I want?" the newcomer asked.

  The first man simply nodded, confirming the permission.

  "As long as she’s left alive," the departing man added, setting the sole condition.

  As one abandoned the room, the other entered with an invisible smirk behind his mask:

  "This is going to get fun."

  The man walking away heard the dry thud of the door closing behind him. He paused for only a second, waiting for the tch to click fully, and then withdrew from the premises.

  Her hands squeezed the sheet with ever-increasing force, wringing the fabric in a climax of tension until, suddenly... she began to release it slowly.

  Amidst the sheets, Amarantha slowly opened her eyes; with a dull, lifeless gaze, she decred:

  "Nothing should affect me anymore."

  Following those words, she closed her eyes with a frigid calm. Her body settled completely, and sleep recimed her once more.

  But no matter how hard she tried to convince herself to forget the memory, her body held onto the trauma, betraying her and making her feel the horror—at times—as if it were that very same day.