MLCD Chapter 5.3

There are many times when the words ‘I love you’ are not welcome. When you’re sleepy, when you’re tired, when you’re broke. Above all, when he heard them from the same editor who sneers, mocks, and clicks his tongue at every action Shavonne takes.

“I love you.”

Changing into loose clothes that reveal bare skin for no reason, complimenting him with a “you have beautiful eyes,” insisting on staying over. It was obvious what all that meant: I want to sleep with you.

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That’s why Shavonne was perplexed. While ‘I want to sleep with you’ was expected, ‘I love you’ was not. Love? How could sneering, mocking, and clicking one’s tongue be love?

“What’s your intention?”

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“Does love need an intention?”

It does. Love without intention doesn’t exist. Love is about gaining something. Sometimes it’s material gain, sometimes emotional. Because it’s not lonely when together, because it’s comfortable, because it’s happy, all of these are gains too.

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But did Turner say ‘I love you’ to Shavonne to avoid loneliness, to be comfortable, to be happy?

…That can’t be. He must have an ulterior motive.

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A dim room, candles burning in brass candlesticks, sentimental music flowing from a gramophone… The house itself was like that. Turner had meticulously decorated the house, insisting that there must be a good atmosphere when drinking. Even when Shavonne said there was no need to go to such lengths if they were only going to have three drinks, Turner remained steadfast.

Perhaps I should have realized then that he had an ulterior motive. If I had, I wouldn’t have had to face such nonsense as “I love you.”

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“…I’m not quite sure about what you meant by that, but I’m absolutely not interested.”

As he stood up, Shavonne staggered slightly, which was odd. Champagne didn’t have a high amount of alcohol. And Shavonne wasn’t weak enough to get drunk on three glasses of champagne. But now, after just a glass and a half, his head was buzzing. Even considering that his physical condition wasn’t good due to overwork, he was getting drunk way too fast.

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The thought that Turner might have spiked the drink belatedly crossed his mind. Has Turner drunk anything? He couldn’t remember. Except for a sip or two of the absinthe in front of him, he didn’t seem to have drunk anything.

“Are you already drunk?”

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“No. I’m fine.”

Shavonne tried hard to steady himself. If there was any fortunate point, it was that Shavonne hadn’t gulped down the drinks quickly with the thought of ‘I’ll just quickly finish these three glasses and leave.’ Of course, it wasn’t because he thought something might have been spiked. It was because he thought he might be at a disadvantage if he got drunk.

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‘You’re drunk, so you should sleep here.’ or ‘You’re drunk, so I should take you home.’ Both were terrible. He also didn’t want to go home completely drunk.

“Let me answer first. I think you should stop with the love or whatever it is. We are coworkers. As soon as personal feelings get involved, our efficiency will decrease and…”

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He continued without even taking a breath.

“I have never once thought of you as anything other than an editor.”

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There were exactly two exceptions. The first was when I considered you my only ‘fan’, and the second was when I thought you were a bastard who would work someone to death.

Shavonne took the initiative, worried that Turner might persist with ‘Maybe you’ll think differently in the future?’ It was best to put an end to any potential arguments that may arise before they could be used against him.

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“Of course, I intend to continue thinking that way in the future.”

Turner had no reaction. Shavonne thought that maybe he was shocked at being rejected by someone like Shavonne. Whether it was a shock that would last five minutes or a week, it was an opportunity to escape from this place quickly.

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A house so soundproof that not a single sound from the neighbors could be heard, closed windows, thick iron bars over them, strict security posts with a pair of armed guards, a 3 meter high wall… Everything was unbearable, but among them, this house was the most unbearable. Just seeing the nameplate made it hard to breathe. Like a prison.

He grabbed his coat hanging on the chair back and quickly turned away.

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“I’ll go first. I hope we won’t see each other until the contest results are out…”

“Impressive.”

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Turner opened his mouth.

Shavonne stopped moving.

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“Someone might think you’re disabled. No, worse than disabled. Even a fucking eunuch would have given in by now.”

Turner stood up. The tablecloth was pulled. The glass at the edge of the table fell to the floor and shattered. The broken glass pieces sparkled finely in the faint candlelight. Shavonne took a step back, startled.

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“I don’t understand why you’re so evasive.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you’re being…”

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“I know too. I know that you’ll give it up to anyone as long as they have a pretty face. Were you really putting on an act because you thought I didn’t know that?”

Thud. His back hit the wall. Shavonne stopped. Turner stopped too. Turner’s gaze traveled up and down Shavonne’s body. It swept over his neck, shoulders, collarbone, stomach, and waist. A smirk appeared on Turner’s lips.

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“I’m good at it.”

When had it started? Since when had Turner been perceiving Shavonne as someone who would ‘give it up to anyone as long as they have a pretty face’?

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— Why don’t you eat, sleep, and work here for a while?

Since then?

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— You have beautiful eyes.

Since then?

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— I’m a fan.

Or since then?

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His Adam’s apple bobbed involuntarily. Shavonne pretended to lower his gaze while glancing around. The closed window and the iron bars beyond it, the side table by the window, and the flickering candle on it briefly caught Shavonne’s eye before disappearing. Window, iron bars, side table, candle… each image swirled in his mind, mixing together.

“Haven’t you been pent up all this time because you couldn’t do it?”

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A hand touched his neck. Shavonne flinched. He unconsciously tried to look up at Turner but held back. He felt that if he looked, he might lose his grip on reason. If he lost it, it was over for him and there would be no turning back

“Let me relieve you.”

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The hand caressing his neck slid down. It brushed his shoulder and pressed his collarbone. It was a hand as sticky as a swamp. Shavonne kept his eyes closed and started counting numbers. One.

The fingertips briefly grazed Shavonne’s cheek. See? Isn’t it so much easier when you don’t resist… A low laugh and a hissing voice sounded close by. Shavonne still kept his eyes closed. The numbers rolled in his mouth. Two.

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His shirt being pulled. Fingers touching the buttons, sliding off, then touching again. Buttons being undone. The cold air seeping in between the folds of his clothes.

Suddenly, the phrase ‘future as a writer’ flashed through his mind. It was a phrase he had grown accustomed to by now. It was a phrase he had chewed over every time Turner tested Shavonne’s limits, so it couldn’t help but be familiar. There are people who worry about ruining their lives by expressing emotions even in moments when they absolutely must. In moments when they should be happy, they worry that their joy might become a target for people who are jealous of them. In moments when they should be sad, they worry that their sorrow might become a subject of mockery for twisted people.

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Shavonne was such a person. A person who had to worry about ruining his future as a writer before rejecting Turner.

Three.

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Shavonne opened his eyes. He grabbed the candle on the side table and swung it towards Turner.

Turner dodged the candle. However, he couldn’t avoid the candle wax that scattered into the air. Hot wax splattered onto his sleeve. Turner gasped shortly and grabbed his arm as the heat seared into it. He gripped it so tightly that the sleeve crumpled so much it looked like it might tear. The messily gripped wrinkles looked like a distorted face.

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“You fucking bastard, how hard is it to give it up once…”

His bloodshot eyes were bright red. He looked like he could knock Shavonne down right then and there. At first glance, Turner appeared like a beast that had lost its reason.

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Shavonne decided to help Turner regain his senses.

He stepped back towards the window and grabbed the curtain. It was a blackout curtain made of linen, which is flammable. Shavonne brought the candle close as if he was about to set it on fire. The flame that had somehow managed not to go out wavered dangerously in front of the curtain.

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This house is worth 700 rona a month. He wouldn’t want it to burn down. Turner would be responsible for the fire. He couldn’t hold Shavonne responsible. Because it could be revealed to the whole world that he had attempted to rape him during a confrontation. Even if he decided to take the risk, it would be useless because Shavonne, being so poor, couldn’t possibly compensate him.

