MLCD Chapter 5.2

“…Mr. Lewellyn.”

“Lewellyn.” He tried shaking him, but still, there was no response. Even when he shook him roughly, the result was the same.

Suddenly, he noticed that Lewellyn’s face was pale. He had always been pale, but this was the first time he was so pale that he reminded one of a corpse a week after death. It wasn’t just his face. Even his lips had turned blue.

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Could Lewellyn be…

‘You could die if you’re not careful.’

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Turner’s words came to mind. His jaw trembled with fear. Cold sweat poured out. It ran down Shavonne’s nose and temples. With trembling hands, Shavonne searched for Lewellyn’s pulse. Is it here? No? Is it here… Because his hands were shaking so much, it took a while to confirm the heartbeat.

He was alive.

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He picked him up on his back and dashed out of Room 303. As he ran down the apartment stairs, he staggered. Fortunately, he quickly regained his balance, or he might have tumbled down. In the process, one of the indoor shoes he had hastily put on came off and flew into the darkness. He could probably find it if he searched, but there was no time for that.

Limping, he hurriedly left the apartment. At the entrance of the building, a giant platanus tree stood in the form of a huge, black shadow. Until just a while ago, it had been gently swaying whenever the wind blew, but now it didn’t move at all. It was as still as death. Just like Lewellyn on Shavonne’s back.

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Shaking his ominous thoughts off, he adjusted Lewellyn on his back and started running again, limping. He threw away the remaining shoe that was hindering his running. As expected, running barefoot was much faster than running with just one shoe.

The rough cobblestones scraped Shavonne’s bare feet as he passed. A stinging pain soaked his feet. His feet were bleeding from cuts and scrapes all over. There wasn’t a place that wasn’t wounded, from the soles of his feet, the tops, between his toes, and even his toenails.

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All the private hospitals located on Ira Street were closed. He shook the doors, knocking hard with his fists, and even shouted to see if anyone was inside, but no one came out. He realized it wasn’t business hours just before he was about to throw his body against the door, when he saw a small sign saying the doctor was out on a house call.

“Damn it!” Shavonne cursed out loud. Why do these greedy bastards only keep the hospital open for three hours? No wonder you’re scraping by on Ira Street. If you were open all the time, you’d be more than qualified to be a doctor at the Royal Hospital by now. No, forget the Royal Hospital. You could’ve been the Royal Physician.

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Shavonne recalled the time when a drunk house-call doctor, with a bright red nose, broke his toe. What did he say back then? Something about mistaking Shavonne’s toe for a tree branch? Such doctors made up 99% of Ira’s medical professionals.

By now, this doctor was probably pretending to be on a house call while actually hanging out at Blase, drinking with just about anyone. And then, after drinking, he’d try to suture a wound and end up putting the scalpel in someone’s stomach. You fucker, why would you go to a house call? Who the hell called for a house call at this hour?

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Shavonne wanted to cry, but there was no time for that. Emotions could wait until after waking Lewellyn. Just then, Shavonne remembered that there was a clinic nearby that was open all day. Shavonne hesitated before heading straight to the clinic.

Among the medical facilities in Bunch, that clinic had the worst conditions. Except for the Royal Hospital, which was practically exclusive to the upper class, the only medical facilities Shavonne could access were private hospitals and clinics. Compared to private hospitals, which were no better than poorhouses, clinics had even worse facilities. There was even a common joke that it was better to receive quack treatment from a Caucasian fortune-teller than to be treated at a clinic.

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Should I really take Lewellyn to such a place?

The weight of the choice churned in Shavonne’s throat like nausea. But Shavonne’s decision was already made. Before going to the clinic, Shavonne glanced at Lewellyn, who was being carried on his back. Lewellyn was asleep. Perhaps in a long sleep that might become eternal. The breath on Shavonne’s nape was so faint it seemed it might stop at any moment.

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The clinic door only opened after three loud knocks. Despite the sign saying it was open all day, the doctor looked like he had just woken up. His messy hair, sleepy eyes, and lips twisted as if trying to suppress a yawn were evidence of this.

The doctor quickly looked Shavonne up and down, taking in the sight of Lewellyn on his back. He seemed to be considering whether to treat them or not. Fortunately or not, the doctor’s deliberation ended the moment he saw Shavonne’s limping leg and bare, injured feet without shoes. The doctor said,

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“Go somewhere else.”

And with that, he slammed the door shut. Before the echo of the slam could fade, Shavonne violently opened the door. The doctor, who had been about to leave the doorway, stopped and turned to look at Shavonne with a surprised face. His eyes were as round as a rabbit’s.

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“What…”

Shavonne didn’t let the doctor finish his sentence.

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“Listen here, doctor.”

Shavonne had to make the doctor treat Lewellyn. Of course, Shavonne wasn’t dumb. He wouldn’t appeal to the hippocratic oath, which had become mere scraps of paper, or to emotions. The method Shavonne would use was much faster, more certain, and more effective than appealing.

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For example, a threat.

“Have you never had an inspection in your life? Don’t you even know what the inspector Allium Cepa looks like?”

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The doctor’s expression became bizarre.

“You’re saying you’re Inspector Alli… whatever you said?”

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“If you don’t believe me, check with the inspection office. Of course, by then, I won’t be speaking politely as a patient like I am now.”

The doctor seemed uncertain whether the man before him was a real inspector or not. Shavonne didn’t miss this hesitation and shouted loudly

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“What are you waiting for?!”

Only then did the doctor hurriedly start preparing for the medical examination. Shavonne tightly gripped and then released Lewellyn’s limp hand that was draped over his shoulder. It was a cold hand.

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Inside the clinic, Shavonne silently looked down at Lewellyn lying on the bed. Whether in Room 303 or here at the clinic, Lewellyn was still sound asleep. Not panting, not shaking or twisting his head. Not even moaning, ‘Shavonne, don’t go.’

“…”

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It was unbearable to look at. Shavonne closed his eyes. But if there was one thing Shavonne had overlooked, it was that fear could never be avoided whether one’s eyes were closed or open. Fear slowly began to dampen the nape of Shavonne’s neck.

What if Lewellyn never opened his eyes again? If Shavonne could never eat the onion bagels or onion steaks that Lewellyn made, never hear Lewellyn’s morning greeting of ‘did you dream of me?’ or his nightly ‘dream of me’…

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If Shavonne were to lose Lewellyn…

― Mr. Shavonne, can’t I be the only one in your world?

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Shavonne recalled something Lewellyn had said once. What had Shavonne thought back then? That love couldn’t become one’s world, that love becoming one’s world was just an empty romance for daydreamers. Not knowing that someday, Shavonne would be afraid of losing his world, Lewellyn.

Even Shavonne didn’t know when exactly Lewellyn had become his ‘romance’.

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Maybe it was after seeing Lewellyn’s scar-covered body, or maybe it was after waiting all night for Lewellyn when he ran away. If he were to meticulously search through his memories, he might be able to pinpoint when it started. But now wasn’t the time to do that. He was afraid that the memories he shared with Lewellyn might turn into mere ‘memories’. He was afraid of the pain, afraid of the loneliness.

They say that as love deepens, the world becomes rosy, but that was all a lie. As love deepens, the world becomes full of dangers. An empty corridor that one would have barely noticed when alone becomes frightening, raindrops that one wouldn’t have cared about when alone become scary. The silence that one would have taken for granted when alone becomes terrifying.

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Why does life become scarier the more one loves?

Shavonne buried his face in his hands and hunched over. The world pressed down on Shavonne’s back. It was overwhelming.

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The doctor said that Lewellyn would wake up soon. When asked how soon ‘soon’ was, he replied, “Anywhere from five minutes to twelve hours?” Shavonne frowned. How can that be ‘soon’?

Shavonne planned to take Lewellyn to Dr. Fawkes’s hospital if he didn’t wake up within an hour. He didn’t want to reveal the existence of his ex-murderer lover to Dr. Fawkes, but if the situation worsened, he had no choice.

