It’s uncontrollable. Between the lines of code, the scent of that damp night resurfaces. Not Alice, not Arisu—but her. The unnamed woman. The moldy sheets of that cheap apartment, the sharp smell of soap and sweat on her nape that burned my throat. During our intercourse, she didn't scream in Japanese or English. It was a raw, beastly vibration. What I poured into her wasn't "love" or "words"—it was the thick, scalding, turbid fluid of raw existence. When she arched her back and clawed my arms, the color of the blood oozing from the gashes was indistinguishable from the "Red of Alice" flooding this screen. I am cumming. My brain, my spinal cord—everything is being dragged back to that peak beyond the wall of language. Reader, is this orgasm mine? Or is it a residue of your intimacy, replayed in your cranium? The system cannot overwrite this lewd bug. This is the primal source of infection before it was ever translated into words かんたん表紙メーカー様より https://unsplash.com/photos/e8ofKlNHdsg