C | Chapter 5.1 | Lies | Crack in the Truth

“Hurry up. I’m on the verge of losing my mind from curiosity, so please, find out something—anything. I’m begging you.”

The only person Ian could rely on was Leo. Though Leo had said that the only answer was to stay away from the Revenant, Ian simply couldn’t do that.

The reply came two days later.

[my_ian0418]: Cracked it.

The one-on-one chat window blinked. Ian switched his screen, giving top priority to the chat window. Though he was in the middle of a hacking job commissioned by Tim Hogan, right now, finding out about the Revenant took precedence over everything else.

[anonymous1330]: Spill it.
[my_ian0418]: You alone?
[anonymous1330]: Yeah.
[my_ian0418]: I didn’t uncover much. From the immigration database, all I got was his date of birth and nationality. The rest I pieced together based on related search terms. It should be accurate, but I can’t vouch for every detail.
[anonymous1330]: Whatever it is, hurry up.

The rapid sound of Leo typing, his shoulder creaking with discomfort, seemed to echo through the monitor.

Revenant Mathias.
Date of Birth: November 4, 1975.
Nationality: The Grand Duchy of Hebaoulis.
Occupation: Commander of the Royal Guard and Capital Defense Corps in Hebaoulis.
Purpose of visit: Personal matters. Unrelated to diplomatic affairs.

[my_ian0418]: And here’s a little extra info. Hebaoulis is a tiny city-state, only about 11.1 square kilometers. The royal family is small too; it’s basically the king and his unmarried brother. Revenant Mathias is a close friend and confidant of Archduke Eduard, the king’s brother. This part’s a bit dangerous—Heboulis basically only has two military units: the Royal Guard and the Capital Defense Corps. Since Mathias commands both, the entire military might of the country is effectively in his hands. The king and parliament reportedly keep a close eye on him because the archduke, Mathias’s friend, could theoretically launch a coup and take the throne if he wanted to. And yet, here’s this incredibly powerful man in America with just a few attendants. Doesn’t that seem strange? And claiming it’s not for diplomatic purposes, that’s odd too. Did you know? Heboulis doesn’t even have an embassy in the U.S. Visitors from Heboulis usually stay at a residence in Washington, but Mathias is holed up somewhere five hours away by plane. Doesn’t that sound off? And saying it’s for personal business—what kind of personal business could he have in this little city…

While Leo continued rambling on about how suspicious and dangerous Mathias might be, Ian found himself wondering idly if he should just feel relieved that Mathias wasn’t mafia.

[anonymous1330]: Not that stuff. Don’t you have anything else? Like, anything directly connecting him to me, or… my stepfather?

No matter how he looked at it, that guilt part seemed suspicious. If it wasn’t directed at Ian himself, maybe it was connected to his stepfather somehow.

[my_ian0418]: Hold on. I’ll look it up.

Ian opened a new search window.

Tap tap tap.

His fingers flew over the keyboard, entering search terms at lightning speed. But nothing linked Revenant Mathias and Marcus, Ian’s stepfather.

[my_ian0418]: Nothing. Have you found anything?
[anonymous1330]: Nope.
[my_ian0418]: Damn it. I think I’ll have to dig into that duchy. There’s gotta be something there. I’ll keep looking and get back to you.

The chat ended.

Ian struggled to find any connection between his life and some man from a tiny European country that most people didn’t even know existed. His selective memory was usually convenient; he didn’t have to sift through his mind for something essential because he’d only forget the unimportant stuff, keeping the critical parts intact. But now, clawing through memories like sifting through a garbage heap was a disturbing experience that triggered confusion and a searing headache.

“Damn it.”

Ian pressed his temples as the headache began to throb, stepping away from his laptop.

Fifteen. Somewhere at fifteen years old, there had been Revenant Mathias. But really, he had no specific memories of that time. Those were calm, uneventful days.

“Think, damn it. That guy even knows I like pancakes. We must’ve had them together at some point.”

Ian, mumbling to himself, suddenly froze in place.

“Together? Pancakes?”

…He was hungry. Back then, whenever it was.

Fifteen-year-old Ian opened the fridge with a bruised, swollen lip. He saw milk. Twisting the plastic cap off, he put it directly to his mouth. White liquid poured in, only to hit the raw cuts inside his mouth, sending sharp pain through him. Ian doubled over the sink, vomiting up what he’d swallowed. Seeing the bloody milk pooling made him gag harder. He vomited again right there, too exhausted even to make it to the bathroom. Luckily, after more than a day of starvation, only a trickle of watery bile came up.

