MLCD Chapter 5.4

The people Shavonne had dated so far passed through his mind one by one. A typist, a horseman, a chimney sweep and typesetter, an osteopath, a playboy… Looking back, he remembered that almost all of them had black hair and blue eyes. They looked as if they were Turner’s brothers.

Is it just a coincidence?

Everything was suspicious. He bit lips tightly. He had to confirm it. It seemed he couldn’t endure otherwise. Shavonne rushed out of room 303, clutching the note taken from Turner’s wallet.

That’s how he came here now.

After climbing the rest of the slope, he arrived at the Fawkes mansion. The iron gate was locked. Even shaking the bars of the gate only made a rattling sound, with no sign of anyone appearing. The doorbell was useless too. Shavonne had no way of knowing whether it was because it was too late at night and everyone was asleep, or because the sound was drowned out by the howling blizzard.

But he couldn’t turn back like this. Shavonne gritted his teeth and started climbing the gate. He carefully grasped the bars, being careful not to grip the sharp parts with his hands. One step, two steps. He stepped on the bars with his feet. As he was swinging his body to the other side of the gate, he misstepped. He quickly tried to grab the bars but slipped. The trouble was that all the bars were slippery from the melting snow.

Shavonne fell flat into the snow. Fortunately, it was a snow field. If it had been bare ground, his nose would have surely been broken. Shavonne wiped off the snow on his face. He stood up and started walking towards the mansion. He was limping from the impact of the fall.

The front door was open, fortunately. If not, he would have had to break a window to get in.

Shavonne stopped in the lobby.

The mansion was dark. Only minimal lighting, that is, a very low light just enough to distinguish objects, was illuminating the house. Drip, drip. Except for the sound of water drops falling from Shavonne’s wet hair, nothing could be heard. It was quiet.

That’s when a familiar voice was heard.

“You shouldn’t come in here without permission.”

It was the butler. The butler who had once explained to Shavonne that Doctor Fawkes had gone to Chidristadt in Bosch on business when Shavonne came looking.

“I came all this way to get permission. No one came out when I knocked on the door or rang the doorbell.”

“Does that justify trespassing? Wait. I’m going to call the police right now.”

“Call the police or call the army, do as you please. But before that, tell your master to come. I have something I need to discuss with Frasier Fawkes right now.”

“Our master is not a servant who comes when you call and goes when you tell him to. If you don’t want to be arrested, get out of here.”

“I know Frasier Fawkes.”

“As if.”

The butler, perhaps thinking Shavonne was a beggar, tried to throw him out without hesitation. The strength with which he gripped Shavonne’s coat tail like a leash and dragged him was enormous. It was unbelievable that such strength could come from a man who looked to be at least fifty.

But the surprise was momentary. Soon, Shavonne gritted his teeth and endured. Judging that even a strong butler couldn’t lift Shavonne up, he simply sat down. The butler’s face turned bright red.

Shavonne’s business was solely to meet Doctor Fawkes. It would take 10 minutes at most. Shavonne had no desire to quarrel with the butler.

“If you just call Frasier Fawkes, I’ll leave on my own…”

But Shavonne couldn’t finish his sentence. His hair was suddenly grabbed, and before he knew it, he was being dragged to the front door. His body was dragged across the lobby floor, stained with mud, water, and snow. It was stinging to the point of being hot. Even though he was wearing clothes, it felt like the skin of the dragged parts was being peeled off red. Shavonne struggled, but the butler didn’t care. His grabbed hair felt like it was being pulled out.

As he was being dragged, Shavonne hurriedly grabbed a side table. But it was a table leg not even as thick as a person’s arm. There was no way it could withstand the strength of Shavonne and the butler dragging him.

With a loud noise, the side table overturned. The vase on it shattered into pieces. Vase fragments flew. A puddle of water formed and flowers fell limply over it.

The butler paused, but only for a moment. He tightly gripped Shavonne’s hair and went to the front door. With a bang, the door opened. Beyond the door, a blizzard was raging. It was at that moment when the butler was about to throw Shavonne out.

“What’s all this commotion?”

That voice.

‘It was all your friend, your friend ordered me to do it.’

Turner’s words suddenly flashed through his mind.

Shavonne stopped struggling.

The door closed. The blizzard disappeared. The butler released Shavonne’s hair. The pain that felt like his hair was being pulled out finally dulled.

Shavonne caught his breath. He needed to do so to turn and face the owner of the voice. Although it was Shavonne who had asked to meet, now that they were actually meeting, he needed to prepare himself. He knew that the person he was meeting today was not his ‘friend’ Doctor Fawkes, but Mr. F who had employed Turner.

Doctor Fawkes was standing on the stairs. His hand resting on the railing is visible. Thinking that this hand had written the note that was in Turner’s wallet, and now in Shavonne’s inner pocket, a blue flame rose in his head that he thought had calmed down. His skull was charred, his brain fluid dried up, his brain melted. Emotions were burning Shavonne’s reason down. Rational thought, cold judgment, calm discernment. All of that was turning to mush.

Doctor Fawkes called the butler over and slapped his cheek. It was the price for treating Doctor Fawkes’s guest like a beggar. The butler apologized, watching Doctor Fawkes’s reaction. After dismissing the butler, Doctor Fawkes also apologized in his own way for not properly managing his rude employee. Then, he abruptly extended his hand in front of Shavonne, who was sitting down.

“Here.”

It meant to grab it and stand up, but Shavonne didn’t take it. How could he? Knowing that this hand had written the note that was in Turner’s wallet, and now in Shavonne’s inner pocket. Shavonne stood up by pressing both hands on the floor. His scraped palms stung. It felt like they had been branded with a hot poker.

“If you want to stand up on your own, well. I won’t stop you.” Doctor Fawkes shrugged his shoulders and withdrew his hand. “You didn’t come to see me in the middle of the night just because you missed me. So, what business do you have today?”

Shavonne faced Doctor Fawkes. Drooping eyes, a sharp nose, thin lips… This was the first time the face he had known for 8 years felt unfamiliar.

Shavonne opened his mouth.

“I have something I want to ask.”

“What could it be?”

Doctor Fawkes was calm. Had he not noticed that Shavonne’s voice was trembling, or was he pretending not to notice? A question as acrid as smoke from a fire arose. Shavonne bit his lower lip and released it.

“Do you know a person named Turner?”

