The afternoon light slanted through the tall windows of the Yamagata Prefectural Rehabilitation Center, catching the dust motes in lazy spirals. Nagase Mami watched them from her usual spot by the window, her hands resting motionless on the black rims of her wheelchair. At twenty-two, she had been here for eight months. The accident—a fall from a climbing wall, a snapped spinal chord—felt both like yesterday and a lifetime ago.

“Nagase Mami-sama, we have been observing your progress. Your physical resilience is remarkable, but we believe your psychological barriers remain unbroken. We propose a personalized therapy—a single, intense session designed to confront the core of your trauma. Refusal will result in withdrawal of all state-sponsored rehabilitation funds currently allocated to your case.”

“What’s the catch?” she rasped.

Mami ripped it off. She was lying on the bed, her face wet, her heart slamming against her ribs. She looked down at her legs. Nothing had changed. They were still limp. Still dead.

“No,” he said softly. “I want you to strap yourself.”