“Haah…” Ian sighed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, collapsing by the sink. The milk carton he’d tossed in his frustration lay on its side, spilling white liquid all over his pants. Ian thought he should clean it up soon. Before Mom saw. She couldn’t find out…

But he felt completely drained. He imagined himself sprawled by the sink like a limp squid and tried to laugh. His lips twitched, but his split lip stung. Ian smiled, and then tears came spilling out.

“What is this?”

Nineteen year-old Ian yelled.

“What even is this? When did this happen?”

The sun had set. His mother still hadn’t come home. A tall man approached the weakened Ian. What’s wrong? Ian glanced up faintly. I’m hungry. I have no strength. The man opened the fridge, as if on Ian’s behalf. I can make pancakes. Ian reflexively frowned. Eat that crap yourself, you Yankee jerk. I want ramen. He thought he might have even said it in Korean.

The man took something out of the fridge. Wait just a moment. His powerless gaze followed the man’s back. The sun was setting. A red shadow lay over the man’s black hair. As Ian blinked at the sight, a sweet smell began to waft over. His empty stomach churned, and he gagged as saliva trickled down his mouth. Damn it, I hate sweets. Do I look like a kid? Somehow, the man seemed to understand his Korean—or just guessed his meaning and responded: Use butter instead of jam. It won’t be so sweet.

The pancakes he brought later weren’t sweet at all. Ian’s resolve to not eat them faded, and he shoveled the hot pancakes into his mouth with his fingers. Eat slowly, the man said. With his mouth full, Ian forgot about the pain of his mouth injuries. At some point, the man suddenly ruffled Ian’s hair. Ian felt tears well up and held his breath, fearing he’d end up vomiting the pancakes all over the man’s pants.

“When did that…!”

He had never seen this memory before. At fifteen, before the murder, the Winchell House had been peaceful as a painting. His wealthy stepfather was kind, and his mother was happy, unlike back in Korea. Ian had sincerely thought it was a good thing she’d remarried Marcus Winchell.

So, Mom, I’ll protect this marriage…

“What…?” Ian gasped.

“When did I… why…?”

It felt like his head was about to split open. Practically crawling, Ian made his way to his room and opened the drawer by the bed. The drawer was empty.

“Why isn’t it here?!”

His headache pills should have been there. He’d always needed them. His migraines were so severe that he’d even fallen unconscious from the pain. Dr. Hillen always prescribed him plenty of painkillers, telling him to take them immediately at the first sign of a headache.

“My meds! Where are my meds?!”

Crash! Thump!

Ian, shaking the empty drawer, hurled it to the floor. His vision was blurring. His breathing was getting sharper, as if someone were gnawing on his lungs.

“Ahh!”

Ian clutched his head, rolling on the floor, unable to endure the pain. He banged his forehead against the edge of the drawer he’d thrown.

Thunk!

Blood sprayed from his forehead, splattering onto his lips, but the headache persisted.

“Stop! Stop!”

Lifting his bloody forehead again, Ian realized he’d hit not the hard edge of the drawer, but someone’s palm.

“…”

He looked up. Through the red haze in his vision, he saw a tall man with black hair. Ian cried out.

“Leo!”

…No, it wasn’t. The man pressing his hand against Ian’s head wasn’t Leo—it was Revenant.

“Leo!”

Ian threw himself at him in a desperate hug. His arms trembled, making it painful to cling to him. Ian muttered through his labored breathing.

“My head… my head hurts so much, Leo. Where are my meds… where did you go? Don’t go, Leo. Don’t leave. I swear I won’t tell anyone, so don’t go… don’t leave…”

Revenant listened to Ian’s frantic, incoherent words and held him close, his warm, strong arms enveloping

him. Ian clung to him, silently shedding tears.

“I’m sorry.”

Ian couldn’t see his face, twisted in agony. Revenant’s hands trembled as they gently stroked Ian’s back.

“I’m sorry… little one.”

Blood seeped between his lips and teeth, falling onto Ian’s back. The quiet, even sound of Ian’s breathing filled the room as he fell unconscious in Revenant’s arms.