As expected, the color drained from Turner’s face. Turner couldn’t bring himself to approach and could only glare at Shavonne. His teeth continuously gnawed at his lower lip to the point of drawing blood.

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“You should think about your future.”

Turner spat out.

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“Do you want to live and die as a third-rate ghostwriter with no money, no honor, and no work for the rest of your life? Huh? Didn’t you want to become a writer? Didn’t you want to publish a book with your name on it? Right now, you’re throwing away all the opportunities that have come to you. Opportunities that others would be dying to have. You’re ruining everything. Are you even aware of that?”

“It’s not me who ruined it, but you.”

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Shavonne continued, barely swallowing the urge to set Turner’s body on fire.

“I hope we won’t see each other again in the future. No, I should make sure we don’t.”

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He still used polite speech, but a faint trace of suppressed emotion seeped into his voice. As Shavonne was trying to wrap up the conversation, Turner opened his mouth with a distorted face.

“What about our contract?”

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For a moment, Shavonne had to swallow the urge to sear Turner’s body once again. Shavonne’s Adam’s apple briefly bobbed and then stopped.

“It’s over. You know better than anyone who caused this, Mr. Turner.”

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Turner mumbled something, but Shavonne didn’t listen. There was no need to listen. Holding the candle like a weapon to prevent Turner from approaching, Shavonne began to leave the house. He gathered a rug, papers and didn’t forget to take the absinthe on the table either.

Turner, who had been standing still until then for fear of being burned by the candle, belatedly asked what he was trying to do. Shavonne answered that it was to prevent Turner from following him even after he left.

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He planned to place the flickering candle, tablecloth soaked in absinthe, papers, and his coat in front of the door. If the door was opened after the candle went out, there would be no problem, but if the door was opened before the candle went out, the candle would tip over when it hit the door, setting the tablecloth soaked in absinthe on fire.

“You…”

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Turner’s face was full of dismay. Shavonne didn’t know what Turner was trying to say, but it was clear it would be curses, swears, or blame, so Shavonne decided not to listen to him.

“There seems to be one thing you don’t know,”

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Shavonne opened the door. In one hand was the tablecloth, in the other was absinthe, and in his arms were more things that served as fuel. The light from the corridor illuminated Shavonne’s face. Bloodshot eyes, swollen lips, cheeks flushed from suppressing emotions.

“No matter how handsome they are, I don’t sleep with maggots.”

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Thud. He closed the door.

‘You’re ruining everything. Are you even aware of that?’

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He knew that what he said was wrong.

He knew that it wasn’t his fault, that it was Turner who ruined things, not Shavonne.

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His head knew, but his heart couldn’t accept it.

When the orphanage director ordered Shavonne to hit other orphans, Shavonne would shake his head. When the boys and girls at the orphanage would cut frogs with knives, crush them with rocks, or stomp on them, he would stop them, and when the criminal organization cooperating with the orphanage told him to pickpocket passersby, he refused.

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What came back was suffering. The orphanage director starved Shavonne, the boys and girls at the orphanage excluded Shavonne, and he fell out of favor with the criminal organization.

What if Shavonne had hit the orphans as the director ordered? What if he had joined the boys and girls in killing frogs? What if he had pickpocketed people like the criminal organization wanted?

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What if… I hadn’t done that to Turner?

As the rage subsided, what rushed in was fear.

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If, as Turner said, because of this incident, Shavonne had to live and die as a third-rate ghostwriter with no money, no honor, and no work for the rest of his life. If, because of this incident, he couldn’t become a writer. If he couldn’t publish a book with his name on it…

Fear followed fear in succession. Shavonne forcibly stopped his thoughts as a way to prevent this fear from paralyzing his reason, clouding his judgment, planting guilt.

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Shavonne decided to make sure he couldn’t reverse his decision even if he was consumed by fear.

When Shavonne arrived at Krainer Publishing, there was no one to greet him. Everyone was too busy to greet Shavonne, who not only looked shabby but also had a bad complexion from the quarrel he had been in just before coming here. Even the person in charge of reception was the same.

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It was exactly 30 minutes after his arrival that Shavonne was guided to the reception room. The clerk said he would call the person in charge right away. He said to read a book with tea while waiting as it might be boring. The reception room was empty.

Shavonne sat alone on the sofa, looking down at the teacup the clerk had brought. The tea was far from appealing. It was a color reminiscent of the champagne Turner had given him. Shavonne didn’t take a single sip. He also turned the book face down. He didn’t want to see the cover with the word ‘Author’ on it.

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It wasn’t until the tea had gone cold that the person in charge arrived. He said he was the chief editor. After introducing himself, the chief editor opened his mouth.

“What brings you here?”

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Just before answering, Turner’s voice echoed in his mind once again. ‘You’re ruining everything. Are you even aware of that?’ Shavonne tried hard to erase it. It’s not my fault. It’s Turner who ruined things, not me. While repeating this to himself, Shavonne opened his mouth.

“I’ve come to terminate the contract.”

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He said in an impeccable manner. No one could have ever noticed how terrified he was. The chief editor should have asked why. At least, he should have made the expression one would typically make when being notified of a contract termination.

However, the chief editor didn’t.

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“We have never made a contract with you.”

Shavonne was blank for a moment, but only for a moment. Shavonne said there must have been a mistake. He explained that his name was Shavonne and that he had worked with Editor Turner at his apartment complex, and that they had even written a contract.

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Nevertheless, the chief editor’s face didn’t change. While Shavonne was trying hard to talk about Turner’s black hair and blue eyes, the royal competition, the meteor, the pride of the neighborhood, L Company’s best typewriter, and the revisions to page 272, chapter 3, and the ending, the chief editor suddenly stood up. “Follow me.”

The misunderstanding must be over, Shavonne thought. He quickly tidied his hair and followed the chief editor. The thought crossed his mind that they might be going to the storage room where the contracts were kept. Maybe there was a separate place for terminating contracts. If so, there might also be a person in charge of terminations. There would probably be a person in charge of approvals too… His ongoing thoughts stopped when they reached the room the editor had guided him to.

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The sound of typewriters was deafening. It was natural, as the sound of five typewriters was ringing out simultaneously when even the sound of one typewriter is never quiet. People were writing something with earplugs in. The chief editor pointed to one of them.

“That’s him.”

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Tap, tap, tap, tap. Amidst the noisy sound of typing on the keyboard, the chief editor’s voice was barely audible, like a faint noise. Shavonne frowned and asked again.

“Who is that person?”

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The chief editor replied.

“The writer Turner found.”

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Zirrak. Shavonne heard the sound of someone finishing a line.

“That’s the only person he has brought. He never got any other writers.”

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Instead of saying ‘No way, that can’t be,’ which would only make his already pathetic self even more pathetic, Shavonne stared blankly at ‘that person.’ He saw glasses, a shirt collar as clean as new, a sleek belt, and shiny shoes. The head was round, covered with short hair.

If he had worn glasses, if he had worn a shirt as clean as new, if he had worn a sleek belt, if he had worn shiny shoes, perhaps Shavonne could have been…

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Here…

“…”

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Shavonne forcibly stopped his thoughts. He had to look at objective facts only. When subjectivity intervenes, judgment becomes clouded. When judgment becomes clouded, choices also become clouded. Shavonne squeezed out his words. He tried to be calm, but his voice came out trembling.

“…I had signed a contract.”

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The chief editor glanced at Shavonne. That was all.

“It seems it wasn’t with our publishing house.”

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At that moment, Shavonne realized why the chief editor had taken the trouble to bring him to this room. He was cutting to the chase. He was refusing to allow hope. He was making it impossible to think that everything was due to a misunderstanding.

