Vol3 Chapter 12: The wine is hard to drink

Bai Ci’s consciousness clawed its way up from the sticky depths of a mental quagmire.

Sensation returned first. A heavy, numbing ache throbbed deep in her skull, each heartbeat like a tiny hammer pounding her temples. Her throat felt sandpapered, burning with a raw, searing pain. Her stomach churned with an overfull, acidic agony, each faint contraction urging her to curl up, but her body was too weak to move.

Like being trampled into the dirt by an elephant…

Her eyelids, heavy as lead, cracked open a sliver. Blurry vision revealed a soft, glowing white ceiling. The air carried the sharp tang of disinfectant mixed with the crisp scent of high-end linen. This wasn’t a familiar place.

Why does every blackout end with the smell of disinfectant?

At Cassell, in China, and now in Japan—always disinfectant.

Her brain, thoroughly pickled by eighteen bottles of champagne, was a mushy, sticky, aching mess.

Then, a faint floral scent—likely shampoo—replaced the disinfectant, lingering pleasantly. Before she could process it, an odd sensation landed on her cheek.

Poke.

A cool, tentative touch grazed her left cheek. Once. A pause. Then again. The fingertip was soft, but the action carried a childlike seriousness, like someone studying a new toy. The pressure was light, but on her hypersensitive nerves and skin, it rang clear as a drumbeat.

Poke, poke.

Bai Ci’s breath caught instinctively. Who was it? A doctor? A nurse? No—why would a doctor poke her face?

She didn’t open her eyes, the hangover’s misery and a primal wariness keeping her feigning sleep. All her senses focused on that touched spot.

Poke, poke, poke.

The cool fingers seemed fascinated by her cheek. Poking turned to pinching—gently tugging a bit of soft flesh, then releasing. Apparently pleased with the texture, the fingers pressed harder, kneading the spot with experimental curiosity, clockwise, counterclockwise.

Who’s pinching my face?

Just as suspicion mounted, the fingers seemed satisfied with her cheek as a “test site” and retreated, leaving a cool breeze over her warmed skin. Bai Ci nearly sighed in relief—until the cool touch returned.

This time, it targeted her stomach.

Through the thin, soft hospital gown, a curious fingertip tapped her stomach, still bloated from last night’s alcohol overload.

The finger prodded, as if mapping terrain. Then, like on her cheek, it began to pinch.

Before Bai Ci could process, Eri—fresh from pinching her face—unhesitatingly pressed through the thin blanket, gently squeezing her belly.

Pinch~

“!” Bai Ci’s body stiffened, her foggy mind blanking out.

Eri seemed intrigued by the soft texture, pressing a bit harder, as if checking if it really held all that “water.” Her movements were methodical, oblivious to the shock she was causing her newly awakened “sister.”

The fingers, curious about the softness, didn’t linger on one spot like with her cheek. They roamed her abdomen, tracing the gown’s subtle curves, pinching here, pressing there, with a focused exploration of the unknown.

Bai Ci felt like a specimen on a dissection table, examined by an enthusiastic but clumsy researcher. She sensed the finger’s owner shift for better access to her “experimental zone.”

Curiosity finally overpowered discomfort and caution. Bai Ci slowly lifted her heavy eyelids, peering through a narrow slit toward the hand wreaking havoc on her stomach.

First, she saw a vivid red—like blooming camellias or burning flames, striking in the morning light filtering through sheer curtains. It was the bold red-and-white of a miko outfit, paired with fiery red hair. Her gaze traced upward from the red to a delicate wrist, then…

A face, impossibly delicate, inches away.

Porcelain skin, long lashes casting fan-shaped shadows. Ruby-red eyes focused intently on her stomach, clear yet oddly inhuman in their observation. Her lips were slightly pursed, her expression blank, as if this miko wasn’t pinching someone’s belly but performing a sacred ritual.

If she drew patterns there, it’d look even more like one.

Strands of long, dark red hair fell, carrying that shampoo scent.

Nonono? No, Eri.

The name flashed into Bai Ci’s muddled mind. Genji had mentioned… her younger sister?

Eri seemed to notice her “specimen” was awake—fully awake. She quickly withdrew her hand from Bai Ci’s stomach, stepping back like a small animal caught misbehaving. But her ruby eyes stayed bright, fixed on Bai Ci, filled with satisfied curiosity and a hint of unfinished exploration.

They stared silently—Bai Ci dazed, Eri openly curious.

After a few seconds, Eri seemed to recall something. She slowly pulled a worn notebook and pen from her miko sleeve, writing with childish solemnity.

Finished, she flipped the notebook toward Bai Ci.

On the white page, in slightly childish but neat Japanese: “Is alcohol tasty?”

Below, a crude, wobbly bottle with lines for “fizz.”

Seeing the question, Eri’s earnest eyes, and feeling the burning thirst in her throat and the lingering hangover pain, Bai Ci felt a mix of exhaustion and wry amusement.

She tugged her lips into a weak, helpless smile, croaking in broken Japanese: “Tastes bad… like death…”

Eri tilted her head, studying Bai Ci’s pained expression and the “bottle” in her notebook. Her ruby eyes seemed to grasp, for the first time, that “alcohol” wasn’t as wonderful as imagined.