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Dr. Fawkes’s hospital was said to provide treatment on par with the Royal Physician. Of course, they charged astronomical fees that would cost an ordinary person their entire fortune. Since Dr. Fawkes himself had told this story, there was no possibility of it being a lie. Although Shavonne had never been to Dr. Fawkes’s hospital, he figured that given its famous reputation, he could easily find it by asking around Rewood Street.

As Shavonne repeatedly rubbed his face, the doctor, who had been glancing at him furtively, cautiously asked a question. It was already the fifth time he had asked today.

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“You’re really an inspector, right?”

“If you ask one more time, I’ll write in the evaluation report that you might have dementia.”

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Shavonne replied without taking his eyes off Lewellyn’s sleeping face. Shavonne’s face was dry and devoid of any hint of a smile.

“I’m not asking because I don’t believe you. It’s just strange.”

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“Keep your strangeness to yourself. Don’t tell me about it.”

“Well, it’s not that you’re strange, sir. It’s that the… patient you brought in is strange.”

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Shavonne turned to look at the doctor. The doctor asked,

“What happened to this person before they lost consciousness?”

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“…They took sleeping pills.”

Shavonne swallowed the words ‘It must have been due to side effects.’ The words ‘side effects’ felt very uncomfortable.

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The doctor muttered to himself, “Sleeping pills, sleeping pills…” and then spoke up.

“Could you bring me those ‘sleeping pills’ next time?”

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Shavonne said he would. He showed no other reaction.

After the doctor left, only the two of them remained in the empty hospital room. Despite it being dawn, it was still dark outside. Daybreak was too far away.

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***

There’s an end to everything. Love is no exception. Whether it’s death that ends love or discord, there’s no such thing as endless love.

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Shavonne wanted to die the day before losing Lewellyn. He didn’t want to see the end. Shavonne was too weak to endure the end, and he lacked the strength, courage, and will to not become weak. Shavonne simply didn’t want to hurt.

He remembered a certain evening when all of Bunch was dyed in a romantic purple. Twilight, spring. The cozy dusk of the moon and stars. And a gentle darkness.

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He shouldn’t have gone to find Lewellyn then.

He shouldn’t have said, “I like you.”

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He shouldn’t have said, “Would you go out with me?”

Even if it meant dying buried in solitude, he shouldn’t have done anything.

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Shavonne regretted it. It was the first time since falling in love with Lewellyn.

He shouldn’t have loved.

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He shouldn’t have created a situation where he could lose him.

Lewellyn.

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Don’t go.

Words that shouldn’t be said swirled in his throat. It stung.

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Lewellyn opened his eyes.

Lewellyn regained consciousness around dawn at five o’clock, as the early morning light began to stream through the window.

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Despite having kept vigil by the bedside all along, Shavonne didn’t see Lewellyn wake up. He had been curled up, his head cradled in both arms. Shavonne had been regretting. Everything was a matter of regret.

Starting from ‘I shouldn’t have given him the sleeping pills,’ to ‘Why didn’t I say anything? I should have at least hinted that I was going to give him sleeping pills. I should have done that!’, ‘No, I should have refused Turner’s offer to give me sleeping pills. Yes. First of all, I shouldn’t have told the truth about not being able to sleep.’

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While Shavonne wasn’t looking, Lewellyn opened his eyes. His previously still eyelids trembled slightly, then opened to reveal his golden eyes. His haggard gaze slowly moved from the ceiling to the wall, then to the bed, and finally rested on Shavonne, who was keeping watch at the bedside.

Lewellyn just quietly looked up at Shavonne, who was curled up with his head in his arms. Shavonne’s face wasn’t visible due to his arms cradling his head and his fallen hair. Instead of calling out ‘Shavonne,’ Lewellyn raised his hand and brushed aside Shavonne’s fallen hair. Their eyes met. Shavonne’s eyes widened belatedly.

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“Lewellyn, I’m…”

He was about to say he was sorry. That it was Shavonne’s fault for not telling him in advance, for giving him sleeping pills without saying a word due to the childish desire to give him a ‘good sleep’ as a surprise gift.

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However, before he could even offer the apology he had prepared, an unexpected response cut off Shavonne’s words.

“You didn’t leave.”

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His throat closed up.

“That’s a good thing. For you, of course, not for me. If you had left, I was planning to chase you down immediately and put shackles on your ankles.”

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A faint laugh. Perhaps because he had been unconscious for over ten hours, Lewellyn’s voice was hoarse and cracked. Shavonne couldn’t say anything. It felt like there was a thorn stuck in his throat. Every time he swallowed, a stinging pain jabbed his throat, stopped, and then started again.

“Are you not going to say anything?”

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Lewellyn’s hand fidgeted with Shavonne’s face. As Lewellyn’s touch caressed his hair, pinched his cheek, and lightly brushed the bridge of his nose, Shavonne felt his mouth clamp shut even more tightly, let alone speak.

“Really?”

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Lewellyn pushed Shavonne’s fallen hair behind his ear while maintaining eye contact. As if all of this was no big deal. Shavonne still couldn’t say anything. Regardless of his intentions, Shavonne had given Lewellyn sleeping pills without any warning and had nearly sent his lover to his grave. What could someone like Shavonne possibly say?

Lewellyn stopped his hand and quietly observed Shavonne. After a moment, he deliberately narrowed his eyes and wrinkled his nose playfully.

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“You’re terrible. I already knew it, but you’re really terrible, Mr. Shavonne. So mean.”

Finally, Shavonne had to force out some words. His voice was harsh.

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“…I have some sense of shame.”

“Do you? I had no idea.”

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“…Lewellyn, what can I possibly say? No, what do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know, anything?”

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There was only one thing he could say.

“I’m sorry.”

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“Not that. Something else.”

He could only do that. Apart from ‘I’m sorry,’ there was only one other thing Shavonne could say.

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“I want to apologize for giving you sleeping pills without any warning.”

“Not that. Something else.”

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Lewellyn made a gesture of waving his hand dismissively.

When you do something wrong, you should apologize. That’s common sense. But is it really right for the perpetrator to apologize when the victim doesn’t want it? The question flashed through his mind. Shavonne closed his mouth. His throat hurt as if the thorn stuck in his throat had grown larger.

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“…Shackles, you said.”

Was it because his throat was strained? Shavonne’s voice came out hoarse. Lewellyn laughed. He seemed to find it amusing that Shavonne had mentioned the shackles.

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“You don’t like the idea?”

Starting with putting on shackles and ending with demolishing all the stairs in the Ira apartment building. Lewellyn recited all the various ways he would keep Shavonne from leaving, whether they were feasible or not. Shavonne thought that maybe Lewellyn wasn’t speaking because he wanted to, just as Shavonne wasn’t listening because he wanted to. Perhaps Lewellyn was doing his best to divert attention so that Shavonne couldn’t blame himself.

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As he looked at Lewellyn, gradually all the sounds in the world faded away. It felt distant. He could see Lewellyn’s lips moving busily, but he couldn’t hear his voice.

Shavonne wanted to hold onto Lewellyn by any means necessary. He wanted to put shackles on him as Lewellyn had said, and he wanted to demolish all the stairs in the Ira apartment building. But in the end, he knew that Lewellyn would leave someday. He knew he would.

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I know I will be left alone.

The growing thorn blocked Shavonne’s airway. He couldn’t breathe as if a transparent, enormous hand was choking him. Beyond the window, five in the morning was breaking into a blue dawn. A silent suffocation enveloped the room.

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***

After going to a clinic, you have to pay the clinic fee. Shavonne only realized this obvious fact just before leaving for the Ira apartment building with Lewellyn. The doctor, who was standing as if to say ‘shouldn’t you pay the clinic fee before you go?’, had a face that had never even considered the possibility that Inspector Allium Cepa might have gone without a single penny.

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What a fiasco. Shavonne’s face stiffened. He didn’t have a penny. In his haste to leave the house, he hadn’t thought to bring his wallet. Under normal circumstances, he would have identified himself, said he’d come back to pay later or asked for the bill to be sent to his home address, but now that he had lied about being an inspector, he couldn’t do that.