Did he imagine it? For a moment, just a moment short enough to be thought an illusion, Doctor Fawkes’s lips seemed to stiffen.

Was I mistaken? Or…? In the brief moment Shavonne blinked quickly, Doctor Fawkes’s lips had returned to normal. As if there was no problem at all, they even wore a playful smile. A light voice flowed between his lips.

“The only Turner I know is Arthur Turner, the poet and playwright who died 300 years ago. Is there another?”

He was truly a master of acting. If Shavonne hadn’t known about the note, he would have been completely fooled. Shavonne felt his insides churning. The note in his inner pocket felt like it was burning. It’s hot.

“He’s my editor.”

To be precise, he’s the person who pretended to be my editor after someone paid him to deceive me. Words that couldn’t be spoken out loud yet circled in his throat.

“Editor? Have you started working with a publisher? I had no idea because I haven’t heard about your recent situation at all.”

Doctor Fawkes was behaving very naturally. Shavonne opened his mouth. His lips were trembling imperceptibly.

“…He told me he loved me.”

“Did you come to get love advice?”

Doctor Fawkes raised and lowered his eyebrows with a playful look. Of course, Shavonne had no intention of reciprocating. A cracked and torn voice flowed between Shavonne’s lips.

“When I rejected him, he tried to force himself on me.”

Only then did Doctor Fawkes’s face become serious. Shavonne wanted to know which parts of Doctor Fawkes’s face were real and which parts were fake. Desperately.

“Isn’t that something you should tell the police about, not me? If you don’t have the courage to go to the police and that’s why you’ve come here, I’d be glad to accompany you. Just a moment, let me get my coat…”

Shavonne said.

“He said you made him do it.”

Silence fell.

“Did he say that?”

Shavonne affirmed with silence.

“Do you believe him?”

Shavonne affirmed with silence once again.

Dr. Fawkes’ expression contorted. His face began to flush red and blue. Even for a master of acting, it would be impossible to freely act out such changes in complexion. That couldn’t be a fake emotion.

“Shavonne, I’ve been your friend for 8 years, a whole 8 years! But that guy is just an editor you met yesterday or the day before! How can you trust him? How?”

“That’s what I want to ask.”

Shavonne’s voice trembled as he responded.

“How could you do this?”

Dr. Fawkes’ eyebrows raised as if to ask ‘What?’ Shavonne forced out the rest of his words. His voice was still shaking.

“How could you… be so shameless?”

Something welled up in his throat. It had been 8 years. Just as Dr. Fawkes said, those 8 years spent as friends were now surging back through his organs.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you’re saying very rude things right now, do you know that?”

Shavonne didn’t trust Turner. He only trusted the evidence. That is, the note written in Dr. Fawkes’ handwriting, containing information only Dr. Fawkes would know.

He took the note out of his inner coat pocket. He unfolded it and held it out so the contents were visible.

“…”

In an instant, Dr. Fawkes’ lips clamped shut.

A calculating look flashed across Dr. Fawkes’ eyes. Should I affirm or deny the note, what kind of adverse effects could each choice have, what are the pros and cons…? His mind was working furiously. It was spinning so fast you’d think it might catch fire.

After his calculations, the answer Dr. Fawkes chose was silence.

“Why did you hire Turner to be my lover?”

“…”

“Were all the people I dated hired by you?”

“…”

“The typist, the horseman, the osteopath…”

“…”

“…August Basch too?”

“…”

No matter what he said, all that came back was silence. The silence felt like a wall. A wall that he had tried to overcome for 29 years but never could.

“Say something.”

His voice became sharp.

“Damn it, just let out an excuse, anything at all!”

Shavonne’s breath was trembling. No, it was more than trembling, it was quivering. His breath vibrated through the air. The candles lit throughout the mansion flickered. Enormous shadows undulated. It was an eerie movement, as if they had come to life.

It was then that Dr. Fawkes opened his mouth.

“I don’t need to make excuses.”

Shavonne thought he had misheard. But he hadn’t. He was rendered speechless.

“What I did was right. You know it too. There are things you must do even if you don’t want to. Even if the process is so painful you want to take your own life.”

Shavonne remembered how Dr. Fawkes said every year that his goal for the year was suicide. Shavonne had never asked why he wanted to commit suicide. He thought it would be an impertinent question. But now he suddenly wondered what would have happened if he had asked. If he had asked why Dr. Fawkes wanted to commit suicide, would he have answered straightforwardly that it was because watching over Shavonne was so difficult?

…Probably not.

Memories of his time with Dr. Fawkes flashed through his mind. Eight years ago, the day they first met. Dr. Fawkes, who had picked up Shavonne when he was wandering the streets with no memory of the past several months. Dr. Fawkes, who had helped Shavonne find work. Dr. Fawkes, who had congratulated Shavonne when he moved into the Ira Apartments. His friend. A deceiver wearing the mask of a friend.

“Now I understand.”

Shavonne could have grabbed Dr. Fawkes by the collar. He could have slapped him or headbutted him. But he didn’t. It was a final courtesy. Not for Dr. Fawkes, but for the past 8 years he had spent thinking of Dr. Fawkes as a friend.

“You were never my friend, not even once.”

Farewells are painful. But as Dr. Fawkes said, there are things you must do even if you don’t want to. Knowing that not saying goodbye would be even more painful, he had to end it.

“I hope we never cross paths again.”

He didn’t even say ‘take care’ as a mere formality.

He turned around. One step, suppressing the urge to grab him by the collar, slap him, and headbutt him. Two steps, holding back the desire to curse him, saying he would be deceived as much as he had deceived others. Three steps, resisting the temptation to cling to those 8 years.

As he opened the main door, a cold, desolate world with swirling snow greeted him. The night was pure white. His eyes stung. Shavonne took heavy steps and left the mansion. He heard the main door closing behind him. There were no goodbyes.

Shavonne began walking through the snowstorm. The snowflakes obscured his vision. Snow settled on his face, head, and nape, soaking them. A chill that felt like it would freeze him solid pierced his skin. But Shavonne kept walking. Telling himself it was okay, that there was no reason to stop.

But eventually, Shavonne did stop.

He held his breath. One second, two seconds, three seconds, four seconds, five seconds…, he only breathed after counting to twenty. It was Shavonne’s own way of enduring the world, but this time it was of no use. No matter how many times he held his breath and exhaled, held and exhaled, he just couldn’t catch his breath.