Shavonne had never contracted with Krainer Publishing. That was the objective fact. There was no misunderstanding.

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There was a sound of something crumbling. Only Shavonne heard it. It was a small and quiet sound that no one but Shavonne would care about.

Shavonne thought he wouldn’t be able to keep his balance. But he did. Far from losing his balance, he didn’t even stagger. Shavonne left the publishing house with the same casual gait as when he entered.

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And then he stopped.

From somewhere, the sound of bells announcing 6 PM rang out. The echo seeped into the empty streets that had grown dark, into the deserted alleys filled with trash, between the gas lamps that had begun to light up one by one with a dim glow.

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Shavonne stood rooted to the spot. Six o’clock. It had only been an hour and a half since he left Turner’s house. It had only been two hours since he fought with Turner.

Two hours.

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Shavonne learned for the first time that a dream could crumble in just two hours. No, thinking back, even that was wrong. The dream never existed in the first place. It was as if he had been holding onto a mirage, thinking it was a dream.

He laughed. That sporadic laughter soon turned into a huge laughter that made it impossible to breathe. Passersby casted sidelong glances at Shavonne, who was laughing holding his stomach, but he didn’t care at all.

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It was funny. The fact that life hadn’t changed a bit even though the dream was gone, yes, literally ‘gone,’ was too funny.

Shavonne will trudge to his apartment to save on carriage fare. He will have dinner, do the dishes, open the windows to ventilate the house that smells of food, shiver in the winter wind blowing into the house, and close the windows after exactly 5 minutes.

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He will wash in the bathroom where hot water doesn’t come out properly, change into cheap indoor clothes, and mend, patch, and darn the clothes that were messed up from fighting with Turner. Then he will spend the night reading flyers, literary magazines, and newspapers with job postings, and fall asleep after taking sleeping pills that won’t last even a month.

It will be a day no different from any other. Whether there was a dream or not, whether it was a mirage or not, whether he was tricked or not. Shavonne’s dream was nothing. While even the dust of the earth becomes human, while even the flutter of a butterfly’s wings becomes a storm, Shavonne’s dream became nothing.

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He missed Lewellyn.

As he had countless times without realizing it, when typing on the keyboard, when doing a carriage return, when the day was cloudy, when drinking juice, when looking at the A’s and E’s written in the manuscript, he missed Lewellyn.

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He wanted to lean on him, rely on him. He wanted to confide in him. He wanted to say he wanted to kill Turner, he wanted to say he wanted revenge. He wanted to complain about why it always had to be Shavonne. He wanted to express his resentment, asking if he couldn’t have money and honor just once.

But more than anything, Shavonne wanted to be held. He wanted to be held and cry like a child, releasing the tears he couldn’t shed for 29 years. He wanted to bury all the tears and snot that should have been buried in the arms of a father, mother, friend, lover, and God.

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Even if I’m not someone special, even if I’m not a good person, even if I won’t be remembered in history, I’m not… I’m not such a nobody, right?

He wanted to ask everything he wanted to ask, and hear everything he wanted to hear.

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“…”

But he had to endure. If only for the sake of the ninety-nine bits of distance he had created so far. The bigger the love, the bigger the empty space. Now, Shavonne, having lost his dream, was staggering. If he lost Lewellyn, it would be no worse, if not better. He shouldn’t love Lewellyn too much.

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He felt the urge to go find Turner. His hands tingled with the desire to grab his collar, and his throat felt tight with the desire to shout.

He wanted to ask why. Why he deceived Shavonne. Why it had to be… Shavonne. Shavonne couldn’t even fathom what Turner was trying to gain by deceiving Shavonne, who was, in Turner’s words, merely a ‘nameless ghostwriter’.

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But he couldn’t go. He didn’t know what harm might come to him if he went. It probably wouldn’t end with just being cursed at and slapped. The image of Turner growling, ‘You fucking bastard, how hard is it to give it up once…’ was vivid in his mind.

Shavonne held his breath. He counted to twenty – one, two, three, four, five…, twenty – before breathing again. His trachea, which had been on the verge of suffocation, cleared. Air filled his stuffy throat. Shavonne repeated this three times. Holding his breath until just before suffocation, breathing, and then holding his breath again until just before suffocation. It was Shavonne’s own technique. A technique to numb the pain and a way to endure the world.

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The sky was dark now. Shavonne started walking towards Ira Street, a two-hour walk away. With each step, he left a long trail of tears.

As he was walking, Shavonne suddenly remembered what the clerk at Krainer Publishing had said.

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― How strange.You’re the second outsider involved with Mr. Turner this month alone.

He hadn’t thought much of it when he heard it, but thinking about it now, what a curious statement. Two outsiders who sought out Turner. If one was Shavonne, who could the other one be? If Shavonne got involved trying to cancel a contract that never existed, what kind of deal did the other one get involved with?

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***

Multifamily residential apartments.

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Turner headed to the bathroom. He rolled up his shirt sleeves and checked in the mirror the spot where candle wax had splattered. It hadn’t blistered, but it was red as if the skin had peeled off. If he had known the bastard would refuse, he wouldn’t have worn such a thin shirt that he could see through, intending to seduce him.

Turner bit his lip. He thought of his fiancée, as she examined Turner’s body every week. There was no way that meddlesome woman wouldn’t ask what kind of injury it was. It was so troublesome the way he had to think about how to explain it.

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“Damn, if it weren’t for that fucker…”

Curses boiled in his clenched mouth. What did he say again? ‘No matter how handsome they are, I don’t sleep with maggots.’ How dare he, a mere nameless ghostwriter, a beggar rolling around in the slums, call me a maggot. He needs to be taught a lesson. I’m going to rape him. First, I’ll burn those precious lips of his.

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He wanted to chase after the bastard right away, but his feet were tied because of the candles, tablecloth soaked in alcohol, paper, and coat that had been placed in front of the door. How long until the candles go out? Turner frowned, trying to estimate how long the candles were when he last saw them. He’d have to sit on his hands for at least two hours.

The characteristics of the multifamily residential, which he had only thought of as advantages until today, seemed like disadvantages. Due to privacy issues, even though it’s a high-end apartment, there’s no bell pull to call the management office, and due to theft prevention issues, there are thick iron bars on the windows so he can’t go out through the window, and due to security issues, the soundproofing is so good that even if he shouted at the top of his lungs, he couldn’t get help.

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Damn it, damn it… His insides were burning up on their own. Thinking he couldn’t just sit on his hands like this, Turner hurriedly started overturning the flowerpots in the bathroom, intending to put out the fire by throwing soil on it. He pulled out the plants and spread the soil from the pots. The bowl quickly filled up. Plants piled up in a corner of the bathroom, lying limp like corpses.

That’s when it happened. There was a sound of a door opening and closing. The sound came through the wall, so it was faint as if it might be an auditory hallucination. Turner stopped scooping soil and blankly looked up at the door. Did I hear wrong? But if I didn’t, who on earth…

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‘No way, did that fucker come back?’

If it was him, he wouldn’t have come for revenge. He must have realized what he had done and come back to ask for forgiveness. Turner went out to the living room with a triumphant face. He had even prepared a line. ‘You’re sorry, right? It doesn’t feel sincere if you just say it.’

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But there was no one.

The dark house, three candles burning in the brass candlestick, the sound of the record scratching from the phonograph… Everything was the same as before he went into the bathroom. Everything was the same.

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The same, and yet…

A chilling sensation ran down Turner’s nape. Turner slowly looked around the house. Turner scanned the dark house, then the three candles burning in the brass candlestick, then the phonograph.

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An empty record was spinning. It made sharp, cracked, irritating sounds as it was scratched by the needle. Somehow it sounded like the screams of a ghost, which made him feel uneasy. Turner stopped the phonograph. The spinning record stopped.