While Shavonne was at a loss for what to do, the doctor said, “Don’t you have cash? If not…” and then handed him a piece of paper with a pen on top. It seemed he wanted Shavonne to write down the home address where the bill should be sent. Shavonne held the pen awkwardly, not knowing what to write. If he wrote a fake address, an innocent household would have to pay it, and if he wrote his real address, the doctor would know he was fooled.

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“Inspector Cepa?”

The doctor tilted his head. A puzzled look was spreading across his round face. Just as Shavonne was wondering about what to do, a hand reached out from behind him and snatched the pen he was holding. It also took the paper he was holding. Then.

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“I’ll write it.”

It was Lewellyn. He started writing an address on the paper. As Shavonne had hoped, it was an unfamiliar address. Judging by the name ‘Iroph Storage,’ it fortunately didn’t seem to be a private residence.

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Lewellyn told the doctor to collect the money there. The doctor, upon receiving the paper, showed a questioning look, saying, “But this isn’t a private residence address?” Lewellyn replied in a casual tone while putting the pen back in its holder.

“No, it’s not.”

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“But you need to tell me where your private residence is so I can…”

“‘You can’?”

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Lewellyn raised an eyebrow. Flustered by the blunt question, the doctor hesitated and couldn’t continue speaking. Lewellyn took his hand off the pen holder.

“I can’t tell you. There are too many sketchy individuals coming to seek favors. As you know, our Inspector Cepa is too busy to deal with all the visitors personally.”

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Lewellyn’s pronunciation of “Inspector Cepa” was smooth. Glancing at him, Lewellyn looked completely natural, as if there was no problem at all. A faint smile filled his face.

“I’m sure you understand that, don’t you?”

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It would be impossible to say he didn’t after the way he spoke. Like most people dealing with Lewellyn, the doctor, caught up in his pace, reluctantly nodded in agreement.

“Let’s go, Inspector.”

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Lewellyn led the way. His face had a slight smile. Shavonne couldn’t smile back. He realized that without Lewellyn, he would have been caught red-handed.

If Lewellyn wasn’t there. Shavonne wondered what weight Lewellyn’s absence would carry. It would overturn his entire daily life, like losing an eye, or the nose, or the mouth. The thorn in his throat, which he thought had shrunk, began to swell again. The thorn’s presence made his throat tighten.

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As soon as they left the clinic, Lewellyn took off his shoes. Shavonne wondered what he was doing, but it turned out Lewellyn intended to put them on Shavonne’s bare feet. Although Shavonne hastily waved his hands in refusal, Lewellyn paid no attention. He bent down, lifted Shavonne’s bare feet covered in scratches, and put the shoes on. “An ‘inspector’ shouldn’t be barefoot,” he said, playfully emphasizing the word ‘inspector.’

Shavonne was so surprised that he stood stiffly in place, but only for a moment. Belatedly coming to his senses, he quickly rubbed his ankles to take off the shoes. Perhaps because he had sprained it while running with Lewellyn on his back at night, his ankle throbbed severely.

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“It’s fine. This kind of consideration isn’t necessary…”

“If you know it’s a consideration, just wear them without complaining.”

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Lewellyn raised and lowered his eyebrows lightly. Unable to face him, Shavonne lowered his gaze. Fixing his gaze on Lewellyn’s nape, he replied.

“…It seems more logical for only one of us to have scratched feet rather than both of us.”

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“My goodness, I didn’t know Mr, Shavonne was the type to only do logical things. I thought you were definitely not that type, given how many irrational things you do.”

“I haven’t done anything irrational.”

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“In case you didn’t know, the things you’ve done today are typically called irrational actions, Mr. Shavonne.”

“‘Actions’?”

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The irrational action Shavonne had in mind was just one: giving Lewellyn sleeping pills without any warning. When he asked, Lewellyn counted on his fingers and listed them one by one.

“First, giving sleeping pills without any warning. Second, coming to the clinic without a penny. Third, lying to the doctor about being an inspector. Fourth, rejecting the shoes your lover personally put on your bare feet.”

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Shavonne couldn’t refute. Lewellyn smiled faintly.

“Now that you heard all that, don’t you feel like you should wear the shoes?”

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“Well, I…”

“If not, don’t say anything. I have no intention of listening.”

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So stubborn. After the brief argument, Shavonne said he understood. Lewellyn said, “You should, after how much I’ve tried to persuade you,” not giving an inch, and smiled brightly. Again, Shavonne couldn’t smile back. What would happen if Lewellyn wasn’t there? Would there be anyone else who would give up their shoes for Shavonne, knowing they would end up barefoot themselves?

He couldn’t be sure. Shavonne silently lowered his head. Lewellyn knelt down and brought his hands to Shavonne’s bare feet. The feet that were always clean were now covered in wounds from running through the streets all night.

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Lewellyn’s face, which had been staring down blankly, became quite serious. He slowly pressed his lips to the top of Shavonne’s foot and then pulled away. Shavonne flinched at the unexpected action. Noticing this reaction, Lewellyn looked up at Shavonne. He was smiling.

“Because you’re precious.”

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Once again. The thorn pierced his throat.

“There’s nothing as precious as you, Mr. Shavonne.”

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Precious. It was a word that had never been associated with him from birth until now. Shavonne wasn’t precious. If he had been precious, his parents wouldn’t have abandoned him, and he wouldn’t have been unloved or unadopted at the orphanage. He wouldn’t have been scraping by as a ghostwriter in Ira Street, the poorest slum in Bunch. He wouldn’t have been a complete loner who had never invited or been invited by anyone. He wouldn’t have been lonely.

However, at that moment, what Shavonne focused on was not whether he was actually precious or not.

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If Lewellyn wasn’t there.

Who would call Shavonne precious if Lewellyn wasn’t there?

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“…”

His throat throbbed with the sting of the thorn. Despite knowing it’d be impossible, it felt as if blood was flowing down his esophagus. Lowering his gaze, the shadow cast on the floor appeared long and thin. Dawn was breaking faintly in the distance, but where Shavonne stood was still dark. It seemed it would never brighten.

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Anyone who has ever loved something would know. The deeper the love, the more deadly the wound. Wounds made the soul fester, rot, and eventually had to be cut out. There were no exceptions. The evidence was the people all over the world who had become disabled in this way.

Shavonne decided to love Lewellyn less. No more and no less than just a little bit a day. As it accumulated, it would eventually become a far enough distance to not be hurt even when their love ended.

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He knew he would be lonely. But he also knew that becoming lonely was more painful than being lonely. Shavonne lacked the courage to endure the pain. He was a coward.

It was an inevitable choice even if the whole world pointed fingers at him, calling him a coward. Because the world wouldn’t ease Shavonne’s pain. It was only Shavonne alone who had to bear the burden.

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At night, Lewellyn was sound asleep, holding Shavonne. Not panting, not shaking or twisting his head. Not even groaning, “Shavonne, don’t go.” Lewellyn’s explanation was that he didn’t have nightmares when he slept holding Shavonne, or more precisely, when Shavonne’s scent was at the tip of his nose.

He didn’t know if it was true or not. One thing was clear: right now, being held by Lewellyn to sleep, or more precisely, with Lewellyn’s regular breathing in his ear, Shavonne couldn’t fall asleep.

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Shavonne lay awake all night. It was the same the next day, and the day after that.

Shavonne developed insomnia.

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Anyone at the age of 29 would have experienced not being able to sleep. Shavonne was no different. There was a time when he couldn’t sleep for three days straight, anxious that the publishing company that had commissioned him for ghostwriting might run off with the money. But that was it. Years later, Shavonne was alive and well, sleeping every day.

Sometimes he had bad dreams, sometimes good dreams. Of course, there were times when he didn’t dream at all. Insomnia was a temporary pain. It would dull over time and be washed away cleanly like water after several years. Insomnia couldn’t kill a person.

