The morning sun did little to dispel the dread of the previous night's fiery concoction. The moment I felt the urge to piss, I bolted towards the toilet with a speed born of pure terror. AGH! The searing, agonizing burn was even worse than I had imagined. Fuck liquid capsaicin with the fury of a thousand suns. I truly hated my existence in that moment. Thank the benevolent deities for my foresight in installing that bidet. Without its soothing spray, I was certain I would have dissolved into a puddle of whimpering despair. As it was, tears welled in my eyes.

Even after a prolonged and generous bidet session, the phantom pain was persistent. It felt like tiny capsaicin demons were still tap-dancing on my urethra. A quick, lukewarm shower offered a modicum of relief, but the dread returned the moment I stepped out and began drying myself in the bedroom. There it was, perched innocently on my bedside table, a short philosophy book. Fuck!

Seventy-two hours to absorb its philosophical wisdom, and I had squandered a significant portion of that time yesterday. I had to admit, though, that Levi's bizarre turmeric and ginger concoction had, actually mitigated the worst of the hangover. My skull wasn't throbbing, for which I was eternally grateful.

I snatched the book from the table, a note attached to the first page catching my eye. In Levi's pristine handwriting, a post-it declared: "The very first book on philosophy. A necessary step for your future reading."

'Future'? The condescending bastard! Why, oh why, had I ever agreed to this ridiculous "niceness" rule? Oh, right. I hadn't agreed. That manipulative son of a bitch, had subtly, expertly maneuvered me into implementing those deterrents.

I reluctantly picked up the offending book and retreated back to the relative comfort of the bed.

Oh my god. Oh. My. God.

This wasn't even a discussion of ethics or morality, no grand debates about the nature of good and evil. This… this was about things. Like, how 'things' are fundamentally 'things' that have shaped other 'things.' Utterly antiquated shit. My brain felt like a tangled ball of yarn confronted with a particularly slippery and nonsensical strand. It was simply incapable of grasping the thingness of it all. With a sigh of resignation, I flipped to the back of the book, hoping for some enlightening biographical information about the author. Yeah… 'The Father of Philosophy.' Fuck you, ancient dude. You and your obsession with the fundamental 'thingness' of 'things.' My forty eight hours were already looking like an eternity of incomprehensible 'thing' contemplation.

I valiantly attempted to wade through at least fifteen pages of this dull eighty-page tome. My god. Was I… a goldfish? I always compared my attention span to that of a tiny, shimmering fish, but was it actually a biological reality? I mean… this philosophical drivel was mind-numbingly, soul-crushingly boring as fuck! As I deciphered one of the seemingly endless footnotes, I discovered that this ancient dude had apparently pondered something called 'fuzzy logic,' and it was somehow being used in modern computer systems and artificial intelligence? The actual hell? Oh my god… I was so far out of my intellectual depth.

Maybe… maybe I should just swallow my pride and go grovel at Levi's feet, begging him to reconsider this particular form of deterrent. Anything, anything, would be better than another hour wrestling with the 'thingness' of 'things.'

You know how sometimes when you're reading fiction; the images in your head just won't solidify, the focus keeps slipping, or the writing is so convoluted it actively repels comprehension? Well, this isn't even that kind of frustrating. This is… emptiness. There's nothing here to conjure! Random assortments of letters strung together in what I assume are sentences, but they convey absolutely zero meaning. My brain keeps trying to latch onto something, anything, but it just slides off. I can't understand a single, solitary thing. It's just… rambling! Ancient, dusty rambling about 'things'! My brain feels like it's trying to process static.

I should just go and beg Levi, get down on my knees and plead for a different form of intellectual torture. No, that devil would savor my humiliation. He'd probably offer me another book, something even more foundational. Then I guess I have to beg harder. Maybe offer him something… something he actually wants. My dignity? Probably not enough. He already has it.

Pride be damned. Dignity could take a sabbatical. I was going full-scale begging. Tears and snot. The whole pathetic, humiliating nine yards. I placed the offending book back in the bedside drawer, as if putting it away would somehow lessen its insidious influence. I emerged from the master bedroom, my hair still damp from the emergency shower, my damp bathrobe clinging to me like a second, soggy skin. Time to grovel.

Levi was ensconced on the living room couch, looking utterly at peace as he absorbed the contents of a rather intimidatingly thick astronomical textbook. Maybe I should be grateful he hadn’t pushed for astrophysics? No, Raphael, you are a goldfish. A tiny, forgetful creature with the intellectual capacity of a damp sponge. You can't even manage to wade through eighty pages of antique philosophical rambling. Time to swallow what little pride remained and unleash the waterworks.