It seems he mistook the sound of the record scratching for the sound of a door opening and closing. He had been on a wild goose chase. Turner turned his back to continue scooping soil, and the next moment, he faced a shadow in front of him.

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“Hello?”

Yellow eyes glittered in the darkness. Turner felt his body freeze.

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The devil is said to have yellow eyes.

It was a superstition that he hadn’t recalled even once since he was eighteen and obsessed with mythology. For Turner, now thirty-eight years old, superstitions were like that. Something that couldn’t be recalled even if he tried. Something that his brain had erased on its own as useless. So Turner couldn’t understand why such a thing came to mind now, at this moment when he was facing an intruder.

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That wasn’t the only thing he couldn’t understand.

“Mr. Owen Turner, right?”

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The intruder smiled. It was a dazzlingly bright smile. It would have been like that for Turner too if hadn’t met him as a homeowner and an intruder, and if the man hadn’t called him by the name ‘Owen’.

Owen. As the name was called, Turner’s body involuntarily flinched. How does he know? Turner had used the alias Oliver. Both at work and at the multifamily residential, everyone knew Turner as Oliver Turner. Only his family, fiancée, and his family called him Owen. At least until five seconds ago when he heard, ‘Mr. Owen Turner, right?’

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Turner didn’t answer. He just gripped the edge of the side table behind him. The intruder glanced at Turner’s whitened knuckles.

“Oh my, don’t be so tense. It was just a courtesy, I didn’t necessarily ask to hear a yes or no.”

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Turner’s grip on the side table edge tightened. How did he get in? The apartment door locks automatically when closed. The image of the building manager boasting that even the best thief in Bunch couldn’t pick it because it was such a sophisticated technology came to mind. He wanted to show the building manager this sight. This sight of having to face an intruder.

Who could he be? Judging by his blonde hair, golden eyes, handsome features, and clear voice, Turner was certain he didn’t know him. If he had known him, he would have recognized him for sure. Such beauty is not easily forgotten.

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Why would a stranger…?

“I’m glad to meet you. Really. It wasn’t easy getting here.”

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The intruder didn’t care whether Turner was wary or not. A beaming smile appeared in the corners of the intruder’s eyes.

“I thought you were Rapunzel for a second. Living locked up in an apartment complex where all the windows are closed, thick iron bars, there’s a security post, and armed security patrols in pairs. All I knew was that you were a man, in his thirties, with black hair and a slippery voice, but with just that, I searched every publishing house there is. I must have gone to at least three hundred places. The candidates were Brie Publishing, Nen Publishing, Krainer Publishing… and so on, there were about eight, and I almost got sick trying to deduce one by one. Well, I didn’t. Anyway, even after knowing it was Krainer Publishing, that wasn’t the end. Fraudulent contracts, Olive and Owen, family issues… There were many things. I’m sure it’d be interesting listening to all that. but…”

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The devil is said to have yellow eyes…

So who exactly summoned this devil?

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“First, I should ask why Mr. Shavonne isn’t here.”

The intruder raised his arm, glanced at his watch, and added. “It’s only five in the afternoon. You usually never let him leave at this time. You used to keep him persistently until dawn.”

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The momentary confusion at the unexpected name quickly passed. Turner quickly gathered his thoughts. He needed to stay calm. Only by calmly organizing the situation and responding calmly could he find a way out.

The intruder seemed to be an acquaintance of Shavonne. Given that he knew the work hours, he must be a close relative. Or maybe a roommate. Family? Friend? Lover? Whichever it was, it was certain that ‘he’ didn’t know about this person’s existence.

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‘He’ had said that Shavonne was a loner. That he had no family, no friends, no lover, so it would be easy for Turner to get close to him. He never hinted that Shavonne had such a close acquaintance who would even break into the heavily secured multifamily residential to find him.

They didn’t even look similar enough to be family. His appearance was too different from Shavonne’s ideal type to be a lover. From what ‘he’ told him, Shavonne’s ideal type was a classic handsome man with black hair and blue eyes like Turner. He also said that Shavonne would reject even the most handsome man if he didn’t match his taste. Not family, not a lover. Then the only option left is a friend.

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“Is something wrong?”

The intruder asked. Turner, without relaxing his wary expression, asked back.

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“Who are you to demand that I explain my private affairs in detail?”

“Oh.”

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The intruder made a sound that could have been either a sigh or an exclamation.

“That’s unexpected. Don’t people usually comply straightforwardly when an intruder makes demands? Because while you’re empty-handed, the intruder might have a gun, or a knife.”

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“…Do you have any of those things?”

The wariness in Turner’s voice was palpable. To the naked eye, the intruder didn’t seem to have any weapons. But that was only ‘to the naked eye’. In reality, there could be a gun in the inside pocket of his coat, or a short knife hidden in his back pocket.

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“Do I look like I do?”

A playful smile appeared in the intruder’s eyes. It was neither a confirmation nor a denial, but even with just that, Turner knew he would have no choice but to answer the intruder’s questions. Yes, just answer. Whether he gives a truthful answer or a false one, he just needs to answer.

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In a brief moment, Turner quickly scanned the room. The first place his eyes landed was the table with a bottle of alcohol and one unbroken glass. The tablecloth was dragged onto the floor. Underneath it were pieces of broken glasses. Their sharp surfaces gleamed blue each time they caught the candlelight.

The window area was also a mess. The curtains were crumpled and hardened candle wax was scattered around. Not just inside the house, but outside must be just as bad. The burning candles, the coat soaked in absinthe, papers, and cloth that were in front of the door…

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It was too much of a mess to pretend nothing had happened. Turner decided not to tell an obvious lie. It would be troublesome if it raised suspicion.

Turner began to speak.

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“You know, Mr. Shavonne has a thing for handsome men.”

Lies are most effective when mixed with 99% truth and 1% lie. Pretending to be hesitant to speak, Turner continued slowly.

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“Mr. Shavonne… wanted to sleep with me.”

The intruder’s smile froze. Turner didn’t notice.

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“Today was our last day working together. We drank to commemorate it… that was a mistake. Whether he was really drunk or just pretending, anyway, Mr. Shavonne, with a flushed face, suddenly said ‘let’s sleep together for just one night’. Even when I refused, he didn’t care and started taking off his clothes. He took off his shirt, undid his belt… When he was about to take off his pants, I stopped him, saying we shouldn’t do this. Then Mr. Shavonne got very angry. He grabbed a candle and swung it around, even threatening to burn down the whole house. Then he said he’d burn me alive with this house, gathered candles, absinthe, and things to use as kindling, and ran out. Fortunately, it didn’t catch fire. Given that I’m still alive now…”

It was a lie that would be exposed as soon as the intruder talked to Shavonne. But it didn’t matter. By the time the intruder talked to Shavonne, Turner would have already called the police. He intended to put them in jail. Shavonne for assault, and this intruder, Shavonne’s friend, for breaking and entering.

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If they say the crime isn’t serious enough to sentence them to prison, he would pull some strings. His fiancée’s father was a judge who had the legal world wrapped around his finger, and his fiancée’s mother was a businesswoman with strong ties to the media world, so there was nothing he couldn’t do.

Of course, he would let the intruder rot in jail for 5 years but get Shavonne out. He would like that. Well, he couldn’t help but like it after coming out of a hellishly awful prison. If he coaxes him little by little, he might soon believe Turner to be his savior and follow him around. He just needs to seize that opportunity and date Shavonne.

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“If he took off his shirt, you must have seen Mr. Shavonne’s scars. No, there’s no way you couldn’t have seen them. His chest to stomach is all covered in scars.”

He must be a close acquaintance judging by the fact that he knows Shavonne’s naked body. Thinking this, Turner nodded. He didn’t forget to put on a sympathetic expression.