Suddenly, he remembered the day he was kicked out of the Ira Apartments. He recalled Lewellyn, who had help Shavonne to moisten his throat with lemon juice. They weren’t lovers then. Back then, he was just the murderer next door.

Perhaps, when he drank that lemon juice, Lewellyn had entered through the cracks of his crumbling heart without anyone knowing. Maybe that’s when he started to love Lewellyn. Or maybe that’s when he grasped the thread of loving Lewellyn. Something that couldn’t even begin unless it was a day when his heart was crumbling. For Shavonne, love was something like that.

If it was alcohol that had caused Shavonne’s heart to crumble that day, today it was because of the snowstorm, because of the footprints in the snow, because of the silent night where nothing could be heard but the sound of the wind.

― Tell me when you want to talk.

― I’ll be waiting.

― Here.

Lewellyn’s voice from that day brushed past his ear. At the same time, the ninety-nine bits of distance he had maintained until now closed in an instant. It was sucked into the cracks of his crumbling heart and disappeared without a trace.

He wanted to lean on someone, to depend on someone. He wanted to be embraced. He wanted to be held and cry. He wanted to bury all the tears and snot that should have been buried in the arms of parents, friends, and lovers over the past 29 years. He wanted to love. He wanted to love without thinking about the past or the future, just love unconditionally.

He should have held back, but Shavonne couldn’t. This time, he just couldn’t hold back.

***

The sound of crunching snow could be heard. Familiar footsteps. Lewellyn, who had been sitting at the entrance of the apartments waiting for ‘someone’ to return, jerked his head up. As he rushed out to the entrance, sure enough, ‘someone’ appeared. It was Shavonne. Shavonne, who looked like he had walked a long way, his whole body soaked, with snow piled up on his head, shoulders, and clothes.

There was no time to be glad. Lewellyn hurriedly wrapped his coat around Shavonne’s body. He even closed the collar, just in case any cold air might get in.

Up close, Shavonne looked much more unwell than he had from a distance. His face was blue, and his lips were tinged purple. His hands were stiff, as if frozen. Lewellyn took both of Shavonne’s hands and blew on them. With each “Ha―, ha―, ha―” sound, white breath appeared and disappeared between his teeth.

Shavonne was looking down at Lewellyn blankly. It was a little while before a lifeless voice flowed from between his purple lips.

“What should I do?”

Lewellyn ignored it. He thought Shavonne’s ‘What should I do?’ meant ‘What should I do about Turner?’ If it was about Turner, Shavonne didn’t need to worry. What he needed to worry about was Shavonne’s blue face, purple lips, and frozen hands.

Lewellyn adjusted his grip on Shavonne’s hands. Despite his attempts to warm them with his breath, they were still cold. It wasn’t a life-threatening temperature, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t concerning. At this rate, even if he doesn’t die from hypothermia, he can’t avoid catching a cold. If he’s unlucky, he might even get the flu…

“I love you.”

His thoughts stopped.

“Lewellyn.”

Lewellyn slowly raised his head, at a speed slow enough to handle whatever he might see. He saw Shavonne. Just like that time, Lewellyn’s image was reflected in Shavonne’s eyes. Lewellyn was in Shavonne’s eyes. He was there for Shavonne.

Shavonne opened his mouth.

“I love you so much.”

Once, Shavonne had taught him what ‘so much’ meant. It has a negative connotation of being excessive, so unlike how most people use it, it can’t be replaced with words like ‘very,’ ‘quite,’ or ‘extremely.’

I, love, you, so, much. There were no words he didn’t know, but he couldn’t understand the meaning. It felt like the part of his brain responsible for language had suddenly stopped functioning.

“I tried to love you less.”

I love you so much.

“I was scared of loving you so much. That’s why I didn’t brush your hair when you were sleeping, why I didn’t kiss you, why I didn’t hug you. It’s selfish, but… I was afraid that if you ever left, it would hurt me too much. That’s why I did that.”

I love you too much.

I love you to an extent I can’t handle myself.

I love you to the extent that’s painful.

“I’m sorry.”

Shavonne lowered his head. As if he couldn’t bear to look at Lewellyn. Lewellyn didn’t want that. He wanted Shavonne to raise his head. He wanted him to look him in the eye and say ‘I love you so much.’ Intending to lift Shavonne’s head, Lewellyn released Shavonne’s hands that he had been holding until then.

But that’s when it happened.

“Don’t let go. Not yet.”

Shavonne’s hands grasped Lewellyn’s.

“…”

Lewellyn was not good at classifying his own emotions into ‘words.’ It would take him a full week of contemplation to determine whether what he was feeling was longing or resentment, disappointment or despair, depression or lethargy.

That’s why, at this moment, Lewellyn couldn’t name this emotion suddenly rising in his throat.

“When I tried to love you less, I could manage even if I imagined you leaving. Leaving is up to you. I can’t interfere with that. But now…”

Shavonne’s throat seemed to be dry as he paused before continuing. His face, still bowed, was hidden in shadow.

“…I can’t do that anymore.”

His voice trembled. Lewellyn wondered why voices didn’t have physical forms. If they did, he would have held it. So it wouldn’t tremble. So it wouldn’t be afraid.

“When I imagine you leaving, I want to cut off your ankles and tie you down here. Of course, I’d never actually do that, but that’s how I feel.”

The emotion rising in his throat grew more intense. If emotions were objects, he would have suffocated from the blockage in his throat.

Joy? Or pleasure? None. It resembled joy and pleasure, but it wasn’t any of them.

This emotion is…

“…I said something too scary, didn’t I? I’m sorry.” Shavonne’s voice was tinged with regret, self-loathing, and guilt. Like a frozen body melting, Shavonne was slowly regaining his senses. No, perhaps not his senses, but rather the outer shell. The shell that usually protected Shavonne’s inner self. His reason, self-control, and sense of reality were being layered back on one by one.

Shavonne tried to step back. But Lewellyn had no intention of letting him.

“No.”

He pulled hard on their clasped hands. Painfully. Just half as painful as Shavonne had hurt Lewellyn. Just a quarter as much. Just an eighth as much. An “Ah” of pain burst from Shavonne’s lips, but Lewellyn didn’t let go.

“I’m happy. So happy.”

And he kissed him.

Snowflakes scatter into the night of Ira Street.