I approached Levi, standing tall, knowing full well that my knees were about to make intimate acquaintance with the rug.

"Levi, please…" I began, "I simply cannot… comprehend that book. Please, I beg you, pick another form of… deterrent. Anything would be preferable."

Levi, with theatrical slowness, placed his metallic bookmark between the thick pages of the book. The subsequent thud as the heavy volume closed echoed in the room. Yeah, that thud? It fucking mocked me, I swear. I could feel its smug reverberations deep in my soul.

He then slowly lifted his gaze to meet mine, and leaned back against the plush cushions of the couch. Ah, yes. He was savoring every single moment of my utter desperation and impending humiliation. Whatever. I had already mentally donned my metaphorical sackcloth and ashes. Unleash the punishment, oh cruel and intellectual overlord.

"As predicted, you not only flagrantly disregarded the tenets of the 'niceness' rule in a mere forty-eight hours, but have also, with remarkable expediency, decided to abandon the designated deterrent in… I extrapolate… approximately thirty minutes?" Levi said. "Let me be clear, Pulla; I am… disappointed."

Ouch. Okay, it really stings. More than I expected, actually. He sounds… genuinely let down. But… he’s not wrong. I am being a lazy, intellectually avoidant brat. And disappointing Levi… that actually stings more than I’d like to admit. Now I feel guilty. Great. Just what I needed – capsaicin burning my insides and a healthy dose of Levi-induced guilt.

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"Levi," I began, my voice a little shaky, "I truly did try. I spent a good… chunk of time with that book, but I couldn't grasp anything. Really. This isn't just me being lazy or trying to weasel out of it. It was… it was like trying to catch smoke with bare hands. Every time I thought I had ahold of something, it just… dissolved. Please, Levi… surely there's some other deterrent you could impose? Something… less… fundamentally incomprehensible?"

If this carefully crafted plea didn't elicit a flicker of mercy, I was fully prepared to debase myself in the most spectacular fashion.

Levi expelled a slow breath. "I concede your point," he stated, his tone flat. "There is demonstrably little efficacy in compelling you to engage with intellectual material that remains wholly beyond your grasp. Therefore, Raphael, in my boundless magnanimity, I will grant you a singular opportunity for reprieve. However," his gaze sharpened, "you must propose a viable alternative deterrent. And let me be clear; should you once again fail to adhere to the 'niceness' rule, the subsequent intellectual challenge will not be a mere foundational text, but a work of utterly abstract, and arguably far more torturous, contemporary philosophy. Are we in absolute agreement?"

Contemporary philosophy? Oh, gods. That's just layers upon layers of jargon and theories that probably don't even make sense to the people who write them. Okay, panic later. Focus, Raphael, focus. He wants an alternative deterrent. Something 'efficacious.' What the hell does that even mean in Levi-speak? Something that will actually stop me from being… myself?

"Levi…" I began, "there is absolutely no way my brain is equipped to handle those kinds of books. You know that. Honestly," I confessed, feeling utterly defeated, "I don't even have a coherent idea for this… this one-time alternative deterrent you're offering."

"So

, you will not even… attempt to formulate a suggestion?"

Ouch. That quiet, almost resigned tone was far more cutting than any shout.

"I… I honestly don't know what else you could possibly do," I admitted. "Anything even remotely intellectual just seems to… ricochet right off my skull. But… maybe something physical? I mean, your punishment is enduring energy drinks you despise. Perhaps a similar physical… unpleasantness for me? Please, Levi…"

Please, gods, let this work. Let him see the logic in physical suffering over mental annihilation.

Levi tapped his fingers thoughtfully on the arm of the couch. Yeah… maybe… just maybe… this was actually sticking.

"Very well," he conceded. "As for a physical deterrent, given your dust allergy and your vehement, frankly inexcusable, aversion to even the most basic of household chores – a deficiency I have noted previously and find entirely unacceptable for an adult of your age – your deterrent will be the thorough cleaning of this entire residence. Are we clear on this?"

It had stuck. The philosophical bullet had been dodged. But… at what cost? He had told me repeatedly that I needed to acquire some rudimentary domestic skills, given my frankly appalling incompetence in that arena. Shit. Maybe wrestling with the fundamental 'thingness' of 'things' wouldn't have been quite so bad after all. No. No, it would have been infinitely worse. Cleaning the house, at least offered the possibility of background noise. I could blast some mindless television to wage a simultaneous war against both dust bunnies and boredom. Fine. Cleaning the house it was.