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“I saw them. I wonder how he got such scars… it was heartbreaking.”

“Yes, it would be heartbreaking. If Mr. Shavonne really had scars on his body, that is.”

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…His mouth dried up.

What is he thinking? The intruder could have caught him in the lie, but he didn’t do anything about it. As if he had lost interest, he turned around and approached the table. There was a crunching sound as the pieces of broken glass were crushed under his shoes.

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The intruder picked up the glass on the table. He lifted it to eye level and examined it from various angles in the reflected light. Turner couldn’t see because the intruder’s back was blocking his view.

“Did Mr. Shavonne drink absinthe?”

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A flat voice came from the intruder’s mouth. Since his back was turned, Turner couldn’t see his expression. Turner racked his brain. Shavonne had drunk champagne. To be precise, one and a half glasses of champagne. Unless one has an exceptionally low alcohol tolerance, that amount wouldn’t make one drunk.

But saying that would contradict Turner’s testimony that Shavonne was drunk enough to suddenly say ‘let’s sleep together for just one night with a flushed face’. Moreover, he couldn’t reveal that he had spiked the drink with a fast-acting drug.

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In the end, there was only one answer Turner could give.

“Yes.”

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“Then you drank champagne, Mr. Turner?”

“Yes.”

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“Interesting. Usually, people don’t put foreign substances in the drink they’re drinking themselves.”

His body stiffened.

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“How did you happen to put it in?”

Confusion sealed Turner’s lips. The drug Turner had obtained was in powder. It had no taste and no smell. It was white, so it couldn’t be distinguished from the color of champagne. Of course, it would be a different story in a bright place, the powder could be detected, but it wasn’t bright now. Neither earlier when he was with Shavonne nor now with the intruder, the house was dark. An ordinary person’s eyes could never detect the powder.

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But…

Just as he was thinking, the intruder turned and looked at Turner. It was that same smiling face.

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“Think carefully before you answer. Don’t tell such obvious lies like before. It’s embarrassing for me to hear.”

However, no matter what answer he gave, the chances of the intruder believing Turner were slim. From the moment Turner had fallen for the intruder’s leading question, what he had to do was already decided.

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Turner inconspicuously loosened his grip on the corner of the nightstand. He felt along the surface to find the phonograph. He began searching for the record. The smooth contours of the record surface brushed against his fingertips.

“I don’t know anything about it.”

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“Yes, of course you don’t.”

An indifferent reply. Then the intruder began looking around the house with leisurely steps. Lifting the piano lid and pressing random keys, pulling back the lace curtains decorating the closet, fiddling with the nose of a wooden figurine on the shelf…

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“Nice house. Shavonne must have liked it, I imagine.”

Did he think he had already won? The intruder’s back was completely defenseless as he walked around absorbed in examining the house. Turner kept his eyes fixed on the intruder’s back as he picked up the record. He broke it in half without making a sound. He intended to show him. That if you let your guard down, you’ll get a knife in the back of your head. Well, in this case it wasn’t a knife but the broken edge of a record. But in any case, as long as it was sharp, it was all the same.

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Turner charged. Gripping the half record tightly. Five steps ahead. The intruder who had been fiddling with the wooden figurine’s nose turned to look at Turner. He was slow. Very slow. So Turner didn’t think he would fail.

The next moment, the first thing Turner became aware of was not his lost sense of balance, not his inverted vision, not the floor pressing against his face, but a sharp pain. In front of the table. Shards of a broken glass were piercing his fallen hand.

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A groan escaped between his lips. The half record he had been gripping was suddenly flung far away. A shadow moved over the record rolling on the floor. It was the intruder’s shadow.

Turner saw the shadow move. He saw the shadow step on his hand. He felt the large and small glass shards digging into his hand. Turner couldn’t even scream. Only choking sounds burst from between his teeth. Blood spread across the floor.

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The man picked up the bottle on the table. He smashed it forcefully against the edge of the table. Glass shards scattered. The champagne that had been inside poured over the back of Turner’s head. It soaked his head, ran down his neck, and seeped into his clothes. The smell of champagne was strong.

The intruder placed the broken bottle in front of Turner’s eyes. He could see drops of champagne trickling down the jagged broken edges. It was right in front of his nose. Turner trembled, unable to even close his eyes.

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The intruder crouched down. He grabbed Turner’s hair and lifted his face. The intruder tilted his head and looked at Turner’s face. With eyes so gentle it was hard to believe this was the person who had just knocked Turner down.

“You’re handsome.”

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Long, slender fingers played with Turner’s hair. “Such black hair,” then touched Turner’s eyes. When Turner instinctively tried to close them, the intruder gently warned that if he didn’t want his eyelids cut off, he should keep them open.

Finally, the fingers touched Turner’s eyes. They pressed firmly on the slippery eyeballs and then stroked them in circles. “And such blue eyes.” The fingertips with their broken nails covered Turner’s world. His eyes didn’t close out of fear. As if he had forgotten how to close his eyelids.

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“Shavonne must have liked you, I imagine.”

As the hand withdrew, the next moment Turner had to face the intruder again. The intruder was still staring at Turner’s face. But, but… Turner’s breath caught involuntarily.

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The intruder’s eyes were rolling wildly. Like a madman.

“I’m jealous.”

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It was hard to believe those eyes had been gentle just moments ago. Through those eyes, Turner read greed. Not greed directed at Turner, but greed directed at Turner’s ‘face’.

“If only I could flay off your skin and steal your face, I would have gouged it out the moment I saw you. Your head too, and your eyes. I would have even pulled out that slick tongue of yours.”

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His body trembled. He couldn’t stop. Turner saw raw desire for the first time. He also realized for the first time that raw desire could be this barbaric. A fear Turner had never experienced before, whether in reality or nightmares, overwhelmed his body.

His hair was released. The recoil sent Turner falling face-first onto the floor. The glass shards dug into his body again. Turner didn’t feel the pain. His senses were too numb with fear to feel pain.

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The intruder dusted off his hands and stood up lightly. His face was suddenly as nonchalant as if nothing had happened. Turner wondered if all the smiles the intruder had shown until now were just facades. When the facade comes off, the true nature is revealed. It was obvious what that true nature was. Those wildly rolling eyes. Greed. Raw barbarism.

“Mr. Turner, I need to get home by six.” The intruder pointed at his watch. 5:23 PM. Turner couldn’t believe he had only been with the intruder for about 20 minutes. “Since he came home early for once, I’m planning to make dinner for Mr. Shavonne. Onion bagels, onion steak, and onion omelet. It’ll take at least three hours to make everything.”

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The intruder said, “I’ll give you ten minutes, so tell me what happened with Shavonne. You’re an editor, so you know how to talk, right? Simple, clear, and accurate.”

“I’ve… already told you.”

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Turner forced out his voice. If he revealed that he had tried to rape Shavonne, he didn’t know what would be done to him, and if he didn’t reveal it, he still didn’t know what would be done to him. He was at a dead end with no way out.

“I don’t want to hear your lies.”

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The intruder looked down at Turner. Turner couldn’t get up. He couldn’t even move his body. Even though glass shards were embedded in his arms and legs, leaving him covered in blood, he couldn’t move.

“How about one of those for each lie you tell? What do you think?”

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The intruder pointed at ‘those’. They were glass shards.

“You’re going to stab me?”

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“Of course not. Where on that body of yours is left to stab?”

The intruder smiled.

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“I’m going to feed them to you.”

Turner imagined pain that shouldn’t be possible to feel. The pain of glass shards turning the inside of his mouth into a bloody mess, the pain of them slicing his esophagus, the pain of them tearing his organs to shreds felt as vivid as reality. Turner’s face turned pale. The intruder paid no attention as he took off his watch. He dangled it on the table where Turner could see.

