Days of a Pure Nun's Descent

The iron door closed behind her with a dull, heavy thud. Clara stepped into the cell, still wearing the nun's habit she had brought straight from the convent—white fabric that looked jarringly out of place under the dim, jaundiced light. She was small, standing by the iron bars like a white dove that had wandered into a beast's cage, her slender neck exposed above the tight-collared habit, her skin pale to the point of translucence. Jax sat on the edge of the bed in the shadows, his back against the damp stone wall. A fresh wound on his wrist was still seeping blood. He lifted his head slowly, his cold gaze slicing toward her like a blade, locking onto the white figure in the doorway. A faint sneer curled at the corner of his mouth. "New doctor?" His voice was hoarse, tinged with the taste of rust. "Hmph. How long do you think someone like you will last? This place isn't built for saints like you." Clara did not step back. She stood in the light, her pretty face carrying a soft smile—delicate features like a porcelain doll, but her eyes held a stubborn, earnest intensity. Her voice was gentle, melodic, like the trailing note of a church choir. "Clara believes," she said softly, "that she can heal you—both physically and mentally—and help you reintegrate into society, become useful people." Jax threw his head back and laughed as if he had just heard the most absurd joke. The sound echoed through the empty cell, bouncing off the iron walls, reverberating in low, buzzing waves. He laughed for a long while before finally stopping, his gaze settling back on her—sharp enough to flay skin. "Ha! You really are an adorable little fool. Every man in this place has blood on his hands." Clara's smile did not waver. Her pretty eyes even held a kind of stubborn tenderness. She set her medical kit down by her feet, clasped her hands together at her chest, and looked up at this man who towered over her. "Clara believes that all hearts are inclined toward goodness," she said, her voice soft yet unshakable. "You've only lost your way temporarily. Deep down, you must also long for the light." Jax's laughter gradually faded. His gaze remained razor-sharp, fixed on her for so long that the air itself grew still. "Long for the light?" he finally said, each word dripping with scorn. "In my world, only fists and cunning keep you alive. Save that talk for the gullible." Clara still wore her immaculate habit, wrapped tightly around her small frame. She truly looked barely out of girlhood—fresh from the convent, newly appointed as this prison's physician—and her naively earnest beliefs seemed almost expected. She tilted her head up, her eyes clear as a shallow spring. "The Lord and Clara will guide you to redemption." Jax's gaze traveled from her face down to her habit. Every inch of it was buttoned and bound—collar tight to her chin, sleeves covering her wrists, hem sweeping her ankles. The more concealed she was, the more he found himself wondering what lay beneath. His sneer deepened. "Guide me? You and your Lord are truly naive." He paused, letting his gaze linger on her delicate face, a dark glint flickering in his eyes. "Still... you *are* rather interesting." Clara did not catch the fleeting danger in his stare. Her pretty face remained lifted toward him, calm and composed. The top of her head barely reached his chest—she looked utterly harmless, fragile as a fledgling that could be crushed in a fist—yet her expression was as placid as a windless lake. Jax's brow furrowed, irritation coiling tighter in his chest. He stared into those clear, untainted eyes, and before he knew it, his rough fingers had closed around her small chin. "Hmph, the Lord?" he gritted out. "In this place, only the strong survive. You'd better drop that naive act, or else—" His fingers tightened. The coarse pads of his thumbs pressed into her delicate skin, leaving red marks almost immediately. Clara winced under his grip, her fair face blooming with angry red imprints, but she paid them no mind. Her gaze slipped past his hand and landed on his wrist—where a fresh wound from a recent brawl lay open, still oozing blood. Her voice was still soft, almost lilting: "You're hurt. Let Clara bandage it for you..." Jax froze. His fingers stiffened against her chin, as if something had struck him in an unexpected place. Then, as if burned, he jerked his hand away, stepped back half a pace, and turned his face aside. "Hmph. A scratch like this—" His voice came out harsher than before, as if volume could mask