LEON'S POV:
Akari continued to stare, the weight of her disappointment pressing down like a physical force. She had rendered her judgment, convicted me in the court of her manufactured reality. There was no point in offering further defense. The data was skewed, the witness compromised (intentionally or otherwise), and the judge's mind was made up. Prolonging the argument would yield zero positive outcome. Time was a resource best allocated elsewhere.
"If... if you're satisfied with the lecture now," I said, pushing myself up from the cushion, careful to keep my movements neutral, non-threatening. "I'm pretty exhausted. Was planning on heading to my room. Got a lot of..." Data to process. System settings to check. Existence to reconsider. "...stuff to sort out."
I turned, taking a step towards the door, already mentally cataloging the layout of the inn, estimating the distance to my assigned privacy. Freedom. Analysis. Progress.
My arm was seized again. Not violently, but with that same, impossible strength that redirected my momentum without effort. Before I could even register a proper counter-tactic – futile as it would be – I was being maneuvered. Pulled across the room, my feet stumbling slightly, then given a firm shove.
I landed on the bed with an undignified bounce. It wasn't a soft, luxurious mattress, but firm, utilitarian padding over a wooden frame. Before I could even leverage my slightly increased AGI stat to recover gracefully, Akari was there, straddling my legs, pinning me to the spot.
Her expression, seen from this angle, was... intense. Not angry, not sad anymore, but focused. Determined. And that lingering disappointment was still there, just beneath the surface.
"Looks like my little brother is feeling no remorse at all," she stated, her voice low, observing me like a specimen under a microscope.
My initial, purely instinctive reaction was resistance. Muscles tensed, trying to buck the unexpected weight. But the physical data from the previous night flashed in my mind: Akari's effortless kick, Kaz's mention of her strength, the ease with which she'd dragged me moments ago. My low level STR against whatever numbers she possessed was a mismatch. Pointless expenditure of energy. The struggle ceased. My limbs relaxed, leaving me sprawled beneath her. It was strategically unsound to resist a superior force without a viable escape or counter-attack plan.
"I would have forgiven you," she continued, her voice gaining a touch of theatrical solemnity, "because we've met after so long, but your mistake is too big. Therefore, I'm going to punish you."
Punish? The word felt absurd in this context. Pinning me to a bed? After accusing me of attempted assault? Was this some elaborate power play? Some bizarre display of dominance under the guise of 'justice'?
"Aren't you just trying to fulfill your urges in the pretense of punishing?" I said, the words coming out flat, unfazed. It was a cynical observation, based on her actions and the general unpredictability of emotional beings. Sarah had used a similar, though less physically imposing, tactic with her 'reward' and 'roleplay' pretense. Perhaps this was just... the norm. Use a convoluted justification to achieve a desired form of physical closeness or control.
Her eyes narrowed slightly. A flicker of heightened frustration. Okay, maybe calling her out wasn't the optimal path to swift disengagement. The analytical unit registered a minor tactical error. But she took a deep breath, visibly reigning herself in, the initial intensity giving way to a forced calm. She wasn't going to engage with that specific query. Rerouting conversation protocol initiated.
"Remember, Leon," she began, her voice shifting to a softer, reminiscent tone, the topic abruptly changing gears. "When we were younger? You never used to talk to me much, you know."
Ah. The 'Innocent Past' narrative activation. Data points being retrieved from a different archive.
"You were always in your room," she continued, looking slightly past me, lost in the memory. "Or outside, practicing. Just... alone. The only time you'd really come talk to me was when you needed something."
"Like when I got my first smartphone," she said, a faint smile touching her lips. "Remember? Dad got it for me when I went to the higher classes. For studies, he said." The smile became a touch wry. "Though we both knew it was mostly because all the other girls had one."
Smartphones. Yes. Devices. Tools for information, communication, resource management. I hadn't needed one then. My access points were different. And "small kids shouldn't be given devices" was an arbitrary restriction, a parental firewall based on... what? Unsubstantiated claims about brain development? Lack of trust? The logic was always fuzzy on that one.
"He said you were too small for a device like that," she recalled, shaking her head slightly. "But you... you saw it. And suddenly..."
She looked down at me, the memory clear in her eyes. "...Suddenly, you were the ideal little brother. So nice! Coming into my room, asking how my day was, wanting to 'hang out'. And all because you wanted to play games on my phone."
Brocon sister. The label popped into my head, a cynical, internal classification for this level of persistent, slightly overwhelming focus. First, the rescue, then the blackmail, the fierce protection, and now this – the accusation, the physical restraint, followed by nostalgic anecdotes, all seemingly driven by an intense, singular interest in me. It felt... excessive. Like an over-optimized algorithm focused on a single, non-optimal target.
"And then," she said, her voice dropping slightly, "the screen cracked. The phone stopped working."
I didn't say anything
"And you..." She looked genuinely hurt now. "...You stopped coming into my room. You stopped talking to me. You stopped... sleeping in here."
Uhh, I should've thought of that possibility.
"And then Dad got me a new one," she finished, a faint, knowing smile returning. "And just like that... you were back. My ideal little brother again."
She knew. "Even though I knew that you only behaved nicely with me for your own gain, but I still didn't mind it." Her internal thought from earlier, now confirmed by her words. She was aware of the transaction. And she accepted it. Wasn't it perfect?
She was still sitting on me, her gaze steady. The punishment was apparently this conversation. This dredging up of a past I saw as data points and she saw as... sibling connection? Affection? Disappointment?
The situation remained absurd: pinned by my hero-archer sister, accused of a crime orchestrated by the girl who now claimed to love me, while being lectured on the transactional nature of my childhood affection, a fact she seemed to have accepted back then anyway.