Fading

Klein’s hand was warm.

His palm was large, his knuckles well-defined, and his grip was steady without being overly forceful. That warmth seeped through his palm—not the scalding heat of a freshly poured cup of tea, but the natural temperature of a human body, perhaps slightly elevated, as if his blood were pumping faster than usual.

Ophelia let him lead her up to the third floor, remaining silent the whole way.

He walked fast—much faster than usual—the sound of his shoes clicking against the stairs sharp and hurried. As they rounded a corner, she was pulled slightly off-balance; his grip on her fingers tightened for a fraction of a second, as if he were afraid she wouldn't keep up.

There was no need. Her physical fitness as a knight was far beyond that; she even had the spare focus to notice a single tuft of hair sticking up at the back of his head.

But his current state was indeed a rare sight.

The laboratory door was slightly ajar. Klein pushed it open, the hinges letting out a faint creak.

The candles inside were still lit—three of them, scattered across different corners of the workbench. Several sheets of scratch paper covered in formulas were spread across the surface, the handwriting so messy that even the person who wrote it probably wouldn't recognize it in two days. A mortar sat in the corner, still containing remnants of silver-gray powder, and several glass stirring rods were leaning haphazardly against a clay jar.

It was a typical 'Klein in the zone' laboratory. It was a methodical mess; every item had its place, even if it looked like random clutter to an outsider.

He let go of her hand, walked around the workbench, and pulled something from the second shelf of the wall rack.

The moment he released her, the residual warmth in her palm didn't dissipate immediately. Ophelia unconsciously curled her fingers before relaxing them again.

It was a glass container. It wasn't large, about the size of a hand's grip, and it was mostly filled with liquid.

Ophelia’s gaze fell upon it.

The color of the liquid was strange. It wasn't transparent, nor was it cloudy; instead, it was an extremely pale blue, so light it was almost white. As the candlelight passed through the glass, tiny glimmers shifted beneath the surface, looking like microscopic particles suspended within, or perhaps like the liquid itself was breathing.

She watched it for a few seconds.

Klein placed the container on the table and produced a clean cotton cloth and a shallow porcelain dish. He arranged the items with efficient, brisk movements, completely lacking his usual leisurely pace.

“Is this what you’ve been working on in the laboratory until now?” Ophelia asked.

“It was only half-finished before tonight.” Klein pushed the porcelain dish to the center of the table and began pouring the liquid. He moved slowly, carefully controlling the amount. “Karen’s symptoms—the tinnitus, the blurred consciousness, the occasional loss of motor control—are all rooted in the things left behind by the sea monsters. They cling to the nerves and slowly eat their way deeper. I’ve had a preliminary concept for this direction for a while, but I was missing a key variable. I found it today while treating him.”

The liquid hit the porcelain dish with a soft sound. The pale blue light spread across the bottom, casting a cold hue along the rim, reminiscent of the thin layer of ice on a river on a winter morning.

“I performed a small-scale test on him. The results were better than expected.” Klein set the container down and screwed the cap back on.

Ophelia looked at the thin layer of liquid in the dish and said nothing.

She already understood why Klein had brought her up here.

It wasn't to 'come see an experimental result' or 'give a progress report.'

He wanted to see if this thing worked on the pollution on her left hand.

Karen was the intermediate step. She was the final destination.

Klein looked up at her. The excitement was still in his eyes, but it was now layered with something else—caution, or rather, a solemn earnestness. It was as if he were afraid she would refuse, yet he had already prepared how to persuade her if she did.

“Ophelia.”

When he used her full name, his tone was always a bit more formal than usual.

“Give me your left hand.”

Ophelia looked down at her left hand.

Her sleeve covered most of it, leaving only her fingertips exposed. The skin around her nails was blackened, and the faint outlines of dense scale patterns could be seen extending from the base of her fingers toward the back of her hand.

She had looked at this hand countless times. The first thing she did every morning upon waking was to check it, confirming whether the spread had changed. It was a habit, not fear. She wasn't afraid of this hand. She just didn't like others seeing it.

She didn't even like looking at it herself.

She slowly pulled her left hand from her sleeve and laid it flat on the table.

The candlelight hit the blackened skin and the dull scales.

Klein’s gaze swept over it, his expression unchanging. He wasn't suppressing a reaction; there simply wasn't one. The way he looked at this hand was exactly the same as the way he looked at her right hand.

She had confirmed this long ago. But every time she did, she still felt a slight tightness in her throat.

She couldn't quite describe the feeling. It wasn't unpleasant. It was just... a bit overwhelming.

Never mind.

Klein reached out and took her wrist.

His fingers rested on the inside of her wrist bone, his thumb pressing down lightly. Was he checking her pulse? No, the position wasn't quite right. He was likely just steadying her. But his thumb pressed against the skin on the side of her wrist that wasn't covered by scales, and his warmth was very distinct.

