"Die..."
Thud!
"Die..."
Thud!
"Die..."
Bam!
Sirin's face was bruised and swollen, her lifeless golden eyes reflecting a hint of numbness.
Of course, she had attempted to counterattack. However, following the same script as before, every time Sirin subdued Kiana, the girl would relentlessly come at her like an unstoppable mad dog. Using any means necessary, Kiana would regain control and repeatedly pin Sirin down for another beating.
Kiana had truly gone insane—this wasn't merely Sirin venting through curses but a stark reality felt from their shared emotions and expressions as two personalities originating from the same being.
"Crack!"
Another punch landed on Sirin's face, causing blood to spurt from her mouth.
On the Memory Battlefield, the pain and injuries experienced by Kiana mirrored those in reality, and naturally, it held true for Sirin as well.
Trembling, Sirin tried to roll over, inadvertently locking eyes with a pair of red, deathly still irises resembling both a wild beast and a monstrous entity oblivious to its own mortality.
This person genuinely wanted her dead, driven by such pure and stubborn determination.
Seizing the moment when Kiana raised her fist, Sirin flipped herself over, shoved Kiana away, and crawled hastily toward safety.
Next time, thought Sirin, trying to convince herself. I'm not mentally prepared this round. Next time, it won't be this difficult.
Meanwhile, Kiana once again staggered back up, relentless like a vengeful ghost, and continued her pursuit of Sirin.
"You...you...don't come any closer ahhh!"
"Die... Die..."
Back and forth, Kiana repeated these simple words over and over—words that encapsulated all her actions.
As their struggle dragged on, so long Sirin began to feel they were the only ones present, a young man clad in a white trench coat appeared behind the bloodied Kiana, wrapping his arms around her from behind.
"That's enough, it's alright."
"You've done wonderfully, exceptionally well."
"Amazing, truly remarkable."
"It's okay, Kiana..."
Zeke spoke each phrase slowly, his deep voice carrying warmth like the gentle spring breeze.
He rarely displayed such emotions, but whenever he did, Kiana felt no one could resist him—not least herself.
"I...I'm almost there, just a little more..." Leaning against Zeke's embrace, Kiana reached out towards Sirin as if unwilling to give up. Unable to help herself, Sirin crawled back another few steps.
"Ahhh!" So close, she was just barely short, yet why couldn't she defeat Sirin? Kiana clutched her head in anguish, letting out a loud wail.
"Sigh—"
Zeke sighed and gently stroked the girl's hair with one hand.
She couldn't kill Sirin. Unlike Wendy or Mei's situations, in a sense, Sirin was the original consciousness within this body—the dominant personality—while Kiana emerged as a secondary persona from Sirin's subconscious.
It was virtually impossible for a secondary persona to eliminate the dominant one; at most, they could suppress it—as Kiana had done now, driven by various profound emotions. But that was her limit; pushing further would yield no additional results.
The most terrifying aspect was that if Sirin's consciousness vanished, Kiana might perish along with her, while Sirin's demise would have little impact on Kiana. This posed the most challenging problem to resolve.
Holding Kiana, Zeke transformed the chaotic world before them into his familiar office setting.
There stood the desk, high chair, sunlight streaming through the window, dust particles dancing in its rays, the reddish-brown sofa near the window, and upon the table before it, tea and delectable cakes awaited.
For both Zeke and Kiana, this scene was as familiar as it could be.
"Fu Hua is still outside. There are some matters we need to discuss just between us, so let's stay here... Close your eyes," Zeke explained, placing the young girl on his lap. With one hand supporting her back, he held a warm, damp towel in the other.
Kiana obediently closed her eyes and tilted her head slightly upward.
Zeke wiped away the messy smudges and bloodstains from her face, patiently cleaning her disheveled hair and battered skin with utmost care.
Soon, the dirty, distressed girl transformed back into her usual clean and adorable self. In this consciousness realm, she could have achieved cleanliness merely by thinking about it, but this ritual helped Kiana find solace and calm.
"Sorry..." Whispering softly against Zeke's chest while embracing his neck, Kiana's voice carried a sorrow never before expressed.
Zeke acknowledged her apology with a gentle "mm-hm," then nonchalantly fed her a bite of cake.
As Kiana chewed on the sweet treat, overwhelmed amidst its fictional sweetness, she stifled sobs to keep from crying out loud.
Zeke sighed deeply, hesitating for a moment before gently stroking her hair and asking, "Why do you apologize?"
"I... I'm sorry..."
"How long have you known?"
"For a very...very long time..."
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
"I...I was scared..."
Scared of being disliked, even more terrified of being resented—being as timid as she was, her only recourse was to bury these fears deep within her heart and maintain a facade of pure, cheerful innocence.
It had been quite some time.
Every time this secret weighed on her mind, she felt so terrified it made her wish for death. Then, desperately, she would cling to Zeke, seeking fleeting comfort from him. But the more she indulged in his indulgence and affection, the greater her fear of this truth became—a vicious cycle.
However, the mask of cheerfulness was indeed formidable; despite how well Zeke knew her, he hadn't quickly noticed anything amiss.
Two individuals fully aware of the truth spending each day together yet never bringing it up—what a peculiar situation.
"Fool."
Zeke gently patted her head, referring not just to Kiana but also himself. Perhaps if they had addressed it earlier, the young girl wouldn't have carried such a heavy burden.
"I'm sorry..."
"There's no need to apologize."
"Zeke's parents..."
"It's true that your lineage cannot be ignored, so I can't say it has nothing to do with you. However, there's no reason to blame yourself either—you weren't even born at that time. I cannot speak for others regarding forgiveness or indifference, but personally, I've never held any resentment towards you."
Zeke spoke with genuine sincerity.
Kiana tilted her head and gently caressed Zeke's face, hesitantly baring her heart: "I'm really afraid... of being disliked by you, Zeke. If you don't like me, I'll die... I truly will..."
"Don't undervalue your own life."
"...I'm not lying," Kiana whispered softly.
Zeke took hold of her delicate hand, feeling its warmth and smoothness as he gently squeezed it.
It was precisely because she wasn't lying that it became troublesome.
She relied on him far too much—Zeke felt both gratified and satisfied yet also somewhat concerned. At this rate, would she ever become independent?
"I don't want to be independent. Without you, Zeke, I wouldn't know how to continue living. I can give up cake and ice cream, pretty dresses, or even a soft bed; I could do without anything, but I cannot live without you. It's true..." Kiana pursed her lips, speaking with such earnest conviction, as if stating an undeniable truth.
Her unguarded confession left Zeke momentarily at a loss for words.