DRIP DROP DRIP DROP.
The rain beat against the windows in a relentless rhythm, a harsh reminder of the chaos that had unfolded. The storm outside was unrelenting, and I was certain beyond any doubt that if I had left Lenora out there any longer, she might not have made it. I tilted my head to check on her. The young white-haired girl stirred faintly, slowly awakening from her fevered sleep. She looked like a wreck, though not entirely so. I had already removed her mud-stained maid uniform and dressed her in something more comfortable—a soft, thin-fabric oxblood nightgown I scavenged from one of the guest rooms in the mansion. The gown was oversized, draping around her frail frame, but it was the best option available given the circumstances.
Her condition had been dire. She was burning up, delirious and weak. She could hardly register her surroundings, so I had to help her bathe. Yes, I did it—because there was no one else who could, and I couldn't leave her like that. I knew how it looked, how it could be perceived, but I did it anyway, because it was necessary. After the bath came the more awkward dilemma: her underwear. The only pieces I found in the wardrobe were too large for her. I couldn't just leave her beneath the nightgown without anything at all. It was a test—a confrontation with the shadows of Anderson's subconscious filth. But I resisted, holding firm. This girl was someone important to him. That much was obvious from the way my hands trembled, refusing to cross that line. She meant something to him. And since I now shared his body, that truth echoed inside me like a warning.
Still, I had to do something. In the end, I washed the undergarments she had been wearing. It was difficult—this clumsy, unfamiliar body wasn't built for delicate tasks—but I managed. Unfortunately, they were still damp, so I was stuck again. Out of desperation, I tried putting one of my shirts on her. Not because I wanted to, but because I had no better alternative. And yes, I know what it looks like. Larson—the man I used to be—had a thing for seeing his girlfriends in his shirts. Every version of him across timelines did. He thought it was adorable, that whole oversized shirt look. And I won't lie… there was a certain charm in it. But I'm not Larson. Or at least, I'm not just him anymore. These memories—his, Lumiea's—they keep getting tangled in my own.
Anyway, the point is, my shirt looked ridiculous on her. It swallowed her whole, more like a blanket than clothing. So I kept searching until I finally found the oxblood gown.
"Don't move," I said sternly, seeing her try to rise. My voice was sharper than I intended, but I couldn't help it. I was mad. Furious at how recklessly she'd thrown herself into harm's way—for me, no less.
How could she sacrifice herself for someone like me? A man whose soul had been inherited from Anderson—a drunken fool, a disgrace of a noble. But I've made my choice. I've taken his body, so I'll take his sins too. But I won't let them define me. I will become something better. A version of Anderson that he himself never imagined possible. For now though, I am still—admittedly—a worthless excuse of a man. That will change.
"…M-Master?" Lenora's voice was uncertain, her eyes scanning her surroundings. She had just realized she was in my bed, properly dressed. It wouldn't take a genius to deduce I was the one who had changed her clothes. After all, except for that stealthy little maid who occasionally brought me meals, there was no one else here.
Speaking of the sneaky maid—I caught her this evening. She tried to bolt, but I managed to call her out just in time. Realizing she'd been seen, she stopped fleeing and accepted her fate.
Suddenly, Lenora tried to sit up.
"Ah!" I chopped her lightly on the forehead. Don't underestimate the size and strength of these hands.
Her usual stoic demeanor crumbled in an instant. Now she just looked like a normal girl.
"If you move again, I will… well, I will…" I trailed off.
"…Punish me?" she offered, a bit too hopefully.
"Yeah, I will… Wait, why do you sound like you want that?" My eyes narrowed. She averted her gaze, saying nothing.
This maid. Tsk. Even in Anderson's memories, she always had this strange sway over him. She could twist him around her finger without even trying. Her deadpan face always lured him into verbal traps, making him look like a fool.
"…Lenora," I said, voice low but firm.
"…M-Master?" she responded, startled by my tone. This was not the Anderson she knew. He had never spoken to her with this kind of seriousness. In fact, it was usually her scolding him after one of his drunken escapades.
But that never stopped him. Anderson was… beyond saving. A full-fledged degenerate. I won't even try to salvage his shattered reputation. That ship has long since sunk.
"Never—and I mean never—sacrifice yourself and your well-being for someone else. Especially not for me." My tone was resolute, my expression hard. "Even if you feel obligated, even if you think it's your duty. I, don't deserve that kind of devotion."
"…Master?" Her voice quivered, clearly shaken.
"Promise me, Lenora. Promise me you'll never again put your happiness and safety on the line because of someone else's expectations. Promise me that from now on, you'll prioritize yourself—even above me."
She looked at me for a long moment. Then, with a soft but steady voice, she said, "No."
"Eh?"