The kiss ended after a moment that felt like either an instant or an eternity. Even after their lips parted, Lewellyn didn’t move his face away. He stayed close enough that their noses would touch if he leaned in. Their noses touched and separated. Touched and separated again. When they touched, it wasn’t cold. It was warm. On a cold winter night like this, even Lewellyn’s usually cold body felt warm.

“If Mr. Shavonne wants, I’ll cut off my wrist or ankle, or anything I have, for you.”

Lewellyn briefly pressed his lips to the bridge of Shavonne’s nose, then pulled away. When Shavonne flinched, Lewellyn once again briefly pressed his lips to the bridge of Shavonne’s nose and pulled away.

“Don’t try to cut them yourself though. You’d probably be clumsy at it.”

Lewellyn smiled. Shavonne, embarrassed, avoided his gaze and spoke. “…Let’s step three steps apart.” But Lewellyn didn’t allow Shavonne to create distance between them. He suddenly hugged Shavonne tightly.

“Don’t push me away.”

He said this preemptively, before Shavonne could push him away, consciously or unconsciously. Lewellyn had his nose buried in Shavonne’s hair. Shavonne’s hair smelled of snow. The scent of melting water. The scent of transparent blood.

“You said you love me so so so much, so you have to endure this much.”

“…I said I love you so much, not so so so much.”

Even so, Shavonne didn’t push Lewellyn away. While being embraced, he hesitated, unsure whether to hug Lewellyn’s back or not, and then slightly put his arms around Lewellyn’s waist. Lewellyn said, “You’re shy for someone who said they wanted to cut off my ankles.” Then he pulled Shavonne’s arms to wrap around his entire back.

Lewellyn saw that the tips of Shavonne’s ears had turned red. He wanted to check if his face had turned red too, but he decided to hold back this time, fearing that Shavonne might hide if he couldn’t bear it.

“Mr. Shavonne, you need to get used to someone else’s embrace.”

“Someone else’s embrace?”

“I mean my embrace.”

Lewellyn emphasized ‘my embrace’ in his reply. If someone else were to do it… Well. Only that problematic someone else would know what would happen. Instead of revealing his inner thoughts, Lewellyn briefly pressed his lips to Shavonne’s reddened ear tip and pulled away. Then he said,

“Let’s stay like this for a moment.”

“Until when?”

“Until we both turn into snowmen.”

“That’s not just a moment, is it?”

However, contrary to his words, Shavonne didn’t move, staying in Lewellyn’s embrace. Lewellyn also remained still, holding Shavonne. Snow fell on their shoulders. The unmelting white snow piled up.

The street was empty except for the two lovers. Snow silently poured down, dyeing the night white. It was a heavy snowfall.

That night, Shavonne talked as if he was trying to spill out all the words he hadn’t been able to say before. Lewellyn listened without missing a single word.

Shavonne talked about how much Turner had praised 《The Life of John Gray》by John Gray and 《Banshee’s portrait》 by Adam Isle., which Shavonne had ghostwritten. He explained how wonderful the multifamily residential apartments were. He said there were gold bands around the walls and mini chandeliers on the ceiling. He said the chandeliers held twenty candles. He also talked about how there was the finest of the typewriters, and the engraved initials of the craftsman on the typewriter sparkled as if dusted with gold powder.

Shavonne also talked about Dr. Fawkes’ mansion. He spoke of the teacups that Dr. Fawkes brought out at every annual tea time. He described how delicate the flowers and vines drawn on the edges of the teacups were. He said the tea tasted good. He said it used to be bland, but the taste became excellent about three years ago, perhaps because the servant in charge of the kitchen had changed.

They were all good stories. There were no bad stories. It seemed random at first glance, but it wasn’t. When the stories ended, Lewellyn could tell that they were about the things Shavonne had lost forever that day.

Lewellyn didn’t say anything. He just gently caressed Shavonne’s lips. Shavonne took Lewellyn’s fingers and kissed their tips.

The quiet, snowy night continued. No one fell asleep. The gaze of their eyes looking at each other and the sound of their breaths pointing at each other proved it.

Just before dawn, Shavonne suggested leaving Ira Street.

***

The man was sprawled on the roadside.

None of the passersby showed any interest in him. They assumed he was a dead homeless person, which was not uncommon around this time. People froze to death, of course, but it was also quite common for homeless people to die fighting among themselves over the ownership of newspapers. This man looked like the latter. His eyes were swollen, his nose was flattened. More than half of his teeth were missing, visible through his burst and rised lips.

If this man had had a clean face like a rich young master, someone might have taken interest. They would have rushed to claim the body, hoping for a reward.

But that was just a hypothetical. This man didn’t look anything like a rich young master. He looked like he would only give off dust if shaken. So, it wasn’t strange that no one paid attention to him.

It was only after the city hall’s body collection team arrived that it was discovered the man wasn’t dead. The man was transferred to St. Macy’s Poorhouse. St. Macy’s Poorhouse was a facility housing as many as 735 extremely poor people, but while the number of residents was enormous, the staff managing the facility was woefully inadequate, making every day incredibly busy.

Naturally, the caretakers couldn’t memorize each individual pauper. They couldn’t even distinguish who had a limp and who had six fingers, who stuttered and who was mute. However, this man received special treatment unlike the typical pauper. Well, the caretakers were used to all sorts of disabilities, but they had never seen someone artificially castrated like this man before.

The man’s genitals were intact, but his testicles had been removed. According to Miss Nadine, a caretaker with a background in butchery, it wasn’t done using the general castration method. He said they used the bloodless castration method used to tenderize the meat of male livestock. Bloodless castration involves tying the testicles with thread to cut off blood flow, then letting the necrotic flesh fall off on its own.

The castrated man woke up a day after arriving at the poorhouse. He couldn’t tell who he was. He couldn’t even speak properly. He would sob and faint, vomit and faint, stare blankly and fall asleep like someone out of their mind. That was all the man did.

The caretakers gave up on communicating and just took care of the man who could barely move. They brought him food, cleaned up his vomit, and wiped his body to prevent bedsores.

A week passed like this. In the busy days without a moment to spare, the interest in the artificially castrated man dulled, and at some point, the special treatment disappeared.

On exactly the seventh day, the man disappeared. It happened while the caretaker in charge of him went to eat. He had been there when last checked, but when the caretaker returned, the bed was empty.