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“Now. Let’s begin.”

“Just ten minutes, okay?” The intruder’s eyes gleamed in the darkness as he gave the warning with a vivid golden color that didn’t seem human at all.

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The devil is said to have yellow eyes.

It was a superstition that Turner hadn’t recalled even once since he was eighteen and obsessed with mythology. To the now thirty-eight year old Turner, superstitions were like that. Something you couldn’t recall even if you tried. Something useless that the brain had erased on its own. So Turner couldn’t understand why such a thing came to mind in that moment as he faced off against the intruder.

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Turner realized far too late that it was because of an instinct sensing danger.

***

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When Shavonne arrived home, he found onion bagels, onion steak, onion omelet, and a large sack tied with a red ribbon. Something was wriggling inside the sack. Very faintly, like a creature on the verge of death.

‘An animal?’

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That was the thought that came to mind as soon as he saw the sack. It wasn’t entirely unfounded, as all the sacks Shavonne had seen until now had contained food ingredients.

Usually, sacks that didn’t move contained carrots, potatoes, or pumpkins, while moving sacks contained small animals about to be slaughtered. That’s how it was with sacks delivered from the butcher shop less than three hours ago – the small animals couldn’t even move around because they were packed so tightly there was no empty space. All they could do was wriggle their bodies.

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That’s how all the sacks were that Shavonne had to forcibly carry when he was at the orphanage or had to see at the grocery store. Though Shavonne himself had never bought a sack containing small animals, thinking it was inhumane.

The next moment, a thought flashed that something was odd.

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Sacks contain small animals. Literally ‘small’ animals like ducks, wild rabbits, or wood pigeons. Naturally, the size of the sacks wasn’t very large either. Even at their biggest, they were only about the size of an adult man’s arm.

But the sack in front of him wasn’t like that.

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It was big. Not just the size of an adult man’s arm, but big enough for an adult man to fit his entire body inside.

A chill ran down his spine. The stains on the sack caught his eye. At first glance he had thought they were just stains you’d expect on cheap fabric, but now they strangely seemed like bloodstains. Even though he tried to brush it off as his imagination, his heightened nerves wouldn’t let him ignore the sack. Large sack, dark stains, big enough for an adult man to fit inside with room to spare, bloodstains… The words spun round and round in his head.

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Could it be…

Just as he reached out his hand toward the sack.

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“Mr. Shavonne, you’re home?”

A voice came from behind him. It was Lewellyn’s voice. Before turning around, Shavonne had to make an effort to calm himself. Act like usual. Like usual when he kept ninety-nine bits of distance, not leaning or relying on him, not loving him too much.

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“I’ve been waiting.”

Lewellyn was holding a toolbox. He seemed to have just taken it out. His face framed by fine hair looked clean. Shavonne lowered his gaze to the toolbox inconspicuously.

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“…You promised you wouldn’t wait.”

“I did.” Lewellyn smiled brightly. “But I’ve decided to start speaking with a forked tongue from now on. So I can’t keep that promise anymore.”

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It was meant as a joke, but Shavonne couldn’t laugh. He just stared down at the lid of the toolbox with a stiff face. Lewellyn probably didn’t know. With what feelings Shavonne had told him not to wait. If he knew, he couldn’t have done this.

“You don’t like it?”

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Lewellyn leans in close and asks. His eyes sparkled with mischief. Shavonne turned his head away. Lewellyn took Shavonne’s cheeks in his hands and turned him to face him.

“Why? Do you hate the sight of me because I’m being petty?”

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No way. Shavonne reluctantly opened his mouth, not wanting Lewellyn to misunderstand. He didn’t know he would be interrupted before he could finish speaking.

“You know that’s not poss…”

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“Or is it that you suddenly feel guilty because you’ve hidden everything – that someone was making advances on you, that you were being used, that you were insulted – you’ve hidden it all?”

Shavonne held his breath. Meanwhile, Lewellyn still wore a gentle smile as if nothing was wrong. Lewellyn’s hands, which had been holding Shavonne’s cheeks, slowly stroked under Shavonne’s eyes. Lewellyn’s body temperature was imprinted wherever his touch landed. It was cold.

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“I was very… very hurt by you, Mr. Shavonne.”

Lewellyn’s hand rested on his shoulder.

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“You know that I had no choice.”

For a moment, a strange light gleamed in Lewellyn’s eyes. Shavonne suddenly felt cold. It felt like a chill was running over his shoulders.

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“You were insulted, used, and even received unwanted advances, and you didn’t tell me any of it. How… how could I not be hurt?”

His voice was precarious. Like someone barely holding onto their sanity.

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Shavonne calmly removed Lewellyn’s hand from his shoulder. There was no resistance. It fell away smoothly.

“Lewellyn.”

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Shavonne called.

“What is that?”

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The sack had stopped moving, then wriggled slightly, almost imperceptibly, then stopped again, repeating this pattern. The red ribbon tightly binding the mouth of the sack wasn’t the kind of string typically used for wrapping gifts. It was rope.

“As you can see, it’s a gift. When you receive something, you must give a gift in return. I received a cushion last time, so I thought I should give something in return, and I happened to see that.”

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What was in the sack wasn’t a duck. It wasn’t a wild rabbit or a wood pigeon either. This fact was obvious, yet Lewellyn insists on calling it ‘that’. Shavonne stepped back. A shiver went down his neck.

He sat in front of the sack and untied the rope binding its mouth. When he pulled, it came undone easily. His hand stung from touching the rough hemp. A reddish sensation spread across his palm. Ignoring this, he opened the sack.

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Inside the opened sack, a familiar head was visible. Black, shiny, curly hair. At first glance it looked like it was clumped with grease, but upon closer inspection, that wasn’t the case. It was matted with sticky blood. He could feel trembling from inside. Intermittent sounds of someone choking back sobs could be heard. Shavonne was frozen. Neither opening nor closing, just gripping the sack tightly.

Lewellyn, who had been watching silently, spoke.

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“Shall I help you?”

At that voice, the trembling that had been felt even through the sack stopped. The sound of choking back sobs stopped too. Shavonne was certain this was due to the fear imprinted in ‘that thing’s’ mind. What could he have done? What could he have done to make someone terrified just from hearing his voice? Shavonne couldn’t even begin to imagine.

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Shavonne answered wordlessly by opening the sack wide. Inside, as expected, was Turner. Turner’s body was all dark red with blood. It smelled fishy. Dark red clots were formed on his eyelids, nostrils, and where his dimples would be.

Whether due to the dark bruises on his eyelids or swelling, his eyes wouldn’t open easily. His cheekbones had collapsed and his nose was broken. His lips were split, and the briefly visible gums were crushed, with nearly half of his once straight teeth missing. It was a sight too horrific to look at.

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That’s when it happened. Turner’s eyes, barely opened, caught sight of Shavonne. Turner’s eyes widened.

The next moment, Shavonne saw Turner clinging to his feet.

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Turner buried his face in the toe of Shavonne’s shoe. Then he rubbed against it. Every time Turner moved, his hair covered in blood did too. It was as if he was cleaning the toe of Shavonne’s shoe with his face and hair.

Turner constantly mumbled sounds that could have been groans or screams. Mixed with crying, and perhaps because his teeth were gone or his tongue was crushed, the pronunciation was so unclear that it was impossible to understand. By the time Shavonne realized that the words he kept mumbling were “I’m sorry,” Turner was already looking up at him.

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A face stained with tears and snot. But even those tears and snot were not enough to wash away the bloodstains covering Turner’s face. The words “Please forgive me” burst from Turner’s mouth.