"Yeah… I will clean the entire house, Levi. Thank you."

"Now, dear," he added, his tone softening slightly, "please do ensure you dry your hair properly. We wouldn't want you exacerbating your allergies."

Dry my hair. Because the impending dust apocalypse I'm about to unleash isn't going to trigger a full-blown respiratory meltdown. Honestly, his concern is almost… sweet. In a detached, Levi-like way. No more existential dread about 'things.' Just actual, tangible dust bunnies to vanquish. And maybe, just maybe, if I do a truly spectacular job, he'll be… impressed? Or at least less disappointed. Gods, I'm actually looking forward to wielding a duster. The philosophical abyss truly does strange things to a man.

I perched on the edge of the couch, turning to Levi with a charmingly sheepish grin. "You dry my hair," I requested. He fixed me with a look that clearly communicated, 'You are behaving like a toddler,' but, with a soft sigh, he nonetheless obliged. His hands patted my damp hair with a soft towel. "Truly, dear," he murmured, "please put on some proper clothes. You might catch a chill."

"Yeah…" I agreed. "The fall really snuck up on us this year, didn't it? It doesn’t snow in the capital. But back home, in Cyrusia… the first snowfalls were always so beautiful." I added, the words slipping out almost unbidden. I hadn't consciously been thinking about them, but I guessed my family had been lurking in the back of my mind. Last night, fueled by kava-induced self-loathing, I had made a decision, a promise to myself that I would reach out.

"Oh? Snow… Snow…" Levi murmured absently as he continued to pat my hair dry. "Hm… I wonder if the early snowfall will significantly impact the ongoing civil war… thereby, the flow of refugees," he mused, his brow furrowing before he refocused his attention on me. "Dear, if you find yourself longing for the sight of snow, we can certainly arrange a visit to the Ascarian mountains. You do, after all, own the entirety of that range."

"Levi," I admitted, the words catching slightly in my throat, "my… longing wasn't entirely for the beauty of the snow, but more for the internal debate I've been having about reaching out to my family." I paused. "Also… why did you specifically bequeath those mountains to me?"

"Hm…" Levi hummed as he finished drying my hair and set the towel aside. "Several factors influenced that decision," he began, his tone measured. "Firstly, had my… previous attempt at self-termination been successful, the Ascarian mountains, due to our regrettably archaic inheritance laws, would have likely reverted to my mother as part of the Duchy's holdings. Alternatively, there was a distinct possibility they would have become public land, owned and controlled by the government." He paused, his gaze direct. "Secondly, the Aether Bloom, as you are aware, constitutes the single largest source of revenue for my company. Ensuring its continued cultivation and controlled distribution was paramount." He hesitated for a fraction of a second. "And thirdly… I wanted to ensure that you would not have to concern yourself with financial instability after my death."

Even now, after everything, that casual acceptance of… not being here… it still sends a shiver down my spine. He really thought he wouldn't be here. And he was making arrangements. For me. He wanted me to be okay. Even if he wasn't. Even if he… I swallowed hard, pushing the thought away. Maybe that longing for the snow wasn't just about the past. Maybe it's about the future. A future where I finally face them, standing on land that's technically mine, thanks to a man who didn't think he'd be around to see it.

"Yeah… I kinda… deduced that much," I managed, my voice thick. "You practically handed me the keys to your biggest moneymaker… and… yeah… you also neatly ensured your company wouldn't implode in your absence…"

Levi's warm hand gently cradled my cheek. "Dear," he murmured, his gaze soft, "I am alright. I am here. I continue to see my therapist, and I remain clean… Please, do not allow yourself to become consumed by worry."

"It's not just… worry," I corrected him, my own hand covering his on my cheek. "It's… sadness. Thinking about… that time."

"Ah, my dear Pulla," he sighed, his thumb now tracing circles on my cheek, "but I am here. Truly. And I will be with you, just as I promised, if you wish to see your family.”

"Thank you, Levi."

He offered me a small smile. "Now, dear," he said, his tone gentle but firm, "please get dressed and have some breakfast."

Well… I couldn't exactly argue with that logic. The volume of questionable alcohol consumed the previous night likely required a substantial and immediate counteroffensive of carbohydrates and protein. My stomach rumbled in agreement.