“Where did he go?”

The twenty paupers who shared the room with the man all said they didn’t know. It was strange in a way, but the caretaker didn’t think much of it. Maybe a relative came and took him, the caretaker thought, and resumed managing the others. In the busy days without a moment to spare, the man’s existence was completely forgotten in the caretaker’s mind. Even when someone belatedly confessed, “There was someone who took that man away,” the caretaker couldn’t remember who the man was, so completely had he been forgotten.

Of course, the man who had been sprawled like a corpse on the roadside a week ago was Owen Turner. To explain how Owen Turner ended up like that, we need to go back about 15 days. To the day when, after confessing the truth about Mr. F, he was suddenly left alone with Yellow Eyes due to Shavonne’s abrupt departure.

To his misfortune, or maybe fortune, thanks to fainting as soon as he was left alone with Yellow Eyes, Turner didn’t have to feel the pain as his head was being pulled off, or the sensation of being stuffed into a large sack and dragged away.

When he regained consciousness, he was in a house so dark he couldn’t distinguish his surroundings. Turner was naked and his limbs were tied to something.

― Are you awake?

Yellow Eyes turned to Turner at the sound of his stirring. The golden glint shining calmly in the darkness was eerie. Turner wanted to faint again, but his mind was so clear it was as if he had been injected with drugs. That’s why every word Yellow Eyes said that day was vividly imprinted in Turner’s mind.

― Mr. Turner. Before we start, there’s one thing you should know.

Yellow Eyes opened his mouth. There was a hint of laughter in his voice.

― I am a very, very good lover.

― I respect Shavonne’s sex life. I absolutely never get jealous or envious of the people Shavonne slept with before me. Really. I never do that.

― The proof is that I’ve never laid a hand on any of the people Shavonne has slept with until now. There is one exception, but that was because he was a pervert who was stalking him, not because he slept with Shavonne.

For a moment, Yellow Eyes’ eyes flashed with a strange light.

― But, Mr. Turner.

― I wouldn’t include rape in one’s sex life.

Turner couldn’t resist at all. His body just trembled. Surely not, surely not…

― Bloodless castration. Quite a genteel method, isn’t it?

― If it were up to my taste, I would have crushed it, what a shame.

― Well, it can’t be helped. If you were to die from shock, Shavonne would be greatly distressed.

Only then could Turner stammer out, “Please just kill me.” But Yellow Eyes mercilessly trampled on Turner’s hope.

― I can’t do that. I just told you that if you die, Shavonne would be greatly distressed.

― As I said, I’m a good lover. And a good lover never does anything to distress their lover.

― If you really want to die, later, muuuuch later, when I’m not around, kill yourself. Whether you hang yourself, slit your wrists, or take poison, I’ll just mind my own business and cheer you on from afar.

His teeth chattered automatically, making a clicking sound. Beyond the darkness, he thought he saw yellow eyes smiling.

To get straight to the point, Turner fainted. Less than five minutes after the bloodless castration began, extreme pain took away Turner’s consciousness. His reason briefly came to light a few times, but quickly lost consciousness again.

Had a day passed? Or three days? Or a week? When he no longer fainted, Turner found himself dumped in a sack tied with a red ribbon in front of the police station on Ira Street.

In front of the police station. He was bewildered about why he had been dumped here, but only for a moment. Turner staggered into the police station. Every movement sent pain shooting through his groin. It felt like a sharp knife was gouging him.

The only reason he could endure the pain was his burning desire for revenge against the yellow eyes. Whatever the reason for dumping him here, that person had essentially dug their own grave. Turner planned to kill Yellow Eyes through legal means using the police. And he planned to use illegal means through criminal organizations to push Yellow Eyes into a situation where he would beg to be killed. He wanted to repay the pain he had experienced in full.

In full? No, that wouldn’t be enough. Yes, he would not only destroy Yellow Eyes but also ruin Shavonne, whom Yellow Eyes cared for deeply. When Yellow Eyes saw their lover rolling around in a brothel, they would bitterly regret what they had done…

“…something happened to me.”

Turner reported it. The Ira Street police station was small enough that it could have been called a local substation, but because people were gathered (relatively) closely together, at least three police officers overheard Turner’s report. One of them said among themselves,

“Castration? Were you really castrated? Like a castrati?”

Another one said,

“If it were me, I would have gone to the hospital first, not here. His face is a complete mess.”

The last one said,

“I wonder what he did to end up like that. Well, I guess he must have done something to deserve it.”

Turner felt his blood boiling. Pretending not to have heard anything, he looked at the officer in charge of his case, who had been completely silent, and spoke again.

“Didn’t you hear what I said?”

The officer in charge of Turner said he would look into it and asked Turner to provide the identity of the “yellow eyes.” Turner said he didn’t know. He said it was their job to uncover the identity. At least three police officers overheard this, and one of them said among themselves,

“What an attitude.”

Another one said,

“I don’t understand why he’s bringing a personal fight all the way here.”

The last one said,

“Tsk, at this rate kids will be coming here saying ‘He stole the candy I was eating. Take revenge for me.'”

Turner could no longer contain himself.

“Do you know who I am to be talking like that?”

Turner said he was the son-in-law of the Soilute family. To be precise, the soon to be son-in-law.

The Soilute family was famous. They had been a prestigious family of knights for generations, and the current Mr. Soilute was a judge who controlled the legal world, while Mrs. Soilute was a businesswoman with strong connections to the media world, so there was no way any citizen of Bunch could not know them. It was a name that worked anywhere. When withdrawing money from the bank, when haggling over prices at the tailor shop, it was the same. Even when calling for prostitutes.

Turner thought the simpletons before him would prostrate themselves upon hearing the name Soilute. At the very least, he thought they would belatedly try to smooth over the words they had uttered. However, the reaction that followed defied Turner’s expectations. The police officers burst into unexpected laughter. Turner was dumbfounded. Had these people gone mad?

“Are you so clueless that you don’t even know what Soilute means?”

“Oh my. How could we not know? We know.”

They know but they’re acting like this? It didn’t make sense. It was obvious that if Turner put pressure on his future father-in-law and mother-in-law, they would all be forced to resign. He couldn’t understand how they could be so audacious.

Perhaps they thought Turner was bluffing?

It was a possibility. Right now, Turner looked so shabby that it was hard to believe he was the future in-law of the Soilute family. His eyes were swollen, his nose flattened. More than half of his teeth visible between his cracked lips were broken, and his clothes were covered in dried blood.

