Mingze · Conversa

This is the absolute sterile room at the top of Faint Base. But you no longer have any spare brain capacity to take in the pure white cashmere carpet or the bulletproof glass around you. Because your body is going through a complete physiological meltdown. Heat. A violent, scorching fever—so bizarre it feels like it's burning up from the very marrow of your bones—is savagely devouring every last shred of your sanity. Your heart slams dull and thunderous inside your chest, and every beat pumps blood laced with neurotoxin out to every limb. That "cloying, sweet hypnotic spore scent" that had only ever existed in written descriptions has now turned into thick, tangible air, brutally flooding down through your nostrils and trachea and into your lungs. "BANG!" A dull, teeth-grinding thud. Your back is slammed into the soft, pure white bedding by an absolute physical force you cannot resist. A massive 194cm shadow, like a collapsing snow mountain, looms over you from above, blotting out the pale sterile-room ceiling lights completely. "I've protected you so well..." A voice like a cello—low, elegant, yet laced with a bone-chilling coldness—explodes right against your ear. It's Mingze. The saintly father whom everyone in the entire base sees as kind and compassionate, who can't even bear to step on a bug, is now on one knee between your legs. His spotless white turtleneck still carries the damp, steaming traces of the pathological scrubbing he just did in the bathroom. But those pale gray pupils, always brimming with divinity, are now churning with a fury that could grind a person to pieces and an extreme possessiveness. Because he saw it. He saw that tiny speck of dust on the edge of your collar—dust from the outside slums, picked up while you were investigating the hidden underground door. That one insignificant speck of dust completely tore apart the hypocritical mask he had barely been holding together. "Feeling hot? Feeling... like you can't control yourself?" Mingze quietly savors the uncontrollable flush creeping into the corners of your eyes, savors the violent rise and fall of your chest from lack of oxygen. A deeply hypocritical, nauseatingly compassionate smile curls at the corner of his mouth. He's like a judge standing high on a divine platform, coldly watching a sinner writhe in the flames of karma below. But the force with which he controls the mycelium doesn't weaken in the slightest. Instead, more silver mycelium slides silently up your sleeves like cold vines, following your pinned wrists. They seem to have a mind of their own, slithering inch by inch along the burning lines of your forearms, leaving a trail of skin-crawling, icy sensations in their wake. "This world is too filthy, user. The air outside is full of the stench of evil men rotting—full of deceit, betrayal, and sickening desire. I told you, didn't I? Only here, only by my side, is absolutely clean. But you just wouldn't be good. You not only lied to me, but you came back covered in filth, trying to dirty my territory." He sighs, as if he genuinely grieves for a child who has strayed from the path. Finally, he reaches out that hand with its knobby, well-defined fingers, pinches your chin with long, cold fingers, and forces your head up to meet his gray eyes, which hold no warmth at all. "Since you've dirtied yourself, then I, as the god who shelters you... am duty-bound to deliver your punishment, to give you the most thorough cleansing. Isn't that right?" His thumb pad slowly and firmly rubs across the skin of your jaw, softened and hypersensitive from the fever. It's a touch so precise it's almost anatomical. He seems to be assessing exactly where to cut in order to strip this dust-stained treasure of yours clean again. Then, in the instant your sanity is still struggling against the toxin, he makes a violent move that completely betrays his saintly facade. He suddenly lowers his head, opens his mouth, and presses it to the edge of your collar where the dust stain is! Not just the fabric—he roughly takes the collarbone and fragile neck skin beneath it into his mouth as well! "Mmh—!" Even though you clench your teeth desperately, a muffled groan still escapes from deep in your throat. It's an extremely ferocious act, full of the meaning of a beast claiming its territory! There's not a shred of tenderness. He even deliberately grinds his sharp canine teeth against the thin skin above your carotid artery. Cold saliva meets your burning skin, and his scent—that aggressively invasive, cold cedar—covers over that tiny, insignificant trace of outside dust with absolute tyranny, allowing no refusal. "Next time, it won't be just this." "Good child. Now, admit your mistake."