The Choice That Should Not Have Existed

"First, Dietrich."

The very first she had captured, and the first to kill her. Even so, Dietrich had loved Presepe with his whole heart. His methods had been wrong, but she set that aside for now.

But Dietrich could not let go of Presepe's hand. In the end, he chose to die with her.

The moment he understood that Presepe had chosen death beside him, Dietrich coughed blood—and only then smiled, happy.

Next... Grimacing, Presepe started down the stairs and called up Noah Debern, Duke of the North.

Noah had been garbage. Absolute garbage. Dietrich, at least, had a reason!

When the rumor reached him that Presepe was locked in the West Tower of the Imperial Palace, Noah approached her out of nothing but curiosity. To be honest, he had never loved her. He had only wanted to own her—an extension of the same hobby that filled his halls with taxidermied beasts, sculptures, and famous paintings.

As if to prove it, he imprisoned her. She had finally escaped the tower, and for what? That damned bastard. Before long he found a new toy, and Presepe was forgotten. Starved and unraveling, she took her own life in a room crammed with stuffed carcasses. That was the ending of Noah's route.

"Next, Ivan."

Ivan was the Archmage of Atelloia. People called him a lunatic, but his talent was the kind that surfaced once in a century, if that. And with that magic he had broken Presepe—spinning illusions, planting fabricated memories, gnawing her mind down until she could do nothing without him.

"...He's the scariest one."

One floor lower, the next face to surface was Siegfried, commander of the Holy Knights. The last character she had captured. The one who had poured poison down her throat because he wanted to possess her completely.

And after that...

"Atar."

Atar was a prince of the Thein Empire, the realm that lay just beyond Atelloia. He had come to the Imperial Palace for Dietrich's birthday celebration and met Presepe there. A pervert with a grotesque hobby, yes—but on the surface his face was more than passable. His features were exquisite, and his hair and eyes were a color Atelloia almost never saw. Pale pink.

That was why he caught the eye at a glance, and why the Presepe inside the game had taken an interest in him at all. To a girl who had spent her life locked away, a man the color of a pale petal must have seemed a wonder. There was no need to spell it out.

Yes. Like that person, right there ahead.

Coming down the stairs, Presepe stared at the back of the man's head where it showed past the corner, thinking to herself—and then stopped dead.

Why the hell is that pervert here? By the story's pacing, it isn't time to meet him yet.

Was this because things had shifted into Secret Mode? Startled, she backed away. But the Presepe inside the game was, as she had always been, a woman of wretched luck.

"Aaaah!"

Her foot missed the step. She went down hard on her backside, the scream tearing out of her.

"Ow—ow..."

It hurt badly enough to bring tears to her eyes. Head bowed, she let out a short, miserable groan. Wait. He hadn't noticed, had he—

A dark shadow fell across her face.

"My lady."

With that familiar voice, long pale-pink hair like cherry-blossom petals brushed her cheek.

His name, and a long affection window, slowly took shape before her eyes. Then the large hand that had locked shackles around her neck again and again was offered to her.

"Are you all right?"

Even the choices came in every color. Presepe could not pick a single one. She only stared at Atar, face blank with panic.

When no answer came, he clicked his tongue. Bending down, he retrieved one of her shoes from where she lay sprawled, took her slender ankle in his fingers, and slipped it back on.

Presepe flinched.

"..."

The flinch was pure reflex. In her head she cursed him in every way she knew, but this instinctive recoil was beyond her. The cold weight of shackles cinching her whole body, leaving her limp, rose up all at once, and she trembled.

"You don't seem badly hurt."

"..."

"Come. Take my hand and stand."

Atar reached out again, and the windows floating before her eyes began to glow, faint and insistent, as if hurrying her along.

If she meant to capture him again, the correct answer was the second: cast his hand aside. Atar Hanan neither stopped a woman from leaving nor stopped one from coming. He had taken an interest in Presepe as a woman precisely because she was unlike anyone he had met before—she would not let him close, and she barely reacted. It had been conquest, and it had been a contest.

So the second option was out, for now. The first was worse. She never wanted to touch that unhinged pervert of a psychopath again. Just imagining it left a metallic sickness crawling under her skin.

The third... if she stalled, and someone came? If she was caught standing here with Atar? If word of it reached Dietrich...

She had only just sunk into the thought when a noise like a siren split the air.

What—a penalty? She had never heard of anything like it.

The system, as if her circumstances were none of its concern, carved red letters into the air and held them over her like a threat.

What?!

That meant capturing all five of them again before she could return to Secret Mode. That, she would not allow. The brutal endings she had already survived flashed through her, and she lunged for a choice.

There was no helping it. Even the correct answer on Atar's route would not send his affection soaring from a single selection. She was just about to take the second option.

"Lord Atar!"

A man's voice boomed from behind her. Presepe startled—

and selected the last choice by mistake.

W-wait... I picked the wrong one...!

The golden pattern carved along the border of the choice flared.

She delivered the final option with perfect clarity, and far too loudly.

Atar said nothing. More precisely, he seemed to doubt the words he had just heard.

Oh no.

The color drained from her face. Her eyes climbed to the space above his head. Something was wrong.

The affection window began to dim.

And then—

"...Huh?"

Bewildered, Presepe opened her eyes wide. The window was still there, but it had gone dark as a lamp with the light snuffed out. She could not read the number.

"Lord Atar? Is something the matter?"

The voice that had startled her belonged to Atar's guard knight.

"No."

Atar did not so much as glance at him. He waved a hand.

"That will do. Step aside for a moment."

His expression had twisted, just slightly. The knight flinched and retreated well clear of them.

"...My lady."

Only at the sound of his voice did Presepe come back to herself. Her lips moved in a rush.

"No, I—that isn't—I didn't mean to say that."

And then she was babbling.

"I mean it. I was just so startled... that's why I said it. And, um... huh?"

She broke off mid-sentence.

"I'm... I'm talking...?"

Every time before, she had spoken only what was prescribed—only the line written on the choice she selected. That was all she could do inside the game. No matter how she tried to scream, it was useless while the game was running. Not now.

All at once she seized the hem of her dress, clenched it, and pulled with everything she had—

"My lady, what are you—"

"Just stay still a moment!"

He was not what mattered. A harsh rip followed, and a strip of the old dress tore free. That was all. The torn cloth did not restore itself.

Presepe stared at it in her hand, blank.

While the game was running, everything always... went back to the way it was...

She could hack her hair into a ragged bird's nest with scissors, and the moment the game progressed, that long, glossy silver hair would stream in the wind as if mocking her, as though nothing had happened. Cutting her clothes was the same. She had even tried burning them, only for them to snap back in the blink of an eye.

But now...