Shavonne, barely suppressing the revulsion rising to his throat, began to put Turner back into the sack. Turner wailed. “I’m sorry, please forgive me, I’m sorry…” Shavonne ignored him and pressed down hard on Turner’s head. Turner was desperate not to go in. No matter how much he was pressed down, his head sprang up.

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He managed to stuff Turner into the sack. To prevent him from getting out, he quickly closed it and placed a heavy chair on top. He was out of breath. Shavonne wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand. At the same moment, an unexpected smell of blood stung his nose.

Startled, he saw that blood had stained his hand without him realizing. It seemed to have happened while he was pressing down on Turner’s head to put him in the sack. Shavonne immediately wiped it off. Although the stain was quickly erased, the smell of blood didn’t go away. It was nauseating. It was a stench that involuntarily made him grimace.

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“Do you like it?”

A laughing voice was heard from behind. Turning around, he saw Lewellyn grinning. With a face that seemed to believe without a doubt that Shavonne would be pleased.

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Shavonne stood up and faced Lewellyn. Although anger filled his throat, he held it back. Although the desire to rebuke filled his throat, he held that back too. However, despite his superhuman patience, he couldn’t hide the agitation in his voice.

“Take him back.”

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As Shavonne spat this out, the corner of his eye twitched slightly. Lewellyn tilted his head. His hair fell along his slender jawline.

“You mean put him away where he can’t be seen?”

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“Don’t pretend to not understand me. Take this person back. Right now.”

Shavonne wasn’t focusing on the fact that Turner had been beaten to a pulp. Beaten to a pulp? Served him right. Being beaten to a pulp wasn’t enough. He wished he had been stabbed. He wished he had been poisoned and strangled too. He wished he had died like a fish on a cutting board, with its gills cut, scales peeled off, and entrails removed. But he hoped, he needed, the person doing it to absolutely not be Lewellyn.

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If Lewellyn gets caught for this…, then…

Emotions welled up involuntarily. Shavonne couldn’t hold back and shouted.

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“Lewellyn, don’t you understand? You’ve committed a crime now. A crime that can’t be fixed! Why on earth did you do such a thing…”

“‘Why on earth’?”

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The sentence was cut off.

Shavonne was momentarily stunned by the unexpected words. Did I hear wrong? Or…? Before he could make up his mind, Lewellyn’s voice rang out again. The clearly enunciated syllables pierced his ears.

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“Why, on earth?”

Lewellyn’s voice was sharp.

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“I don’t understand ‘why on earth’ Mr. Shavonne didn’t tell me anything. I was hurt. I was so hurt that… every time I thought about why you did it, what circumstances made you not give me any hint, I felt like I was rolling in mud. It made me feel like I was worse than your typewriter. Like I was worse than your pillow and worse than your blanket. No matter how much I try not to, I keep feeling jealous. Of your typewriter, your pillow, your blanket… I’m jealous of them all.”

“…”

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“Why did you do it, Mr. Shavonne? Because I’m not worthy enough to confide in? Because it’s obvious I wouldn’t be of any help? Because I’d only get in the way? Or…”

Lewellyn forced a smile, pulling up the corners of his mouth. Be it luck or misfortune, Shavonne knew that this was an action for his sake.

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“Are you tired of me?”

It felt like something was stuck in his throat.

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“Are you tired of me? Because I don’t have black hair, because I don’t have blue eyes, because I don’t have neat nails or a smooth body without scars… Is that why you did it?”

Absolutely not. Shavonne squeezed out his voice with difficulty to answer.

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“That’s not it.”

“Then what?”

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Lewellyn was still forcing a smile. Shavonne couldn’t bear to look.

“Then why did you tell me not to wait, and why did you give me a cushion to hug when you’re not there? Why didn’t you stroke my hair when I slept, why didn’t you kiss me, why didn’t you hug me?”

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Lewellyn probably knew that Shavonne hid both the publishing company and the editor. He probably even knew that Shavonne switched the letters at that time to protect Turner. It was natural for Lewellyn to fester. Only Shavonne didn’t know.

Shavonne wanted to clean Lewellyn. He wanted to wash him with water or apply disinfectant, or wipe him with a clean cloth.

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But how could Shavonne dare?

“I was so hurt. That’s all.”

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Lewellyn finished. He didn’t seem to expect Shavonne to explain himself. Shavonne was about to say something, but at that moment he couldn’t because of a rustling sound from somewhere. The sack. Shavonne only then realized that the problem with Turner was urgent.

“We need to take him back.”

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Shavonne said.

“This man is not just anyone. I mean, he’s not the kind of person the police wouldn’t care about whether he’s kidnapped or not. This man is rich. He says his family is influential too. And he’s not the type to meekly overlook being kidnapped and assaulted. And…”

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“Mr. Shavonne. I don’t commit crimes that can’t be fixed.”

Lewellyn smiled. It was impossible to tell if it was a genuine smile or not.

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“He’ll become a beggar. It doesn’t matter whether his family is influential or not. Even if he were royalty, it wouldn’t be a problem. He’ll give in easily.”

Surely he doesn’t mean to kill him, right? Shavonne looked at Lewellyn with eyes betraying his anxiety.

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“I’m not thinking of killing him. You said you’d leave if I killed anyone. You know that I obey any order you give.”

After finishing his explanation, Lewellyn immediately shrugged and added, “Of course, except for telling me not to wait, to sleep hugging the cushion, to take that one back, and so on.”

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It didn’t make sense.

“Then why did you bring him here?”

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“He played with you, Mr. Shavonne.”

Lewellyn laughed. “I thought Mr. Shavonne might want to play with him too. Games are more fun when they’re reciprocal, aren’t they?”

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Shavonne frowned slightly. “And after I ‘play’ with this person? What happens next?”

“Of course, I’ll play with him. I’ve even made plans for how to play with this one. What do you think? Aren’t you curious?”

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“No, I’m not.”

Shavonne was no saint. He didn’t want to be one either. He won’t care what happens to Turner. No, he’ll rather be glad. However, he decided not to listen to how Lewellyn would ‘play’. He was sure it would upset him if he heard it.

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He looked down at the sack. Until just now, it had been twitching slightly, but now there was no particular movement. While Lewellyn’s desired ‘play’ would probably involve violence, Shavonne had no such intention. He might kick it at most, but he wouldn’t smash the face like Lewellyn did. There was only one thing Shavonne wanted to do.

He wanted to ask why.

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Why did he deceive Shavonne? Why… did it have to be Shavonne? What did he hope to gain by deceiving Shavonne, who was, as Turner said, merely a ‘nameless ghostwriter’?

“I’ll make room for you. Use it.”

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Lewellyn held out the toolbox he was holding. “Put it there,” Shavonne replied. He had no intention of using it, but it might be needed.

When he opened the sack, Turner appeared. No wonder he wasn’t moving; he had fainted. He wasn’t dead. There was a pulse. As he dragged out the entire body, his limbs were revealed. They were covered in blood, which had dried, turning his entire limbs black. His legs were bent at an odd angle, and his arms were stiff, either broken or something.

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Shavonne’s eyes twitched at the sight of blood. Lewellyn glanced at Turner and said in a voice that showed no sympathy at all, “Oh, what a shame. Should I cut his tendons for you?”

“No.”

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“Should I pull out his fingernails and toenails for you?”

“No.”

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“He might scratch you.”

“It’s fine.”

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Shavonne said, “Come back in thirty minutes.” Lewellyn agreed. While Lewellyn was preparing to leave room 303, Shavonne shook Turner’s body. He didn’t wake up. He slapped his cheek. Still, he didn’t wake up. He hit him hard several times with resentment, but it was the same. Shavonne was perplexed.

Fortunately, Lewellyn was just about to leave the house. Shavonne stopped Lewellyn just as he was stepping out the door. Lewellyn poked his face through the not-yet-closed door. As if asking ‘What’s the matter?’, Lewellyn’s eyes shone towards Shavonne.

