MLCD Chapter 6.1 || Human

In the early hours of the morning, Shavonne awoke briefly to the smell of water seeping in from somewhere. As he gathered his groggy senses, he saw dense fog rolling in through the half-open window.

The whole world was shrouded in a thick fog. The《Grisby Street》 sign, Mr. Cloud’s tailor shop, and Mrs. Bay’s dressmaker shop were all hidden in the mist. All that could be seen was a row of gas lamps, each emitting a dim light as if about to go out.

Just as Shavonne was about to close the window, a strange sound reached his ears. What’s that sound? Shavonne paused before latching the window and peered outside. More precisely, he looked into the dense fog beyond the window. The sound seemed to come from over there, but the fog was so thick that nothing could be made out. It was uncertain whether anything was there at all.

The only thing certain was that the unidentifiable sound was getting closer and closer. The noise, which sounded like rustling shrouds, or ghosts drifting, or perhaps simply the wind blowing, gradually began to take on a clearer form. There was a clattering sound coming from within the fog. It was the sound of horses coming.

Before he could fully grasp what the sound meant, the source revealed itself. Although the fog was thick and he couldn’t see clearly, it wasn’t so bad that he couldn’t recognize it was a carriage. Two diligently running horses, a coachman holding the reins, and a plain carriage body without any coat of arms came into view.

It was a carriage so common that you could see more than thirty of them if you went out on the street, but for some reason, it kept catching his eye. Shavonne couldn’t take his eyes off the back of the carriage disappearing into the fog. Something bleak, like fog, like anxiety, was seeping into the nape of his neck.

“Couldn’t sleep again, I see?”

Suddenly, Lewellyn’s voice came from behind. He thought Lewellyn had been sound asleep, but apparently not. Or perhaps he had woken up after realizing that the space next to him in the bed, where Shavonne should have been lying neatly, was empty.

“How long did you sleep today? An hour? Two hours?”

He was accurate. It seems that after living together for three seasons, one can even guess how long their lover has slept.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Of course it is. Your eyes are like a rabbit’s, your dark circles are like a panda’s, and your hair is like a lion’s.”

“I must look terribly ugly.”

“No. You look like a beautiful chimera.”

However, Lewellyn himself looked no less haggard. His eyes were bloodshot and his lips were chapped, as if he hadn’t had a proper sleep. His skin was as lusterless as tree bark. Looking at him, Shavonne was once again struck by the fact that handsome people remain handsome regardless of whether their eyes were bloodshot like a rabbit’s or their dark circles drooped like a panda’s.

“Go to sleep quickly. I read in the 《Daily Bunch》that when people don’t sleep, their liver gets damaged and their heart worsens. Even though a sleepless Mr. Shavonne is lovely too, I can’t sacrifice your health just to appreciate that.”

“Well, I don’t think you’re in a position to talk about health or anything.”

Shavonne retorted. Lewellyn paid no mind. He raised his eyebrows nonchalantly and replied.

“Oh, you seem to be under some misunderstanding. I don’t have any problem sleeping, I’m choosing not to sleep.”

He says he’s not sleeping when it’s obvious he can’t sleep. Lewellyn was someone who rarely showed signs of struggle. There had been hardships in coming here from Ira Street, but Lewellyn had never once uttered a negative word.

Even when he did say something, it was always along the lines of “You know what? Every day is difficult because Shavonne is too lovable,” or “I feel exhausted just by seeing, touching, and thinking about Shavonne.”

He probably thought he was easing Shavonne’s worries by doing this, but Shavonne couldn’t shake off his heavy heart. The feeling of only receiving, the feeling of wanting to give but having nothing to give – Shavonne had recently been realizing how much these feelings could weigh a person down.

He didn’t intend to show his feelings. If he did, Lewellyn would be disheartened. Outwardly, he’d act fine, saying ‘What do you mean there’s nothing you can do for me? Hurry up and kiss me,’ while inwardly agonizing. To avoid creating such a situation, it was important to act as usual. If only my ‘usual’ was less rough, Shavonne thought.

“Alright, you go to sleep first then. I’ll follow.”

“Why? Am I so handsome that you can’t sleep unless you put me to bed first?”

“Do you think you don’t look like a chimera?”

Shavonne retorted.

After taking 10mg of sleeping pills, he headed to bed. He was tired but couldn’t fall asleep. Counting sheep didn’t help. He tried to subtly slip out of Lewellyn’s embrace, thinking maybe the position of being held was uncomfortable, but it was of no use. He waited to see if it would get better after ten minutes, and then after thirty minutes, but the result was the same.

Shavonne took an additional 15mg of sleeping pills only after tossing and turning for a full hour. However, while his head became foggy, sleep still didn’t come. Since it had been like this every single day for the past week, it wasn’t particularly surprising.

Shavonne’s insomnia was getting worse day by day. It had started to deteriorate rapidly since moving here to Grisby Street, to the point where he couldn’t sleep for even an hour if he took less than 10mg of sleeping pills.