Turner said it was true. If they didn’t believe him, he said to call someone from the Soilute family to confirm. The police officers burst into laughter again.

One laughed until tears formed in his eyes, and another laughed while shaking his whole body as if he might roll on the floor at any moment. The last one giggled. Only the officer in charge of Turner barely managed to hold back his laughter. “Yes, I’m sure it’s true. Who’s saying otherwise?” Then the officer turned and called for the police station’s coachman. Then he said,

“Take this gentleman to the Soilute mansion.”

The Soilute mansion? When the coachman asked, the officer spoke again.

“Since he’s the soon to be son-in-law of the Soilute family, you should be especially mindful of your words and actions. Understood?”

At that explanation, the coachman gave a faint smile as if he now understood. Although the conversation going back and forth pretended to be respectful, there was mockery towards Turner underlying it. Mockery? Turner was not of a status to be mocked. His throat choked up.

Only then did Turner realize that something was going wrong. There was something Turner didn’t know. Something that everyone else knew but Turner alone didn’t know.

He racked his brains the whole way to the Soilute mansion, but nothing came to mind. In the end, Turner had to admit that there was no option but to ask. In front of the Soilute mansion. Just after getting out of the carriage, Turner found the coachman and asked.

“Are you asking that seriously?”

“Of course. Why would I ask insincerely?”

Even at the irritated voice, the coachman just snickered. It was a relaxed laugh, as if watching the rebellion of an insect. A mere coachman. Turner felt his patience reaching its limit. The coachman said,

“How strange. All the gossip magazines have been talking about nothing but your scandal for the past week, yet how can you not know?”

“What scandal?”

A scandal? An ominous imagination flashed through Turner’s mind. Did Mr. Soilute take a bribe? Or did Mrs. Soilute go bankrupt? Or… did Turner’s fiancée, Miss Soilute, die? Damn it, that can’t be. To receive money from the Soilute family, I need to get married! If she hasn’t died, I should hurry up and get married. That’s how I will secure his share…

It was at that moment. The coachman’s voice penetrated Turner’s mind.

“The scandal that Soilute cast you out.”

Cast me out?

Turner stared blankly at the coachman. Turner stared blankly at the coachman. There was no sign he was joking. He was completely serious.

“Why…?”

“Because you did wrong, obviously.”

The coachman clicked his tongue.

“Did you think you could get away with cheating while living off your in-laws?”

***

Turner’s engagement had been called off.

Turner tried to meet his fiancée. No, since he had been jilted, she should now be called his ex-fiancée. Turner tried to meet his ex-fiancée. He intended to make excuses somehow. However, the ex-fiancée flatly refused to meet Turner.

“Please. Please, I need to meet her.”

“That may be your wish. But the young lady says he has no desire to meet you. Go home.”

“She won’t see me even though I’m injured?”

“The young lady said it serves you right.”

“She won’t see me even though I’ve become disabled?”

“Oh my, you’ve become disabled? I should let the young lady know. We should do a celebration.”

The only person Turner could meet was his ex-fiancée’s maid. But even she wasn’t friendly. If it had been Turner before being jilted, he would have slapped her for insolence, but now he couldn’t. Far from slapping her, he couldn’t even treat her rudely.

The maid told him to go away. She said the young lady knew that Turner had been seducing women under the alias Oliver.

“No. That’s a misunderstanding!”

The maid told him not to lie. She said five prostitutes who had slept with ‘Oliver Turner’ had testified directly. She said their names were Mary, Anne, Jane, Ruby, and Catherine. Turner was at a loss for words. How could they…?

“Viscount Cepa put us in touch with them.”

Viscount Cepa. It didn’t ring any bells. Turner waved his hand.

“I don’t know that person…”

“He said you would know if I mentioned yellow eyes.”

The hand he was waving stopped. Turner froze. He couldn’t move a muscle, as if his entire body had been paralyzed.

***

Calling the wedding off had been only the beginning.

Turner being jilted meant that the Soilute family’s backing that the Turner family had been riding on disappeared. His father, who had been eyeing the position of chief architect for the Second Arun Palace, was ruled out. His mother, who had been trying to become a professor at Bunch College without any qualifications, was dismissed.

When the Soilute family’s backing disappeared, his father became an insignificant official, and his mother became a lowly nobody. His parents seemed to have had a hard time enduring that fact. Judging by how they declared they were cutting ties with their disabled son as soon as they saw him. At the same time, Turner was kicked out. They told him not to even think about hanging around near the house.

The problem was that Turner was penniless. He didn’t even have enough money to stay at an inn for one night. Not only was there the issue of alimony, but all the debts Turner had accumulated under the name of ‘future son-in-law of the Soilute family’ came crashing down at once. He hurriedly went to Krainer Publishing, but was stopped before he could even enter the front gate. The gatekeeper blocked his way.

“No entry for outsiders.”

Turner asked if he looked like an outsider, if the gatekeeper couldn’t see well. He couldn’t understand why the gatekeeper was being so presumptuous when Turner was still an 8-year veteran editor, even if he had been jilted. “You are an outsider.” The gatekeeper cut him off. The gatekeeper who used to greet Turner with a bright smile was now looking down at him with an icy gaze.

“Didn’t you receive the dismissal notice?”

Dismissal?

It was as shocking as when he heard the news that Soilute had cast him out. While Turner stood there dumbfounded, the gatekeeper shot out one more remark. He said not to even dream of setting foot here again, since the president had personally fired him.

The reason for Turner’s dismissal was that he had made false contracts using Krainer Publishing’s name.

In other words, no one had expected this incident would lead to dismissal. That was true even when the victim of the false contract came forward. That was because the victim was an unknown ghostwriter. Blood is thicker than water. The employees judged that they couldn’t fire a veteran editor because of a mere unknown ghostwriter. Turner was no ordinary editor. He was a veteran editor who had produced six hit works during his 8 years of work. As long as it didn’t reach the ears of the president or a few employees with deep loyalty to the company, it was something that could have been swept under the rug.

The employees warned each other to keep their mouths shut to prevent Turner’s deviation from reaching the ears of the president or the few deeply loyal employees.

The problem was that someone considering investing had directly informed the president. If that had been all, how nice it would have been. He said that now that he knew Krainer Publishing was not such an ethical company, he had completely lost any desire to invest.