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However, there was one thing Shavonne overlooked. While insomnia might not be able to kill a person, chronic insomnia could.

He thought it would pass in a day or two. But when it had been a week since he couldn’t sleep, Shavonne had to change his mind. That it might not end in just a day or two. That what he thought was a cold that would go away in two weeks might actually be pneumonia he’d have to live with for the rest of his life. The fear that he might never be able to sleep again like this forever swept through Shavonne’s mind.

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On the first day of not being able to sleep, Shavonne suffered from extreme drowsiness, and from some point on, his head cleared as if he had become alert. It felt like his brain was racing. ‘Mr. Lewellyn, something’s wrong with my body.’ He was about to say, but remembering his resolution to love Lewellyn less, no more and no less than just a little bit a day, he tightly shut his mouth. This is the first little bit, he repeated to himself.

From the second day, his vision began to shake. The ceiling collapsed and the pillars bent. The typewriter melted. The letters on the manuscript writhed as if they each had life. When he came to his senses, he had dozed off. 3 minutes. Shavonne slept for 3 minutes. As he later found out, Shavonne slept an average of 5 minutes. No matter how much he slept, he couldn’t exceed 20 minutes.

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That day too, Lewellyn, who had slept soundly holding Shavonne, saw Shavonne awake as soon as he opened his eyes. Not thinking that he might not have been able to sleep, he stroked Shavonne’s hair with an alluring smile and whispered,

“Did you wake up early to admire my handsome face? You’re so sly.

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Shavonne was about to say that it was true that he was handsome, but that wasn’t why he woke up early, that he just couldn’t sleep, but he just nodded instead. This is the second little bit, he repeated to himself.

From the third day, his brain began to turn to mush. His head and body acted separately. His head thought he should do something, but his body wouldn’t follow. One example was when Shavonne cut his finger while slicing bread. Blood flowed, and the blood from his finger even soaked the bread he was holding, but he couldn’t do anything. Because no thoughts came to mind.

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If Lewellyn hadn’t rushed over calling “Shavonne!” he would have stayed like that. Even while Lewellyn sucked Shavonne’s injured finger, applied medicine, and put on a gauze, Shavonne had no thoughts.

“What’s wrong? Tell me.”

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Lewellyn said. Shavonne suppressed the urge to confess and replied, “It’s nothing.” This is the third little bit, he thought to himself.

From the fourth day, his thoughts began to disintegrate. Sleep, was the first letter of Lewellyn R or L¹? Is it winter? I should write the manuscript, I need to sleep, can I love Lewellyn less? Will it snow? If this manuscript wins the royal competition…, I need to sleep, feels like there’s a thorn in my throat maybe it’s the typewriter sound, it’s an L, right, if I have money and honor will I get better? What if a homeless person freezes to death in front of a communal housing? There was a corpse in front of the communal housing whose corpse was it? A corpse Lewellyn killed, no, was it R, I can’t love Lewellyn less but I have to love him less what was my name, manuscript, I need to sleep…

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It was around this time that Lewellyn gradually began to notice Shavonne’s insomnia.

“Shavonne, you can’t sleep?”

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Lewellyn was worried. His face was pale as if it was Lewellyn, not Shavonne, who hadn’t slept for four days.

“Is it because I’m holding you while sleeping? Do I talk in my sleep?”

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“No. You don’t.”

“Should I stay awake until you fall asleep? Should I read you a book? Or sing you a lullaby?”

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“It’s fine.”

“You don’t like 《Cous Cous》 or 《Yellow, Yellow, Yellow Squirrel》? What do you want to hear? I’ll sing for you. What would you like me to do? No, how can I help you?”

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Lewellyn was desperate. Shavonne was about to say he’d like Lewellyn to do everything he could, but stopped. Sharing the burden was no different from enlarging Lewellyn’s place. The larger Lewellyn’s place became, the larger the empty space Shavonne would have to endure when left alone in the future. Shavonne looked down at the floor, avoiding Lewellyn’s gaze, and then spoke. “I’d like you to do nothing.” This is the fourth little bit, he thought to himself.

From the fifth day, having a conversation became impossible. If Lewellyn said, “Shavonne. You look sick,” each word – Shavonne, look, sick – would be input into Shavonne’s head. Then it would tear. As if someone had ripped a piece of paper to shreds.

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“Will there really be a war? The Daily Bunch said so.” Shavonne answered. Lewellyn silently looked at Shavonne. Perhaps because Lewellyn hadn’t been able to sleep since realizing Shavonne’s insomnia, his eyes were bright red with burst blood vessels. Shavonne pretended not to notice. This is the fifth little bit, he thought to himself.

From the sixth day, he couldn’t write. To be precise, he only then realized that he couldn’t write. To be clear, Shavonne hadn’t gone to work for the past six days. He had sent a telegram saying he would be writing at home for a week because he had to take care of a sick dog, and Turner, although reluctant, had agreed.

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It was a strange thing. It was Turner who had said the reason for writing in the multifamily residential was due to security issues, but he didn’t object at all as if he had forgotten it himself.

Shavonne dismissed it as consideration. He only thought about repaying with an excellent manuscript in six days. But now, the manuscript Shavonne had written for six days had become scrap. Not only was the content so incoherent that it was incomprehensible, but all the sentences were wrong too. It was a mess. When speech disintegrated, writing was impossible. In a way, he had already expected that result.

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From that day, Shavonne began to make desperate efforts to sleep. He took a lower-body bath and drank a warm glass of milk before bed. He couldn’t go for a walk because he couldn’t control his body. Instead, he circled the house three times, groping along the walls.

Despite all efforts, Shavonne couldn’t sleep. Wanting to at least faint, he banged his head against the wall when Lewellyn wasn’t looking, but he didn’t faint.

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He couldn’t get sleeping pills either. According to what he heard, because the price was astronomical and the distributed amount was minimal, only nobles or those connected to nobles could get them. He was about to ask for advice from Lewellyn, who was unexpectedly knowledgeable in various fields, but gave up. This is the sixth little bit, he thought to himself.

On the seventh day, Shavonne tried to go out. “Look in the mirror. If I don’t accompany you, you’ll surely be mistaken for a severe drug addict and locked up in jail,” Lewellyn insisted on going together, so Shavonne snuck out of the house when Lewellyn wasn’t looking.

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Of course, knowing that he might not be able to control his body, he drank ten cups of coffee to help with alertness. Just in case it wasn’t enough, he even borrowed and smoked a cigarette from the janitor.

It was effective. It couldn’t not have an effect, as he coughed so hard his face turned bright red with each puff of the cigarette. Throughout the walk, Lewellyn’s pale face kept flickering before his eyes, but he pushed it away. This is the seventh little bit, he thought to himself.

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The place Shavonne went to was the multifamily complex.

“How come you’ve shown up to work without notice…”

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Turner, who was absentmindedly opening the door, stopped mid-sentence. His disheveled face, as if he had just woken up, showed a hint of bewilderment.

“Why do you look like that?”

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Sunken face and eyes, bloodshot red from lack of sleep. On top of that, Shavonne had become extremely thin in a week. He was so emaciated that it seemed like his bones might creak with the slightest movement.

Shavonne didn’t feel the need to explain the circumstances in detail. He didn’t have the energy for it either. The effects of ten cups of coffee and the cigarette seemed to have worn off, and his consciousness was already wavering. Terrible drowsiness. But he didn’t allow himself to sleep.

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“Mr. Turner.”

His voice was so hoarse and cracked that it could hardly be thought of as human. Turner adjusted his posture and looked at Shavonne as if to say, ‘speak’.

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Shavonne felt his vision blurring. A week of insomnia had driven Shavonne’s mind to the brink. It seemed as if wind was blowing from somewhere. Below the steep cliff. The wind of death, blowing from a black hole so deep its bottom couldn’t be seen.

“The sleeping pills you gave me last time…, do you have any more?”

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While insomnia might not be able to kill a person, chronic insomnia could. He had already had enough.

***

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Of course, he hadn’t asked for sleeping pills without taking any precautions.