whatever was stirring inside him. "—is none of your concern. Don't think this changes anything." Clara ignored his gruff dismissal. She turned, crouched by her medical kit, and retrieved gauze, antiseptic, and a roll of white cotton. Then she walked back to him, knelt down, and took his arm. Her cool fingers brushed against the wound on his wrist. He instinctively tried to pull back, but she held him in place. "Don't move." She kept her head down, movements clumsy but earnest. When the antiseptic stung, she saw him flinch and immediately lightened her touch, puffing out her cheeks slightly to blow a soft cool breath over the wound—as if soothing a hurt child. Finally, she wrapped the gauze around it a few times and tied a knot at the end—a crooked, lopsided little bow. "All done." She looked up with a small, satisfied smile. Jax stared down at the ridiculous bow on his wrist. His Adam's apple bobbed once. He looked at it for several long seconds, an unfamiliar sensation rising in his chest, only to be ruthlessly crushed down again. "What the hell is this?" He frowned, forcing his voice cold and hard. "It's hideous." Clara tilted her head, examined the bow with genuine scrutiny, and nodded honestly. "Is it ugly? Well, I suppose there's no helping it." "Of course it's ugly!" His voice rose even higher, as if shouting could drown out something else. "Even a dog would turn its nose up at this mess." Clara looked at his agitated face. She didn't get angry, didn't flinch. She stood up, her small frame looking impossibly fragile beside him. She raised one hand and placed it over her own heart, then lifted the other—gently, tentatively—and rested it on the top of his head. She closed her eyes and began to recite a prayer he couldn't understand. "How can I help you, my friend..." Jax reacted as if branded by a hot iron. He swatted her hand away with such force that she stumbled back several steps, tripped, and fell hard onto the cold floor. The hem of her habit splayed open, revealing a sliver of pale calf. A muffled "mmph" escaped her as her elbow hit the ground, reddening instantly. "What the hell are you doing?!" He was breathing hard now, chest heaving. "Keep your damn religion away from me!" Clara sat on the floor, her elbow stinging, but she seemed utterly unaware of the pain. She simply looked up at him, her pretty eyes glistening like rain-washed petals—yet not a single tear spilled over. "Clara wasn't trying to bother you," she said, her voice even softer now, laced with the faintest trace of hurt. Jax looked at her sitting there on the cold ground, her habit dusted with dirt, the fresh red mark blooming on her elbow. Something tightened in his chest. He wanted to step forward, to check on her—but he shoved the impulse down, looked away, and added harshly: "Good. Because in this place, weakness is the most useless thing there is." Clara picked herself up. She brushed off her habit, rubbed her elbow, and walked back to stand before him again. She tilted her face upward. The top of her head barely reached his chest—she looked so small she could have been broken in two—but her expression was as calm as ever, even with a few strands of hair loose from the fall. "What should Clara do," she asked earnestly, "to guide you?" Her stubborn, almost foolish persistence reignited his anger. He lunged forward, grabbed her by the collar, and lifted her clear off the ground. Clara's feet dangled in the air, the neck of her habit twisted in his fist, the fabric straining against her slender throat, her narrow collarbones exposed. But her face showed no fear. No anger. Those eyes remained as still as a deep, unfathomable lake, reflecting his twisted visage. Jax stared into those eyes, and the fire in his chest burned even hotter. He lifted her half an inch higher, bringing her almost to eye level, and ground out through gritted teeth: "Guide me? You naive little fool—" His voice scraped like sandpaper on rust. "—you have no idea how cruel this world really is." Clara was light, tiny, her entire body swathed in that habit like a gift wrapped in white paper. She hung there in his grip, her skirt swaying slightly, but her beautiful eyes held neither fear nor anger—only an unshakable calm. Still suspended by her collar, she raised her two small hands and gently cupped his face. Her palms were soft and warm, carrying a faint scent of soap. Then she pulled his head down against her small chest, rested her chin on the top of his head, and began her prayers again. "Lord, please cast out the evil within him..."