Mami’s throat tightened. “You want to strap me to a bed?”
The afternoon light slanted through the tall windows of the Yamagata Prefectural Rehabilitation Center, catching the dust motes in lazy spirals. Nagase Mami watched them from her usual spot by the window, her hands resting motionless on the black rims of her wheelchair. At twenty-two, she had been here for eight months. The accident—a fall from a climbing wall, a snapped spinal chord—felt both like yesterday and a lifetime ago.
He placed a card on the bedside table. “Next session is Thursday. We try standing.”
The threat was cold, clinical. Her family, already strained by her medical bills, had no idea. The social worker, Tanaka-san, had simply shrugged. “Hoshino-san’s group is… unconventional. But they have government ties. I can’t stop it.”
“No,” he said softly. “I want you to strap yourself.”
“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.”
Mami ripped it off. She was lying on the bed, her face wet, her heart slamming against her ribs. She looked down at her legs. Nothing had changed. They were still limp. Still dead.
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.
Then, the floor dropped.
He left.