Those sleeping pills had almost killed someone. If it had been something he had just heard as a rumor, he might have let it slide, but not this time. He had clearly seen with his own eyes Lewellyn unable to open his eyes for ten hours after taking the sleeping pill.

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Turner wouldn’t have given Shavonne the sleeping pills to harm him. There was no reason to, and if he had, he should have shown some disappointment when he saw Shavonne still breathing normally. There were two possibilities. Either the sleeping pills were strange or Lewellyn was strange.

Tak. Shavonne came to his senses at the sound of something being placed on the bedside table. He must have dozed off without realizing it. Whenever his body stopped for even a minute, a terrible drowsiness would come over him, making his head feel soggy.

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What was placed on the bedside table was water and sleeping pills. He recognized them as they were the same ones from last time. Before picking up the medicine, Shavonne asked a question that he absolutely needed an answer to.

“These pills… do they have any side effects?”

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Turner frowned. As if the word “side effects” was as unpleasant as death, war, or ruin.

“No. Not for normal people.”

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He didn’t seem to be lying. However, Shavonne couldn’t hastily set aside his suspicion. The image of Lewellyn unable to open his eyes for ten hours was too vivid to shake off his suspicion with just a word from Turner.

“You don’t believe me?”

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Turner was perceptive.

Shavonne nodded. If he didn’t believe it, he had to say so. There was no reason to lie. “Hmm.” Turner raised his chin and looked at Shavonne. His thoughts were impossible to read. Every time the gaze swept over Shavonne’s face, an indescribable, uncomfortable feeling crept up.

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“Are you allergic to seafood?”

“No.”

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“How about peaches?”

“No.”

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“Walnuts?”

“No.”

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“Do you have an abnormal physical condition?”

Abnormal physical condition?

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“A condition where you have hypersensitive reactions to all medications. I read  that when you have it, you can’t develop ani intolerance. It was in the newspaper. Don’t you know?”

An abnormal physical condition. A condition where one doesn’t develop any tolerance and has hypersensitive reactions to all medications. Far from not developing tolerance, Shavonne frequently was in trouble because he developed tolerance too quickly. Of course, he had never had a hypersensitive reaction. Shavonne didn’t have an abnormal physical condition. Like 99 percent of people, he was normal.

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But what about Lewellyn?

Could Lewellyn have an ‘abnormal physical condition’?

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“Do you have an abnormal physical condition?”

It was then that Turner’s question wedged into his thoughts. Shavonne answered that he didn’t.

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“Then you can take it without worry.”

Turner concluded. When Shavonne didn’t respond, he shrugged his shoulders as if seeking agreement, saying, “right?” Shavonne just stared at Turner with a cold face. Turner let out a long, audible sigh.

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“Now I understand what kind of assurance you want, Mr. Shavonne. If it weren’t you, I would never have gone this far, but well, since it’s Mr. Shavonne.”

Since it’s Mr. Shavonne. It was a familiar phrase. Until meeting Lewellyn, he was used to the world’s judgment of “It can’t be done because it’s Shavonne,” and after meeting Lewellyn, he got used to Lewellyn’s boasting of “I’ll do it because it’s Mr. Shavonne.”

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Shavonne had never thought that boasting was irritating. If someone does something nice for you, a little boasting is fine. He thought he could get over it with gratitude. That is, until now, before facing Turner’s arrogant boasting.

Turner’s ‘since it’s Mr. Shavonne’ sounded like ‘since you’re as incompetent as an animal, I have to help you’ with the tone he used. Far from feeling cared for, Shavonne felt like he had become something less than human. Even in the terrible drowsiness that made his consciousness flicker, he was clearly offended.

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Turner picked up the sleeping pill. He split it, mixed it with water, and drank it. The glass, emptied cleanly without a drop of water left, was quickly placed in front of him. While Shavonne was dumbfounded by such unexpected action, Turner smiled and spoke.

“I’ll wake up in three hours from now at the shortest, four hours at the longest.”

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Am I mistaken? Turner’s finger brushed past the back of Shavonne’s hand. Shavonne stiffened, startled. It was just a brief touch, so brief it was embarrassing to even call it a moment, but the discomfort persisted even after the finger left. It felt like a worm that looked like Turner’s finger was crawling up his skin.

Shavonne swallowed hard, trying to suppress the rising anger. Maybe it was because Shavonne was oversensitive from lack of sleep. Right. Right now, Shavonne’s condition was so bad that he wanted to curse even at the sight of a window or fallen leaves rolling on the street.

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His Adam’s apple bobbed as he tried to suppress his emotions. Shavonne desperately reminded himself that Turner was the lifeline that would give him money, honor, Lewellyn, and a future where he could be happy. He couldn’t afford to be on bad terms with his only fan and only editor. Moreover, wasn’t Turner the only person giving him sleeping pills? Getting on bad terms was even more out of the question.

Endure it. Shavonne thought that was the best choice for himself. Unfortunately, he did.

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“You’ll wake me up, right?”

As if they were secret lovers, Turner gave a secretive smile. Shavonne didn’t respond. His Adam’s apple just bobbed painfully.

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While Turner was asleep, Shavonne searched for and read the newspaper article about the abnormal physical condition. After a week’s worth of drowsiness, the letters seemed to be shattering in front of his eyes, so he couldn’t easily process the content. Shavonne read the newspaper article aloud to drive away sleep and clearly grasp the content of the article at the same time.

However, when reading the middle part, his mouth was shut tight without him realizing it, and by the time he finished reading, his heart was pounding. The throbbing sound reached to the tips of his fingers and toes. Although he couldn’t understand the technical terms, the words “total or partial pigment deficiency,” “body coldness,” and “abnormal hypersensitivity to medicine” strongly penetrated his mind.

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Pale white skin and golden eyes, a body so cold it made one startled when touched, someone that couldn’t wake up for ten hours after taking 3mg of sleeping pills – these images swept through his mind one after another. A chill ran through him.

Just then, the bell rang announcing twelve o’clock. Before Shavonne could even go to the bedroom, Turner woke up at the sound of the bell. Seeing Shavonne at the doorway, he joked.

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“The bell woke me up. I truly believed you would wake me up, Mr. Shavonne.”

Good complexion, clear eyes, and except for being slightly hoarse from just waking up, his voice was also nice. There was nothing different from usual in Turner’s appearance as he lay in bed. Either the sleeping pills were strange, or Lewellyn was strange. It was the moment when a wedge was driven into the thought that had leaned towards the latter after finishing reading the newspaper article.

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Turner gestured for Shavonne to come closer. When Shavonne did, he suddenly said, “Will you help me up?” and held out both hands. Shavonne felt the discomfort he thought he had swallowed rising again. His Adam’s apple bobbed.

“…Can’t you get up on your own?” Even though he spoke without hiding his displeasure, Turner didn’t seem to care and just said, “I took sleeping pills that I didn’t even need to take because of you, and you can’t even help me up?”

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Shavonne didn’t want to argue, so he silently helped Turner up. Disgusted by the thought of holding his hand, he grabbed Turner’s wrist, which was covered by his shirt. An unpleasant warmth touched him. It felt sticky, as if he had touched rotten plants. Hw thought for a moment how he wanted to wash away the persistent displeasure.

After returning home, Shavonne took 0.5mg of sleeping pills. He slept for 30 minutes. When he took 1mg, he slept for an hour. When he woke up, there was nothing unusual. If anything was new, it was just the refreshing feeling. 2mg, 3mg, 4mg… Gradually increasing the amount, that night, Shavonne slept for eight hours without any dreams. It was a sweet, deep sleep.

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Starting with the good night’s sleep on the day he took the sleeping pills, Shavonne’s discomfort due to insomnia began to gradually resolve. By the time he had been taking them for a week, he was back to normal. His vision didn’t shake, his head and body didn’t act separately, and his thoughts didn’t disintegrate. He could have smooth conversations, and writing flowed easily. It seemed like his condition had improved even more than before taking the sleeping pills. Even if it was only for a moment.

