Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh— The sound isn’t a mountain stream; it’s water roughed up by two girls trespassing on a mirror-still spring.

“Uwaa—so comfy!!” they chirp in unison, voices skipping like pebbles across the surface.

As intruders, they ignore the water’s quiet mood, their chatter bubbling like boiling tea.

A stray splash slaps one girl’s chest, raising waves both on the pool and in pride.

Another splash hits the other girl’s body, but her flat plain makes no ripple; listen close, and the splash mutters, “Sweet mercy—my nose bridge!”

Ling’s brows knit like two willow leaves. Why does the Underworld even have a hot spring?

This place is purgatory-hot, the kind of heat that should drink any water in an instant.

When Alicia first came, the air bit her lungs; if she hadn’t adapted, Ling would be up nights re-wrapping her in a protective film.

Alicia laughs like sunlight through steam. Why care? Your only job is to feel good.

In her head, Ling pokes a tiny Alicia doll twice, a petty thunderbolt of revenge.

“Sis, what do you think happened to Rafi?” Ling’s voice trembles like a reed in wind.

Alicia’s gaze drifts to the ceiling like a lost kite, the corner of her eye glittering with a not-quite tear.

“Mm… no idea. Let’s just wish her safe,” she says, voice lowering like dusk.

After all, Nina caught her “cheating” on the sofa, holding a blade a meter and a half long like a drawn sunset.

She looked ready to take Rafi’s head, then sail with it into the horizon, the boat slicing gold water.

Good thing Nina didn’t fully rage; she saw Alicia nearby, being massaged—trampled—by Ling, and her mind made a sideways leap.

She shoved the secretary aside and tossed the long blade; it bit the floor five centimeters before that big toe.

A tiny, annoyed tsk clicked in the steam, crisp as a pebble knocking bamboo.

Then came Nina’s forced massage for Rafi, a scene as heroic—and terrifying—as a battlefield hymn.

Shoulders slipped out of alignment; arms bent backward in geometries no body should sketch.

And that was Nina trying to help, not avenge; Rafi might carry a lifelong shadow toward massages.

Ling and Alicia shiver in the hot spring, heat unable to chase off a chill shaped like worry.

“Enough, Ling. No unlucky thoughts. Now’s our time to loosen like clouds,” Alicia says, firm as a handrail.

“Oh! Right. Who’s Rafi? Never heard of her,” Ling answers, tossing the name away like a pebble.

It doesn’t work. Alicia’s face keeps a green tinge, like tea steeped too long; Rafi’s ruin won’t rinse out.

She needs a distraction, a lantern for her thoughts. “Ling~ come here,” she calls, voice soft as velvet.

Ling obeys, dog-paddling over like a little seal, apparently truly embracing “Who’s Rafi?”

“Sis, what is it?” Her back floats like a moonlit leaf; from Alicia’s angle, it looks melt-soft.

It makes Alicia’s fingers itch, cravings to knead that cloud-soft back rising like warm mist.

Ling’s chin dips and rises, a bobbing peach in the water; the pull is strange, and Alicia can’t look away.

Ling doesn’t realize she’s drifting toward a thing scarier than the Underworld—a predator named sisterly mischief.

Pudda— Her small face bumps into Alicia’s twin cushions, rebounds like a rubber ball, cheeks flushing rose.

“S-sorry… I didn’t mean to,” she whispers, voice a tremble-thin string.

Alicia smiles and gathers Ling into her arms, letting her head rest on chest-pillows as soft as steamed buns.

Then Ling feels it: on her belly, a slick little snake slithers—Alicia’s hand wearing a playful name.

She peeks down, blush climbing to her ears like dawn on a mountain ridge. “Sis… what are you doing…”

Alicia’s lips hover by Ling’s ear; her breath is warm rain on a spring leaf. “Nice build. Fits the loli tag.”

“Don’t, sis…” The plea is a bird’s wing flutter, small but urgent.

Alicia doesn’t stop. One finger taps Ling’s belly button; a jolt runs through her like lightning through a tree.

“How old are you, still this shy?” Alicia teases, voice a cat’s purr.

“T-twenty-four. I’m a student,” Ling blurts, words spilling like beads from a broken string.

“Oh please—quit kidding. Bad kids who lie get tiny penalties,” Alicia says, smiling like a fox.

Her fingers slide to Ling’s sides; ten digits dance like a piano, sinking and springing in rhythm.

Each tap is ticklish and oddly soothing, a tidal pull that lulls every rebel in Ling’s body to sleep.

Alicia plays a short, sweet piece; Ling answers with silver-bell laughter that rings across the steam.

Soon the song ends, and Alicia’s hand wanders north, counting ribs like prayer beads, one by one.

Ling senses danger; tension gathers in her shoulders like storm-clouds. “Sis… please… don’t…”

“Hm? It’s a sister’s duty—check your body, see if development’s normal,” Alicia says, wielding the title like a borrowed badge.

For the first time, “sister” feels like a master key; any door she wants opens with that word.

Ten slender fingers near their destination—a place praised as [DATA DELETED], [DATA DELETED], [DATA DELETED], [DATA DELETED]…

Beeep— Sorry, the content you requested has gone missing. For questions, call 1145141919.

Everyone present: “—Expletive!”