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“Um… how do I wake that up?”

Shavonne asked. Lewellyn answered lightly while putting on his hat.

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“Break one of his fingers.”

The door closed. Soon, someone’s scream echoed loudly inside the closed door.

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“What’s all that noise?”

In front of room 303. A voice was heard from above. Lewellyn, who was leaning against the door with his arms crossed, raised his head to identify the owner of the voice. It was a familiar face. Mrs. Isadora from upstairs.

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“Kids playing.”

Lewellyn answered.

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Mrs. Isadora said,

“Don’t let them play too late.”

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Mrs. Isadora grumbled that these days, there were too many young people playing too late, and she couldn’t get a good night’s sleep at all. She didn’t forget to threaten that because of not being able to sleep at night, her migraine that had disappeared 5 years ago was about to come back, and if it did, she would bill him for the medical expenses. Lewellyn said he would keep that in mind. Only after repeated warnings did Mrs. Isadora leave the front of room 303.

Lewellyn watched Mrs. Isadora’s retreating figure. Only when Mrs. Isadora’s figure was completely out of sight could he turn his gaze. To the gas lamp in the corridor, to the railing of the corridor, and beyond the railing of the corridor.

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It was snowing.

In front of the Ira Apartment, snowflakes were silently settling on the huge plane tree. One flake, two flakes, three flakes…, the slowly falling snowflakes soon became countless. The night was turning white in Bunch. A white night. It was the first snow of that winter.

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A moment later, someone rushed out of room 303. It was Shavonne. Shavonne, pale and white after all the blood drained from his face.

Shavonne said he had somewhere to go.

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***

The carriage stopped.

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On a deserted night, snow was falling into a dark world where the only thing shining was the light of gas lamps. Shavonne poked his head out of the carriage window to look at the coachman. The incessant snow settled on his head, neck, and shoulders, melting coldly.

“I can’t go any further.”

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The coachman said. The coachman’s finger pointed to the slope spread out in front of the carriage. No, more precisely, he was pointing at the snow piled on the slope.

Shavonne understood. It’s dangerous for a cheap carriage to go up and down a snow-covered slope. Is it just snow piled up? When it eventually turns into ice, it becomes even more dangerous. Even if we generously assume there’s no problem going up, there’s too high a possibility of slipping when coming down. Accidents where cheap carriages overturn while running on ice were not uncommon.

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As he got out of the carriage, there was a crunching sound of stepping on snow. The falling snow made his hair droop and stained his clothes. Snow settled on his exposed nape and melted. A chill seeped into every place the snow touched.

Shavonne handed over the carriage fare. He also gave a tip as usual. The coachman subtly rolled his eyes, saying that that was too cheap a price for taking him this far on this night, this winter, this snowy day. Before the coachman could finish saying that carriage fares had been raised recently, Shavonne silently handed over all the money in his wallet. Only then did the coachman smile broadly.

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Shavonne didn’t care. He couldn’t care. Whether the coachman was overcharging or not, that wasn’t what was important. Only one name was spinning dizzyingly in Shavonne’s mind. Like the snow swirling before his eyes.

Fawkes.

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The Fawkes mansion should have been visible by now, but it wasn’t. The view was all white, obscured by the swirling snow. The snowstorm slapped Shavonne’s cheeks. His cheeks were all red from the cold. The crunching sound of snow under Shavonne’s feet as he climbed the slope was followed by the sound of snow blowing, burying it. Shavonne thought it sounded like Turner’s breathing. Not the Turner who was showing off at the his home, but the Turner who was crawling like a maggot in the sack at the Ira Apartment.

― I’m sorry, please spare me, I’m sorry…

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Inside room 303. As soon as Shavonne woke him up, Turner started begging like that. He buried his face in Shavonne’s shoe tip, trouser hem, and knee, and rubbed against them. Shavonne stepped back to prevent Turner from rubbing against him. The clinging body was disgusting. Knowing that Turner would never have said ‘I’m sorry’ if he hadn’t ended up in this state, Shavonne had no intention of accepting Turner’s begging.

But Turner was desperate. Perhaps he judged that he had a higher chance of survival by rubbing up against Shavonne, who ‘understands words’, rather than Lewellyn, who ‘doesn’t understand words’. Turner, crouched down like a stepped-on maggot, repeatedly banging his forehead on the floor. His forehead had wounds. Fresh blood began to flow on the forehead that had been only black with dried blood.

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Shavonne tried to stop him. Not so much out of concern for Turner, but because of the thought that if Turner died from banging his forehead like this, Lewellyn might take the blame when he was innocent . But that’s when it happened.

― It was all your friend, your friend who ordered me to do it.

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Shavonne stopped his hand reaching out towards Turner.

My friend?

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The only person Shavonne could call a friend was Doctor Fawkes. In other words, Turner’s claim was this: Doctor Fawkes ordered Turner to deceive Shavonne, to make a false confession saying ‘I love you,’ and to try to force a relationship.

Nonsense.

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― I understand you want to get out of this situation, but don’t drag my friend or whatever into this. It’s disgusting.

― It’s true!

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Turner shouted.

― I swear. If this is a lie, I don’t care if I die. Yes, I don’t care if that devil pulls out all my remaining teeth. Please believe me.

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This was Turner, who was so afraid of Lewellyn that he would have a seizure just from hearing his voice. And now this Turner was swearing, swearing to die if he was lying, that he wouldn’t care if Lewellyn pulled out all his remaining teeth.

Can I believe him?

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Shavonne just looked down at Turner silently without showing any reaction. Turner didn’t miss that gap and shouted the rest. Every time Turner moved his lips, the dark red mass pooled in his mouth wriggled.

― He told me to become your lover. And to report your every move. I don’t know why. I just wanted the money…

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― Which one?

Shavonne asked.

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― Which one of my friends would order such insanity?

― I don’t know his name. He introduced himself as Mr. F.

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F. Strangely, he knew that initial.

That’s when it happened. Turner suddenly asked to take out the wallet from his back pocket. He said the ‘evidence’ was there. Shavonne didn’t budge. It might be a trick. If he pounced on the opportunity when Shavonne came close, it would be a disaster.

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Watching Shavonne not even move, Turner closed his eyes tightly and opened them again. Then he twisted his body to get the wallet out of his back pocket. He pushed it to send it flying to Shavonne’s feet. During the twisting of his body, the pain in his stiffened arms and bent legs must have been severe, as sweat beaded on Turner’s face covered in blood. Red sweat drops fell.

Shavonne picked up the wallet. When he opened it, cash, checks, and a letter from Turner’s fiancée came out. Except for the fact that the wedding was a month away, nothing noteworthy was written. It was an ordinary wallet. No, it was rather an unremarkable wallet.

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Until he found a certain note.

It was a familiar handwriting that couldn’t be mistaken. Shavonne wanted to believe it wasn’t true, but he wasn’t blind. The handwriting could have been forged. Yes, maybe that could be the case. But the content?

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The note listed things Shavonne liked and disliked in succession. With a footnote saying ‘reference’, it briefly described how he had met, dated, and broken up with his lovers so far. Decisively, it contained the plots of three novels Shavonne had written. It wasn’t the version submitted to the publisher. It was the version that Doctor Fawkes had read before submission.

Shavonne’s hand holding the note turned pale white.

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‘Shall I introduce you to someone?’

‘He’s handsome. You only care about their faces, so you’ll surely like him.’

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‘Meet him once and decide.’

He recalled the day when Doctor Fawkes had insisted on introducing someone. He had believed without doubt that it had been a gesture of friendship, but thinking that it was bait to receive reports on his every move made his throat close up. It felt like he was out of breath.

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Has this been the first time?

If not… since when?

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