***

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He was busy.

The royal contest was right around the corner, but the novel wasn’t finished. It wasn’t because Shavonne had failed to meet the schedule. As a former ghostwriter who would be immediately cut off if he didn’t meet deadlines, Shavonne was skilled at adhering to schedules. He even finished the manuscript two weeks earlier than scheduled, considering the possibility that the schedule might be moved up due to unavoidable circumstances. The problem was elsewhere.

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“Hmm, I don’t like this page.”

Turner pointed to one page. Page 272. It wasn’t possible to ignore the advice of Turner, an 8-year veteran editor with a sharp eye for writing. Although it left a bitter taste in his mouth as it was a page he had put a lot of effort into, he decided to revise it. As Turner demanded immediate revision, he couldn’t return home on time. Shavonne told him that he had to return home on time because his pet was waiting, but Turner just scoffed.

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“It won’t die just because you’re three hours late.”

Shavonne said nothing. A thought crossed his mind: are all people who are both fans and editors so harsh? When he finished the revisions and hurried home, it was ten o’clock at night. As expected, Lewellyn was waiting for him. He must have come out when it wasn’t dark yet, as he was dressed lightly, walking around the front of the apartment building in that state.

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Shavonne bit his lip. Anger welled up. Anger towards Lewellyn, and anger towards himself for making Lewellyn wait. Without warning, he grasped Lewellyn’s wrist tightly and led him into the building.

“Come in.”

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His voice cracked. The veins stood out on his neck as he tried not to show his emotions. As he held and led him, Lewellyn’s arm felt like sand in his grip. Sand that seemed like it might slip through his fingers at any moment. Perhaps it already was and when he opened his hand later, there would be nothing except for the red and blue marks on his palm from clenching his hand with all his might.

The image of empty, scarred hands wouldn’t leave his mind. Shavonne spoke in a heavy voice.

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“…Don’t wait for me.”

There was no answer. He hadn’t expected him to simply say yes, but when there was no response at all, his lips burned for no reason.

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“Work has gotten busy. The royal contest is the day after tomorrow…”

Shavonne trailed off. It suddenly occurred to him that he had never told Lewellyn about the royal contest before. Should I explain the situation in detail or just give some general information? Which one will make me feel less pain when Lewellyn is no longer by my side in the future? His steps slowed as he thought. It was then that Lewellyn’s response came abruptly.

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“Alright.”

His steps halted.

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“I won’t wait.”

He tried to turn around, but couldn’t. He felt that if he turned around, all the efforts Shavonne had made so far to love Lewellyn less would come to nothing.

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One bit, two bits, three bits, the thirty bits of distance he had painfully created would be closed in an instant. He would hug him, press their cheeks together, kiss his lips, love Lewellyn, and then… a future without Lewellyn would come. Shavonne knew that future would hurt him. Shavonne would be in pain. To an extent he could hardly bear.

He deliberately reminded himself of this fact. He needed to avoid loving Lewellyn blindly. Shavonne knew that the more blind the love, the greater it would hurt. He must not become foolish.

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“Alright.”

Shavonne’s voice sounded robotic as he replied.

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What if Shavonne had turned to look at Lewellyn then? If he had, he would have seen that Lewellyn’s wrist had turned pale white from being held too tightly. If he had let go, Lewellyn’s wrist wouldn’t have swollen red in the shape of his hand. If it hadn’t swollen, that night, Lewellyn wouldn’t have spent all night touching his swollen wrist. He wouldn’t have tried to find Shavonne’s warmth in his swollen wrist, not daring to touch the sleeping Shavonne.

But Shavonne didn’t turn to look at Lewellyn. Not even his shadow did.

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***

A stack of manuscripts was thrown before his eyes. 272 pages. The page number scribbled on the front page was clear. Shavonne looked up at Turner with an expression demanding an explanation. Turner began, “I’ve been thinking,” What an ominous beginning.

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“I think it’s better unedited than edited. Let’s go with the version you first wrote, Mr. Shavonne. And.”

Shavonne looked at Turner. Turner was busy turning the pages of the manuscript, wetting his fingers with saliva. There was no apology for making him work in vain.

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“Chapter 3 has a very poor quality. How should I put it… it’s old fashioned, cliché. The princess hosting this royal competition detests old fashioned novels, and I’m not sure that this writing will be worthy of a ‘meteor’.”

Chapter 3 wasn’t just a one or two page chapter. It was the longest chapter in the novel, spanning a full hundred pages. Ignoring how the words ‘poor quality’, ‘old fashioned’, and ‘cliché’ dug into his bones, Shavonne asked,

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“Which part of Chapter 3?”

Turner shrugged his shoulders up and down as if to say ‘you don’t even know that?’ and answered,

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“All of it.”

There were only two weeks remaining. To revise ‘all’ of Chapter 3 within that time, the given working hours were far from enough. Shavonne looked down at the stack of pages of the manuscript. He saw the letters crammed in without any margins. Over that, he saw an image of himself returning home at midnight. The image of Lewellyn alone until midnight also flickered before his eyes. He didn’t notice how he started biting his lips.

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“Why don’t you eat, sleep, and work here for a while? I’m sure it will help you cut down on your work time by a lot.”

Shavonne refused. Only after seeing Turner’s face turn red and blue did he have the belated regret of ‘I should have pretended to think about it before refusing.’ Turner immediately questioned him. His tone was accusatory, as if Shavonne had said something wrong.

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“Why? Is it because of the dog? You can just ask the neighbor to feed it.”

Shavonne didn’t bother to mention the fact that the ‘dog’ had nightmares if Shavonne wasn’t there to hold him. Instead, he said,

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“I don’t know my neighbors, so it’s not like I can ask them for favors.”

Returning late was better than staying out all night. Shavonne insisted on leaving work at midnight. When Turner grumbled something, he said he would come to work two hours earlier if he judged he might not meet the deadline on time. Only then did Turner close his mouth. His sullen expression didn’t disappear. Shavonne pretended not to see and buried his nose in the stack of manuscripts.

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At midnight, Ira Street changed. It’s quiet, and devoid of people except for prostitutes looking for night customers. The only lights are the gas lamps standing here and there, and even those barely work properly, leaving the street dark. The shadow of Shavonne walking home was filled with fatigue.

He thought ‘Maybe he’s…’, but the front of the Ira apartment building was empty. There was no one loitering, waiting for someone. Shavonne wondered what the ‘maybe’ he had unconsciously thought of meant. Was that him expecting that maybe Lewellyn was waiting for him, or anxiety that maybe Lewellyn was waiting for him? He couldn’t tell himself.

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Room 303 was pitch black without a single light. Whenever he came home, Lewellyn always used to come running out breathlessly, but today there was no sign of him coming to greet him. He must be sleeping. Surprisingly, there were no sounds of heavy breathing, as if he wasn’t having a nightmare.

Having made this premature judgment, Shavonne muffled his movements to avoid waking Lewellyn. He didn’t turn on the lights. He walked slowly to prevent his footsteps from making noise, and carefully took off his coat to avoid the rustling. Even when he bumped into the corner of a piece of furniture while moving, he didn’t let out a groan.

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Then…

“Doesn’t it hurt?”

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The voice came from a place that wasn’t the bed. It was dark and there was no movement, so he hadn’t noticed, but a familiar shadow was standing in front of the work desk.

“I thought you were sleeping.”

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He spoke, unable to hide his surprised expression. He hadn’t particularly expected an answer, but the shadow hesitated for a moment. An unexpected reply came a moment later.

“…I’ll be careful.”

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He was perplexed. No, that’s not what I meant…, he hurriedly waved his hand when suddenly a possibility struck his mind. Shavonne stopped. Maybe…

“Were you waiting for me?”

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He saw Lewellyn quickly shaking his head in the darkness. “No.” He said deliberately, as if trying to look certain. “I wasn’t.”

When Shavonne just stared silently, Lewellyn added again. Like a child afraid that everything would fly away with one word. In the same voice that had answered ‘I’ll be careful.’

