“Nagase Mami-sama, we have been observing your progress. Your physical resilience is remarkable, but we believe your psychological barriers remain unbroken. We propose a personalized therapy—a single, intense session designed to confront the core of your trauma. Refusal will result in withdrawal of all state-sponsored rehabilitation funds currently allocated to your case.”
He placed a card on the bedside table. “Next session is Thursday. We try standing.”
The instruction was maddeningly simple. He would leave the room. She was to transfer herself from her chair to the hospital bed, secure the ankle restraints to the bed frame—tight enough to feel real but loose enough to release with a single pull of a safety cord—and put on the blindfold. Then, she was to press the red button.
Her breath hitched.
Mami looked from the card to her climbing shoe on the nightstand—how had it gotten here?—and then back to Hoshino.
That was how Mami found herself in a private, soundproofed room on the third floor, a room she had never been allowed into before. The air smelled of new carpet and antiseptic. In the center was a hospital bed, stripped of linens, and beside it, a large, silver case with a combination lock.
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