"Stop." Genma's voice grated through clenched teeth. If he could have grabbed her wrist to stop her, he would have. He was sweating, shaking. Seeing walls that weren't there, a shimmer of a blank white mask over Rina's face.

Not real. Not real. The pain in his hands was real, the ache in his feet, but that had been just as real a week ago, when the masked torturers and blank concrete walls had been real enough to echo his screams. What was real now, here? The earthy scent of the ink, medicinal and sharp. The whiteness of the sheets. The concern in the girl's eyes. The gentleness with which she'd touched him. That was real. And nothing like Iwa's prison.

He should be used to it. After a week, he should be so accustomed to having his body handled, his injuries examined, that it meant nothing. But up until now it had been only Ito-sensei and two nurses--one for days and one for nights--out of all the staff, who had touched his hands. At least while he was awake.

"What... What are you going to do?"