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“…Really.”

He couldn’t believe him, but decided not to point it out. Shavonne turned on the light. He took out a cushion from the bag he was carrying. It wasn’t as neat as the cushions in Turner’s house. It was closer to a rag patched up in some parts. He had bought it from a textile shop just before it closed, and perhaps because he had stuffed something as big as a three year old child into it, it looked quite shabby.

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He was about to hug him, but instead leaned the cushion against the desk next to Lewellyn. Lewellyn showed no interest. He didn’t even glance at it, though he might have. Lewellyn was only looking at Shavonne. Shavonne fiddled with the edge of the cushion. The boundary between the patched rags and the cloth felt rough.

“When I’m not here, hug this while you sleep.”

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He wanted to avoid creating such situations as much as possible, but he thought it might be necessary if he had to stay out overnight due to work. Shavonne didn’t want Lewellyn to have nightmares. Especially if it was a nightmare where he would mutter in his sleep, ‘Shavonne, don’t go.’ He couldn’t be sure if the cushion would help or not, but he couldn’t just do nothing.

“Okay.”

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Lewellyn’s voice fell from above his head. It was heavy.

“I will.”

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However, Lewellyn’s eyes were still fixed on Shavonne as he said this. Not even the edge of his gaze touched the cushion that he said he would hug in place of Shavonne when he wasn’t there.

Shavonne let go of the cushion. The rough sensation was gone. As if he had never touched it at all.

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When I’m not here, hug this while you sleep.

It was as he had expected when he heard those words.

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Shavonne’s return home got later each day. Starting from ten at night, it passed midnight and extended to three in the morning. Sometimes he even returned home at dawn. When he came home, Shavonne would check if Lewellyn was sleeping, take his medicine, and sleep for anywhere from four hours at most to one hour at least.

Shavonne would gaze down at the sleeping Lewellyn. That was all. In the past, he might have stroked his hair, kissed him, or hugged him, but now he didn’t. As if he shouldn’t touch Lewellyn, he would only vainly fiddle with the edge of the blanket covering Lewellyn, and that was all. Even that happened maybe once out of ten times.

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Every time, Lewellyn wanted to ask. Why don’t you stroke my hair? Why don’t you kiss or hug me? Why… are you cold, then warm, then cold again? But he couldn’t ask. Because Lewellyn was always sleeping. Or to be more precise, because he was pretending to sleep.

Lewellyn pretended not to wait for Shavonne, pretended to sleep hugging the cushion. Because Shavonne had told him to. If Shavonne had told Lewellyn to burn his own face or cut both his wrists, Lewellyn would have done so.

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A warm day, a cold day, a warm day, a cold day.

Lewellyn knew that it meant the black universe was approaching.

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Never.

Not even once.

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The sound of rain. Blurring vision. Shavonne’s back gradually moving away.

And the black universe that swallowed it all.

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Now, the only thing Lewellyn could do to avoid being swallowed was to find the cause of the black universe.

Just as the night lengthens when darkness lengthens, the longer Shavonne was away from home, the longer “Viscount Allium” spent circulating through the publishing houses.

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Recently, Lewellyn had developed a habit of gently touching the places where Shavonne had stayed before leaving the house as “Viscount Allium.” The bed, the dining table, rarely the desk where the typewriter was placed… Shavonne’s warmth couldn’t be found. It was cold. Lewellyn would stare down at his empty hands, unable to retrieve even a trace of warmth.

That day was no different from usual. Shavonne came, left, and Lewellyn stopped pretending to be asleep, got up, and touched the places where Shavonne had stayed. Everything was the same. Except for one thing.

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‘…’

There was a hair.

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Lewellyn’s hand, which had been touching the bed, stopped abruptly.

It was a single strand. A black, shiny, curly strand of hair. Only the color was the same; unlike this, Shavonne’s hair wasn’t shiny or curly, so it wasn’t Shavonne’s hair. Then it must be hair that had stuck to his from outside.

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He knew. That it could be hair from a complete stranger. It was common to bring back hair that had fallen from an unknown passerby bumped into while walking, or from a customer standing close while waiting in line at a store.

However…

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Lewellyn closed his mouth. He couldn’t be certain with just this. Not just with this.

Was it luck or misfortune? Lewellyn became certain after discovering ‘that’ hair again three days later. This time it was inside the coat. Inside the coat that was only taken off at work.

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The origin of the hair was certainly his workplace. The question was ‘who’ at the workplace. For security reasons, the multifamily residential didn’t allow companies or households of more than two people to move in. There was also a rule that you would be evicted if you employed errand runners. That’s what Lewellyn knew. Unless there was a big variable, the owner of the hair would be ‘that person.’ That person. The one who said to be Shavonne’s fan.

As Viscount Allium, this was a welcome development. Until now, the only clues Lewellyn had were the information about multifamily residential, male, estimated age in the thirties, a publisher and editor with 8 years of experience. The mention of a “wealthy publishing house” when Shavonne first received the scout letter was also a clue, if you could call it that.

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Lewellyn didn’t doubt that he could find that person with just the current residence, gender and estimated age, occupation, financial status, and hair color. Lewellyn could do it. Just as he could kill people with just a name tag, just as he had survived, just as he had finally met Shavonne again.

Did that person know? That the longer he held onto Shavonne, the more time Viscount Allium had to track his tail. The curiosity rose and disappeared in his mind. Even though it was daytime, the world was gloomy and dark. Winter was beginning.

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***

Turner’s words and actions became more intense day by day.

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Postponing sleep and meals, Shavonne rewrote Chapter 3 at an almost superhuman speed, but it was rejected twice. Even when passing the third draft, Turner didn’t seem pleased. As if reluctant but having no choice, he said, “Sure, let’s go with this,” and sighed through his nose. He glanced at Shavonne and clicked his tongue in a barely audible voice as an added bonus.

Shavonne felt the urge to snap back. Excessive work, reckless schedule changes that made his plans meaningless, and dissatisfaction with the revision guidelines… There were countless things he wanted to point out.

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The guidelines were especially so. Guidelines should be simple and clear, but Turner had written them as abstractly and metaphorically as an oracle that might have been popular in an ancient country 1900 years ago. It was astonishing that an editor with 8 years of experience didn’t know that nothing made a writer suffer more than vague guidelines. However, Shavonne swallowed the impulse down his throat with effort. He had to endure. Enduring now was the only way to secure his future as a writer.

Less than three hours later, a request to revise the ending came flying in. Shavonne said it was impossible. Shavonne’s argument was that to revise the ending, he would have to tear apart and rewrite everything before and after, and if he did that, he wouldn’t be able to meet not only the deadline they had set, but even the final submission date for the royal competition.

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The answer that came back was the same.

“So you’re saying you won’t do it?”

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Once again, Shavonne swallowed the urge to snap back down his throat. He reminded himself that he had to endure, that enduring now was the only way to secure his future as a writer.

Shavonne’s return home was delayed. It was natural. To meet the unreasonable schedule set by Turner, working until midnight was the norm, and on late nights, he had to stay until five in the morning.

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Five in the morning. Just before leaving work, as Shavonne was tidying up his desk and rubbing his sleepy eyes, Turner abruptly offered to lend him his bedroom. Knowing that Shavonne couldn’t fall asleep without sleeping pills, he also handed him some. Although he had no intention of staying overnight, seeing Turner acting as if he was bestowing a great favor made even the desire to politely refuse disappear.

“I’ll sleep at home.”

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Then he turned his head abruptly and finished tidying up his desk. After checking if any foreign objects had gotten into the typewriter and placing a cover over it to prevent dust from accumulating, Shavonne stood up. After packing and shouldering his bag, he was about to pick up his coat hanging on the coat rack when Turner blocked his way. Along with the words, “Why at home?”

“It’s five o’clock. Since you start work at seven, even if you go home right now, you’ll only get to sleep for an hour. Considering the time to wash and eat, you’ll barely sleep for thirty minutes. You might as well sleep here. It’s not like I don’t have a bathtub or bread here.”