His other hand picked up the cotton cloth and dipped it into the porcelain dish.

Once the cloth was saturated, its color deepened a shade, turning from white to light blue. The tiny glimmers remained on the cloth, shimmering faintly between the fibers.

He glanced at her.

“If it hurts, tell me.”

Ophelia raised an eyebrow.

“Do you think my pain tolerance is that low?”

“No.” Klein shifted his thumb to a different spot on her wrist bone. “I’m afraid your tolerance is too high, and you won't say anything even if it does hurt.”

She had no retort for that.

She wanted to say 'not likely,' but she realized he was right; that was exactly what she would do.

Klein didn't wait for her response; the cotton cloth was already covering her fingertips.

The moment of first contact was cool. It was cooler than well water, but not an icy cold—it was closer to... peppermint? No, peppermint was sharp; this was seeping. The coolness moved from the surface of the skin inward, slowly passing through layer by layer. It was like something patiently knocking on doors, opening them one by one.

Then came the itching.

At the base of her fingers, where the scale patterns were densest, it began to itch. The itch wasn't on the surface; it was deep, as if something that had been dormant for a long time was being stirred. It wasn't unbearable, but it was enough to be noticed—beneath those scales, something living was responding to this liquid.

Ophelia’s fingers curled slightly.

Klein stopped immediately.

“Pain?”

“No pain. It’s itching.” Ophelia’s voice was level. “Continue.”

Klein reapplied the cloth, moving even slower this time, wiping every inch of the blackened skin. As the liquid seeped in, it made an extremely faint sound—a sizzling, almost inaudible. It was as if two different substances were quietly clashing beneath her skin.

Ophelia stared at her hand.

In the areas the cloth had passed over, the blackened color seemed to... lighten a bit?

She wasn't sure. The candlelight wasn't steady enough; it might have been an optical illusion.

But Klein’s hand stopped.

He stared at a small patch of skin on the outside of her index finger joint, the cloth held still in his hand.

“Do you see it?” his voice was very low. So low it was as if he were afraid of startling something.

Ophelia moved her hand closer.

The scales on that patch of skin—the ones at the very edge—had indeed lightened in color. Not by much, but they had changed from pure black to a dark gray.

A tiny change. So small that it would be completely overlooked if one didn't look closely.

But it was a change.

For the first time in months, the color on this hand was receding.

Ophelia looked at the dark gray edges of those scales, and she suddenly felt an indescribable sensation in her fingertips. It wasn't itching or cooling anymore. It felt as if something beneath that skin had loosened just a little. A very faint, almost negligible loosening.

But she felt it.

Ophelia looked up.

Klein was looking at her.

He didn't smile, nor did he speak. The candlelight hit his face from the side, illuminating one side of his profile while the other fell into a shallow shadow. There was no pride in his eyes, no seeking of credit, no 'look how amazing I am' boasting.

He just looked at her.

Quietly, earnestly, with a certain determined gentleness.

It was as if he were saying: See, I told you. I have a way.

Ophelia opened her mouth.

There was so much she wanted to say. So much she wanted to ask—the components of the liquid? Its stability? The risks of large-scale use? Could the long-term effects be maintained? How many more times would it take? Would there be a rejection reaction?

These questions lined up one after another in her mind. She could have picked any one of them to ask first.

But she found that the first thing she said was—

“Don’t get that stuff on your clothes.”

Klein looked down at the hand holding the cotton cloth; sure enough, it had already brushed against his sleeve. A light blue stain was prominently smeared across his white shirt sleeve, still carrying that faint bioluminescence.

“...Ah.”

His 'ah' carried a hint of annoyance, yet also a hint of complete indifference. It matched his over-excited state perfectly—all concern for image and appearance had been pushed aside for his research results.

He even used his other hand to touch the stain, which instead of wiping it away, smeared the blue even further.

Ophelia couldn't help it; the corner of her mouth twitched.

It was a tiny movement. So fast it was almost invisible.

But Klein saw it.

His gaze moved from the blue stain on his sleeve to her slightly upturned lips, pausing for a second.

Then he began to laugh as well.

It wasn't a loud laugh, but the kind that lit up his eyes first before his lips curved. He leaned back slightly, his shoulders relaxing, still clutching the cloth that was now mostly dyed blue.

A candle in the laboratory popped, as if punctuating the atmosphere.

Outside the window, the night was deep. On the table, the pale blue liquid in the porcelain dish continued to shimmer quietly.

Ophelia withdrew her gaze and looked down at her left hand.

The dark gray at the edges of those scales wasn't very obvious in the candlelight, but she knew it was there.

She slowly curled her fingers and then relaxed them.

She decided that the questions about components, stability, and risks could wait until tomorrow.

Tonight, this news was enough.