Nathan’s eyes were still wide open.
His forehead burned while the back of his skull felt like it was being crushed inward.
His eyelids trembled—as if they were trying to kiss each other.
A poetic representation of a mind collapsing under the weight of incomprehensible information.
The Tower Manager smiled.
Nathan’s eyelids finally met—sealed in a tender, defeated kiss.
He collapsed to the side, curling up like a fetus drifting within the womb of broken consciousness.
The Tower Manager knelt beside him.
She took his hand gently, then eased the back of his head onto her left palm— like she was cradling a corrupted saint.
Her black lips still curled into a smile.
Her right hand floated slowly toward Nathan’s face.
She gripped his cheek—firm, unhesitating—
molding his lips into the shape of a fish freshly yanked out of divine water.
"How adorable," she muttered,
shaking his face softly.
"I want to squeeze you... Destroy you..."
Then she loosened her grip, releasing his face.
With the back of her index finger, she stroked his cheek—soft, reverent.
"And the more I want to destroy you," she whispered, "the more I want to protect you..." she smiled.
A panel appeared beside her.
[WARNING: Subject #000 soul integrity has dropped below 17%.]
[Emergency protocol activated.]
[Partial memory extraction required to stabilize core.]
The Tower Manager kept staring at Nathan’s unconscious face—
frozen in an embrace that belonged to a goddess of soul protection who had failed her only job.
Another panel blinked into existence:
[Extract majority of soul-bound memory clusters.]
[Leave one fragment: The memory of Earth’s cycle before this cycle.]
Her eyes blinked once.
Then her lips trembled.
"How strange... I used to be forbidden from even touching humans," she murmured, still caressing Nathan’s face with the gentleness of a defunct myth.
The system responded calmly:
[This procedure is calibrated according to the principles of The One Who Made the Earth.]
[Stabilizing the subject is critical to the success of this cycle.]
[Compliance from Tower Manager is expected.]
"’Expected to comply’..." she echoed, her voice raspy and cold.
Her thumb brushed Nathan’s lips—gently—
as if healing a crack on the sacred symbol of the last human that mattered.
In a voice so soft it could’ve been mistaken for static from a forgotten dream, she whispered:
"The system cares for you... even though you’re a mistake.
The foundation of The One Who Made the Earth... it’s placing a hope on you."
She looked up at the panel—just for a second.
A bitter smile curled on her face.
"I was created by Him to become something greater than humans," she whispered.
"But in the end, I started learning how to be human—because of a single glitch in the system."
Her eyes returned to Nathan.
The finger stroking his cheek lifted.
Then her index finger moved—slowly, deliberately—toward Nathan’s forehead.
The Tower Manager kept staring at Nathan’s face— then her eyes shifted slowly toward the blinking system panel beside her.
"System..." she said. "Why won’t you let me strengthen his brain? So he could bear all this. So he wouldn’t collapse ."
The panel replied, without delay:
[Granting superior cognitive capacity risks moral deviation and potential misuse by Bugged Hunter.]
The Tower Manager went silent.
But a short, bitter chuckle— like someone who just realized she’s no longer a free entity, just a leftover line of code from a myth no one prays to anymore.
Her lips, once curled in mock amusement, pressed shut. Her eyes focused again—sharp, trained on Nathan.
The wind didn’t blow.
Yet her long hair began to float.
Lifted—slowly, like strands of forgiveness reluctant to touch the earth.
Time remained frozen.
Color remained absent.
The world stayed grey.
In that hushed limbo, the Tower Manager raised her right hand— and with the tip of her index finger, gently touched Nathan’s forehead.
Something slid out from inside Nathan—thin, long, and black as void.
Like a thread—but pulsing, life.
Like a shard of high school nostalgia you can’t recreate, even if you invite every friend back for a perfect reunion.
The thread spiraled into the air, twisting slowly,bas if searching for the end of a world that never existed.
The Tower Manager said nothing.
Her eyes locked in quiet concentration—cold, yet tender, like a nun pulling a soul from an altar she was never meant to touch.