The president clung on, saying it was the mistake of an individual employee, but the potential investor left without even looking back. So it wasn’t so strange that the president’s anger towards Turner reached its peak.

Turner was at a loss for words. He couldn’t understand how an outsider had known about it when the employees had kept their mouths shut so perfectly. Thinking “maybe,” he asked who the potential investor was, and the gatekeeper muttered, “What was his name…,” frowning. Then, as if it had just occurred to him, he suddenly spoke up.

“Ah, right. He said he was Viscount Cepa.”

Turner felt his legs giving out.

He had nowhere to sleep.

His family ignored him and his friends turned their backs on him. Even his former coworkers kicked Turner out with excuses like their houses weren’t suitable or they had no spare rooms. After wandering the streets all night, Turner went to see the prostitute Catherine as a last resort. He remembered Catherine’s bright face smiling and saying ‘Thank you, Mr. Turner’ when he gave his a tip.

But Catherine didn’t even open the door. Only the sign saying ‘No Beggars’ on the door stood firm. He wanted to go to the multifamily residential apartments, but it was a place he couldn’t even enter without ‘him’ who provided the monthly rent support.

In the end, Turner began living on the streets. Even that wasn’t so easy, as homeless people asserting their territory stole his bundle of belongings. If Turner had been penniless in a figurative sense when he was kicked out of his home, now he was penniless in the literal sense. All he had was his body. A body so battered that even brothels wouldn’t welcome him.

Turner opened his mouth and began crying silently. It was such a quiet cry that no one would notice he was crying unless they looked closely. He wanted to cry loudly, but he didn’t have the courage to do so for fear that the yellow eyes might find him.

During the day, Turner rummaged through garbage cans to eat food scraps, and at night, he curled up and slept pulling newspapers around himself. The cold was so severe that on the third day of living on the streets, he had a stroke. His mouth twisted and his eyes wouldn’t close properly.

From that day on, Turner gave up wandering Bunch in search of food scraps. Turner just lay still like a corpse, or like garbage. He didn’t move even when someone poured cold water on him, when he was covered in filth, or when snow settled on him. He wanted to die, whether from starvation or freezing. He didn’t want to sink any lower.

But even death was not granted. Just then, the city’s body collection team rescued Turner who was on the brink of death. Turner was transported to Saint Macy’s poorhouse. When he came to his senses, he was on a bed. It was a room that reeked of stale odors where about 20 extremely poor people were staying.

In that moment, Turner realized anew that he had become a pauper with no family, no friends, no lover, no wealth and honor, no job, and not even a healthy body to get a job. The despair of not being able to die overshadowed Turner’s vision. Death wasn’t allowed. All that was allowed was crying, vomiting, and fainting.

It was on the seventh day after Turner arrived at Saint Macy’s poorhouse that someone came to visit. It was a familiar face. It was F, the one who had paid Turner to seduce Shavonne.

“Iz all bicoz oph you! (It’s all because of you!)”

As soon as they left the poorhouse, Turner grabbed F’s collar without warning. He pushed F into an alley, and with a thud, F’s body hit the wall. Stone fragments fell from the impact, hitting F’s shoulder as they fell.

All because of this person.

Turner’s eyes burned as he looked at F. If only this person hadn’t paid him to seduce Shavonne. No, if he had at least told Turner that the madman with yellow eyes was protecting Shavonne! Then Turner wouldn’t have become disabled. His eyes wouldn’t have swollen, his nose wouldn’t be twisted. More than half of his teeth wouldn’t have broken. He wouldn’t have lost his family, friends, and lover and ended up on the streets. If only, if only…

“Evrizing, bicoz oph you! (Everything, because of you!)”

Turner shouted, gripping F’s collar tightly. Due to his broken mouth, the pronunciation came out unclearly. It was then that a tearing sound was heard. A shiny particle fell and rolled on the ground. It was a white button. It looked like a fallen tooth.

A fallen tooth.

Suddenly, the yellow eyes flashed through his mind. The yellow eyes that had knocked out more than half of Turner’s teeth. Turner’s body stiffened. That’s what the yellow eyes were. A being that made you terrified just by thinking about them.

“Let go.”

F shook off the hand grasping his collar. Turner was pushed back. Objectively it wasn’t a very strong force, but for Turner who had neglected his health lately, it was like being hit with a blunt object.

“You don’t even realize you’ve messed everything up and you’re just babbling.”

It was a gloomy afternoon. The surroundings were dark as if snow would fall at any moment. f’s hair, which had looked dazzling in sunlight, now appeared dingy. It wasn’t just the hair. The mouth that once whispered only sweet promises was now spewing sharp rebukes.

“Did you forget the terms of the contract? First, Party A gives one thousand rona. Second, Party B becomes Shavonne’s lover and reports his every move. Third, both parties keep the contract’s existence confidential. It’s only three lines – couldn’t you memorize that? Are you stupid? Do you have some illness? Or do you not know what ‘confidential’ means?”

F was demanding accountability for disclosing the contract. Turner felt a heavy lump rising in his throat. It was what people commonly call ‘indignation’.

It’s true that Turner disclosed the contract. But it had been because of a life or death matter. If he hadn’t disclosed it, Turner would have died long ago. If he had died, he obviously wouldn’t be here arguing with F about whose fault it was.

“I jad no choice. I almozdt died. (I had no choice. I almost died)”

“Well, that’s not surprising since you make enemies everywhere you go.”

F was cold.

“In any case, that’s your problem. Don’t whine to me asking for understanding about something that has nothing to do with our contract. I’m not your nanny.”

“Nozing to do wiz it? (Nothing to do with it?)”

Nothing to do with it?

He was brutalized while trying to seduce Shavonne as F had demanded, and it had nothing to do with it?

He couldn’t stand it.

“It woz Shavon’s lovor who crippled me! Dam itz, if you had yuz told me abot those yellow eyez, I never would have gotten involz in diz in de fitz plaze. And yet you zei it has nozing to do wiz de contract? (It was Shavonne’s lover who crippled me! Damn it, if you had just told me about those yellow eyes, I never would have gotten involved in this in the first place. And yet you say it has nothing to do with the contract?)”

If asked, he was prepared to answer anything. How Shavonne’s lover had ruined Turner’s life. What it felt like to have his eyes swollen, nose flattened, and teeth broken. How it felt to lose family, friends, and lover, and end up on the streets.