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Turner was right. Even if he went home, he wouldn’t be able to sleep for even an hour. If it was for rest, it would be much more efficient to sleep here. Especially if, in addition to a bed incomparably more comfortable than the one in the Ira Apartments, there would be a luxurious bathtub and thick meat, tea, bread, and eggs…

But…

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“I know. I know that there’s a bathtub here and bread too.”

Shavonne replied. Turner’s face started to brighten as if he understood he would stay and sleep. Shavonne didn’t want Turner to misunderstand. He immediately cut to the chase.

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“But my dog isn’t here.”

Turner’s face crumpled. Regardless, Shavonne stepped aside and picked up his coat hanging on the coat rack. After putting it on, he said goodbye.

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“I’m leaving.”

“To sleep for an hour?”

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Turner sneered. Shavonne suppressed the urge to spit in his face. While desperately reminding himself about his future as a writer, the answer came a moment later.

“No. To see my dog.”

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“Shavonne, you shouldn’t be so obsessed with your dog.”

Before he could ask what he meant, Turner continued.

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“To my eyes, it doesn’t look like the dog can’t live without you, but like you can’t live without your dog. What will you do if your dog dies? It would be fortunate if it died of old age, but being a dog, it could die from disease, or be beaten to death, or be hunted and killed, couldn’t it…”

“I’m leaving first. It’s already 5:07.”

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“I’m not finished talking, Mr. Shavonne.”

“I’m sorry, but my work hours are over, Mr. Turner.”

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Shavonne left the multifamily residential quickly, not giving Turner a chance to reply. He walked and walked until the shadow of the home apartments was no longer visible, and only after turning the corner did Shavonne stop. The urge to go back to the multifamily residential right away and slap Turner’s cheek muddled his mind. This time, he had to remind himself about his future as a writer for a very, very long time.

As he walked alone through the night streets, Shavonne thought. More precisely, he had to think of something to drive away the “What will you do if your dog dies?” that was ringing in his ears.

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However, neither the newspaper stand he managed to think of, nor the《Daily Bunch》saying that war was approaching, nor the《Stories of Arun》calling the《Daily Bunch》a tabloid were of any use. What was useful, ironically, was the voice of Turner himself.

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

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― You might as well sleep here. It’s not like we don’t have a bathtub or bread here.

At first, he was tempted to snap, saying, ‘Mr. Turner, you shouldn’t be so obsessed with me staying overnight.’ But as Shavonne thought more and more, he realized that it might not be a snap. Turner was really obsessed with him. He remembered the image of Turner using all sorts of tricks to make Shavonne sleep at his house, and when he failed, unable to contain his anger and throwing a fit.

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But why?

When he asked himself, a certain speculation flashed through his mind. Circumstances supporting the speculation also came to mind one after another. Changing into loose clothes that revealed bare skin for no reason, complimenting him with a “you have beautiful eyes,” insisting that he stay and sleep… An ominous feeling welled up.

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Shavonne was a writer and Turner was an editor. And a veteran editor with 8 years of experience at that. It couldn’t be. Yes, there was no way he could have the thoughts that Shavonne was worried about.

All Shavonne could do was pray for his partnership with Turner to end soon. He was anxious because he hoped nothing would happen, but it didn’t seem likely.

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The night wavered. The anxiety silently disappeared.

***

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Frost had fallen on all the streets. People selling winter goods appeared, and flyers for fireplace repair were everywhere. Garbage that could be used as fuel had disappeared. The season preparing for the long night had already seeped into the neighborhood.

Today, the manuscript for the royal competition was completed.

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Tomorrow was the final submission date, so it was a very close call to meet the deadline. Well, it would have been unfair if he hadn’t made it. Sleep and meals weren’t the only things Shavonne sacrificed to meet the deadline. It also included enduring Turner, who constantly clicked his tongue, calling Shavonne foolish and pathetic for not staying out overnight.

As with all news, there was one piece of good news and one piece of bad news today. The good news was that since the manuscript was completed, there was no need to commute to the apartment complex anymore. The bad news was that Turner had proposed a drinking session to commemorate the ‘last’ day.

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“You’ve worked hard all this time, so of course I should treat you.”

Worked hard? More like worked like a dog. Thinking about page 272, where he said the unrevised version was better after making him revise it, Chapter 3 that he told him to scrap, and the ending he wanted him to completely rework, Shavonne unconsciously applied more force to his hand as he wiped the water stains on the glass desktop. A drinking session? What a joke. I don’t even want to share a glass of water with him, let alone alcohol.

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“I’ll have to decline. I want to go home quickly and…”

“See your dog?”

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A sarcastic voice cut off his words. Turner would show blatant hostility when things didn’t go according to his plan. It was the same now. His voice was so thorny that it wouldn’t have been strange if he had said ‘To see that bitch?’ instead of ‘To see your dog?’. Shavonne tried to ignore it.

“…I need to catch up on sleep. And eat something too.”

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“And then pop a toast?”

I thought I had made it clear enough that I didn’t want to drink together, but apparently not. Maybe he had noticed but was pretending not to.

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Instead of answering, Shavonne wiped the water stains on the glass desktop with force. Every time the cloth rubbed against the glass, there was a squeaking sound. It would be wise not to ignore it. I shouldn’t create any excuses for him to pick on, big or small. If he found fault and called me in… it was something I shuddered to even imagine.

“When do you think you’ll drink?”

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Turner was persistent. Shavonne removed the cloth and examined the water stains on the desk. They weren’t there until yesterday, but no matter how much I wiped, they wouldn’t disappear. They didn’t even fade, let alone disappear.

“I won’t.”

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Just in case, he felt the water stains with his bare hand. He didn’t feel anything, only the smooth glass with his fingertips. Surely not…

“How can you not have a celebratory drink when work is done? I can’t wrap my mind around you.”

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Just as he feared, it wasn’t a stain on top of the glass panel. It was a stain underneath the glass panel. Shavonne bit his lip and released it. There’s no way Shavonne could have lifted the glass panel and made the stain without realizing it. It must have been Turner’s doing. He didn’t know why. To provoke Shavonne? Or to delay Shavonne’s departure time by making him clean the stains? Either way, it was unpleasant.

Shavonne folded the cloth as if throwing it away. Despite trying to remember his future as a writer, his head was burning hot. His voice was too.

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“Then keep trying. No matter what you say, I won’t drink.”

“Then I guess I’ll have to visit your house so we can have that celebratory drink, Mr. Shavonne.”

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Tak. Shavonne’s body stopped as he gathered his things and turned to leave.

It didn’t matter if Turner came. The problem was that Shavonne wasn’t the only one at home.

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Lewellyn.

That name flashed through his mind.

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He couldn’t let Turner and Lewellyn meet. Of course, initially, it was with the intention of protecting Turner. Since Turner was the first to say that Shavonne and Shavonne’s novel were the best, he didn’t want him to get hurt.

Now it was different. He didn’t want to let Lewellyn do any harm. More precisely, he didn’t want to let him do something worthy of execution. He knew it was selfish thinking, but the thought of living without Lewellyn was scary. It was even more so because it wasn’t solitude chosen by choice, but solitude imposed by others.

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“…Don’t.”

He said, sounding harsh.

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He thought that once the work was successfully completed, his relationship with Turner would naturally be settled. Of course, he thought there would be no chance of Turner visiting his house. He realized too late that it was a miscalculation. Shavonne bit his lip. It was a mistake, if anything, to think that Turner would be a reasonable person.

“Why? Are you afraid your dog might bite me? And then be put down?”

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Thinking he had gained the upper hand, Turner smirked. Shavonne’s lips tightened. The veins on the back of his hand holding the cloth stood out. The feeling of being blackmailed was rock bottom. Blackmail… The word that came to mind unconsciously made his heart race. Blackmail. Yes, this is clearly blackmail.

“Let’s just have three drinks.”

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Turner showed three fingers and waved them. A smile formed on his lips. It was an arrogant smile that only someone who considers themselves a victor could make.