In a time that refused to move, the black threads continued emerging— twisting, dancing, weaving around one another.
Until they fused at the tip of her finger,
forming a small black orb— compact, solid, and sturdier than democracy in a third-world country.
Floating—like a miniature planet holding the secrets of humanity in one grand cycle of failure.
The Tower Manager looked at the orb.
"These... are all his memories..."
Her right hand opened.
The black orb hovered above it, like a ninja power-up from an anime that had long been hijacked by alien metaphysics.
The Tower Manager stared at the black orb floating above her palm.
As if every sound in this entire cycle was holding its breath.
She tilted her head slightly, then glanced at the floating system panel beside her.
"...What should I do with this?"
The panel answered instantly:
[Object: Soul Memory Fragment]
[Authority: Tower Manager]
[Decision: Up to you.]
The panel said nothing more.
It simply blinked—slow and deliberate—like the eye of a machine that knew too much and chose silence instead.
Her gaze returned to the black orb.
Then to Nathan’s face— asleep, folded into himself like someone freshly reborn but without a world to live in.
"...Then so be it," she whispered.
Slowly, she pinched the orb between her thumb and index finger, and brought it toward her lips.
Her black-painted lips parted wide— and she pushed the orb inside her mouth.
Her head tilted upward, neck pale as fallen snow—brevealing a lump the size of the orb sliding down her throat.
Then her eyes turned pitch-black—bnot empty, but overfilled. Her milk-white breasts heaved wildly.
"Ha... ahahha... ahahahh...."
She started laughing.
Her left hand still cradled Nathan’s head—while her right arm stretched toward the heavens, her chin raised again in exaltation.
"Poor soul... Hahhah..."
Her laughter dimmed, warped by ache.
Her outstretched arm bent slowly—elbow curling, hand drifting downward until her palm rested over her eyes.
"Even after thousands of cycles... you always end up smothered by loneliness," she sneered.
"Always judging yourself, humiliating yourself first— just because you’re afraid others might do it before you, AHAHAHAHAH!"
Her laughter erupted again— like a church bell being beaten by grief instead of time.
Her right hand moved again—slowly—toward Nathan’s face. The pitch-black in her eyes faded, returning to their usual color. Her expression softened as she leaned forward, gazing at the unconscious dude below her.
"Congratulations," she whispered.
"You’re special now. You’ve become special—because of a mistake."
She pinched his cheek gently— like a mother doting on a child she both loved and pitied.
"You’ve become the system’s hope,"
the Tower Manager let out a soft chuckle,
"And maybe... just maybe, you’ll keep me from ever witnessing the filthy sins of your ancestors again."
Nathan stirred slightly.
His eyelids opened slowly—like worn-out curtains being forced apart by a morning that didn’t want to happen.
The light wasn’t blinding, but it slapped his overloaded brain like a passive-aggressive sunrise.
A hand. Soft. Warm. Divine. Wrapped around his body.
The Tower Manager pulled him into her arms— tight, protective, and disturbingly... motherly.
Her pale white chin rested on top of his head. One hand supported the back of his neck.
The other gently patted the crown of his head— like a mother comforting a crying child who just lost his favorite toy.
"There, there..." she whispered.
Nathan’s face pressed directly into her chest— soft, warm, enormous— two sacred moons of milk that seemed custom-made to cradle existential collapse.
His body stiffened. His mind screamed.
His soul spiraled in confusion.
His hands trembled—then pushed against her chest.
"Stop...!" His voice cracked. "Enough... stop it...!"
He shoved harder—enough to break free from the overwhelming warmth.
He staggered back, panting.
And amidst the collapse of logic and memory, a strange silence slipped in—like the world was mourning something sacred.
His eyes met hers— wide open, trembling, filled with questions he didn’t even know how to put into words.
The Tower Manager only smiled.
But not her usual smile.
Not seductive. Not cryptic.
Her lips—black as void—moved. And her voice, once soaked in arrogance, now played in a softer, almost lovely tune.
Nathan heard her words.
"How... just... how do you know that sentence?"