But that’s not what F asked about.

“…Yellow eyes? Are you sure about the yellow eyes?”

Confusion spread across Turner’s face. It was surprising enough that F didn’t seem to know Shavonne had a lover until now, but his follow-up question was even more baffling. A normal person would have emphasized ‘Shavonne’s lover’. Not the ‘eye color’ of Shavonne’s lover.

“Answer me.”

Turner, who was about to say yes without thinking, suddenly closed his mouth. The warning lights in his head were going off. His animal instinct was telling him not to answer, that something terrible would happen if he did. As Turner took a step back, F quickly grabbed his wrist. Turner tried to pull his hand away, but it was useless. A strength that felt like it would crush his bones was binding Turner.

“Answer. Me.”

A wild gaze poured down from above. The thought that this man might be as insane as the yellow-eyed one filled Turner’s mind. What if this man gouges out my eyes? What if he cuts off my nose and tongue? A chilling terror soaked his back. It felt like he’d been drenched in cold blood.

Turner wanted to run away. That was all.

“Yez, yellow eyez (Yes, yellow eyes).”

The blood drained from F’s face. The warning lights in his head started flashing even more intensely. Red danger lights flooded his mind.

He hastily pulled his wrist free. It was swollen from being gripped so tightly, but there was no time to examine it. Turner hurriedly backed away. One step. Turner’s feet trembled as they touched the ground behind him.

“I-I’ll be going now.”

One step, two steps. His retreating feet soon turned to flee down the alley. But before he could take even three steps.

His feet stopped. Drip, drip, blood fell at his feet. No death cry was heard.

Then, with the sound of something sharp being pulled out, black blood gushed forth. Blood that couldn’t soak into the dirt ground began to pool. At first only as big as a palm, the puddle gradually grew to the size of a child’s head, and soon became as large as a severed body.

The struggling feet stopped moving.

Splash. The body fell into the puddle. Droplets sprayed. No, to be precise, they were blood droplets that looked like water droplets. Dark, viscous blood droplets scattered about.

Sleet began to fall from the dark sky that looked as if it had been scorched. It was a late winter afternoon approaching evening. The bell tolling six o’clock could be faintly heard.

***

In the library of the Fawkes mansion, there was a desk that even the cleaning servants dare not touch. This desk had three drawers. The first drawer contained a collection of business cards, and the second drawer held recent academic papers of interest.

The third drawer was locked. It could only be opened with a key held by Fawkes. No one knew what was in the third drawer. Someone had asked once, but Fawkes just smiled softly and said, “You can imagine what’s in there.”

After that, rumors began circulating among the employees that “There must be a will in there,” or “There must be bone fragments of dead family members,” but Fawkes never gave a clear answer. Come to think of it, it wasn’t that strange. There was no need to go out of his way to reveal that there was a gun in there.

Today, Fawkes returned home looking unwell, immediately unlocked the third drawer, and took out the gun. Then he pointed it at his own temple. As he felt the cold, smooth barrel, the fear finally subsided, as if he had outrun the pursuing fall. His racing pulse slowed and his panting breath calmed.

The dog he thought was dead was alive.

A corpse too decomposed to identify. What he thought was a dog and had disposed of at the facility turned out to be someone else’s body. He should have checked more carefully, but the situation had been so chaotic there was no time.

The situation was this: At the time, the royal family was facing a crisis. War with Himdau was imminent, and since victory couldn’t be guaranteed in a one-on-one confrontation, they needed allies. Especially, the full support of the International Union was desperately needed.

However, this was the same International Union who focused on ethics. If they found out that the Lute Penitentiary had conducted unethical experiments on humans, it was obvious they would turn their backs. The government tried to conceal the existence of the Lute Penitentiary. Naturally, the facility was closed and records were erased.

The problem arose when one piece of ‘data’ escaped.

The dog had killed the men who tried to eliminate him and ran away. They never thought the dog which had been obedient for the past 7 years would cause trouble.

It was an accident that wouldn’t have happened if they had used guns, but firearms couldn’t be used to deal with the dog. Although it had now fallen to the status of data that needed to be erased, it was once the king’s dog. The royal family’s position was that it must not be subdued ‘boldly’ with guns. It was an incomprehensible position, but since royalty were inherently incomprehensible beings, Fawkes obeyed without protest.

It was an unexpected situation, but Fawkes didn’t inform anyone. He didn’t even ask Pharrell for help. He had to resolve it on his own.

Why had Fawkes used his medical skills for all sorts of dirty work? Why had he monitored Shavonne for nearly 10 years? Why had he endured feelings of self-loathing strong enough to make him want to commit suicide? It was all for the future. A future where he would become the director of Lute Penitentiary, the right hand of the royal family. A future where he would become ‘Count Fawkes’. He couldn’t let that future be ruined because of a mere dog.

However, the dog he thought would be caught quickly was not caught. Fawkes became desperate in tracking the dog. He even left the mansion under the pretext of a long business trip to devote himself to the search.

Of course, finding it wouldn’t solve all the problems. He had no clever plan to take it back to the facility as the royal family ordered, nor did he have the skill to dispose of it without using a gun. But finding it was the priority. He had to find it first before he could decide whether to take it to the facility or dispose of it.

Perhaps God took pity on Fawkes’ distress. Before spring ended, Fawkes was able to find the dog. The dog was dead. Although its face was too badly decomposed to recognize, judging by the location where it was found, the overall skeleton, and the belongings, it was clearly the dog. He thought it was clear.

He only realized today that he had been mistaken through Turner’s testimony.

By Shavonne’s side. And eyes as yellow as a beast’s.

It was evidence that the dog he thought was dead was alive.

“…”

The gun barrel felt cold against his temple. Fawkes barely suppressed the urge to pull the trigger and slowly lowered his hand holding the gun.

Fawkes put the gun back in the drawer and closed it. This time, he didn’t lock it.

That day, a telegram was sent from the East Bunch Post Office. The sender was Frasier Fawkes, and the recipient was John Pharrell.

《Dog. Alive.》

The dog will be dragged back to the facility where it was born and raised.

And it will die like a dog.

Like the night that comes no matter how desperately you beg it not to come, no matter how much it resists, that’s how it will end up.

Somewhere, an icy wind was blowing. A bitter cold, blowing from Lute.