Even then, he couldn’t sleep deeply, and would inevitably have disturbed sleep at the slightest sound of a door opening or closing or dishes clattering somewhere. Before, 5mg was enough for a good night’s sleep, but now even 20mg barely worked.

At first, he thought something was wrong with the sleeping pills. That they had been damaged due to improper storage, or that they were defective. The doctor’s opinion was different. The problem, he said, was not with the sleeping pills but with Shavonne. When asked what that meant, the doctor explained that because he had been taking sleeping pills every single day without fail, he had built up a tolerance. He advised that, as painful as it might be, Shavonne should try to get into the habit of sleeping without relying on sleeping pills for a while.

To cut to the chase, Shavonne couldn’t follow that advice. He tried, but each time he suffered from extreme pain. Pain as if transparent hands were rummaging through his skull, as if his brain was being kneaded, as if hooks were being driven into his brain – Shavonne had no choice but to reach for the sleeping pills again.

It seems today is another lost cause for sleep. Resigned, Shavonne raised his weary body. His head felt cloudy from accumulated fatigue and encroaching drowsiness. It felt as if it was filled with fog.

Shavonne and Lewellyn were staying on Grisby Street. No, to be precise, it might be more accurate to say they were in hiding. After all, living under aliases while concealing one’s real name was not usually called ‘staying.’

Brook and Noah. These were the names used by Shavonne and Lewellyn respectively, taken from the novel 《Portrait of Venciga》 that Shavonne had ghostwritten. It was Shavonne who first suggested using aliases, but initially, Lewellyn hadn’t been at all keen on the idea.

It started with Lewellyn’s dumbfounded response, ‘Mr. Shavonne, do you really think a name like John or Joseph or Arthur would suit me? Really?’ Soon after, Lewellyn expressed that he loved his name Lewellyn more than anything and had never even imagined having another name.

‘Take this opportunity to imagine it. Who has only one name in this day and age?’

‘How about Allium Cepa?’

‘That won’t do because you’ve already used that one.’

Lewellyn made a sulky face. He grumbled that rather than having a ‘lame name’ like John or Joseph or Arthur or whatever else, he’d be happier going by Mr. No name. Shavonne had a headache.

They ended up agreeing when Shavonne suggested that Lewellyn should come up with aliases for both of them to use. After a brief deliberation, Lewellyn’s attitude changed to a surprisingly cooperative one. He not only came up with names but created entire personal histories, including not just age and origin, but even seemingly trivial details like favorite and disliked foods, political leanings, and past jobs.

As Shavonne was examining the proposal Lewellyn had handed over, he noticed one strange point. Brook, whom Shavonne would play, and Noah, whom Lewellyn would play, not only were they brothers from the same family, but they had the same date of birth too.

― What is this?

― ‘December 25, 1886.’ Should I read it again for you?

Shavonne rephrased his protest.

― How can we both have the same birthdate if we’re brothers? It’s not like we’re half-brothers fatefully born on the same day at the same hour or anything.

― Aw, it hurts my feelings that you don’t understand the deeper meaning I chose.

Lewellyn put on a deliberately gloomy expression and continued his explanation. Shavonne just raised an eyebrow.

― Brook and Noah, that is, you and I, are twin brothers.

― We don’t look alike at all, what kind of twins are we?

― So what? There are plenty of twins who don’t look alike.

Twins, huh. They looked so different that they didn’t even appear to be family, let alone brothers. Could they really pass as twins? Shavonne’s head throbbed. He simply couldn’t understand why they had to be twins.

― Why twins of all things?

Lewellyn, who had been writing ‘T.W.I.N.S’ in a blank space on the proposal, looked up at Shavonne. Then he smiled. It was a smile that could only be described as radiant.

― Because that’s the closest thing I can be to you.

Shavonne stared blankly at Lewellyn’s face. He wondered again whether the ability to say such things without changing one’s expression was a skill or a talent.

Shavonne went along with Lewellyn’s plan. If having no reason to object was the superficial reason, then not wanting to ruin Lewellyn’s wish to become the closest being to Shavonne was the underlying reason. And so, twin brothers who looked nothing alike came to live on Grisby Street.

The first thing Shavonne did upon becoming Brook was to check their finances. A hideout without money is nothing more than an empty dream. Shavonne knew this from experience.

Fortunately, they had enough money to live on for at least 5 years without lifting a finger. This was thanks to the money Lewellyn had, but there was something unsettling about rejoicing thoughtlessly that they wouldn’t have to worry about making a living. To have that much money, one would need to work for at least 10 years. It wasn’t possible with the salary of a coachman, typesetter, or chimney sweep – at least a watchmaker’s wage would be needed.

However, Lewellyn didn’t seem to have done anything that could be called a livelihood. He hadn’t committed murder either, due to the threat of breaking up. He didn’t seem to be running mines, organized farms, or factories like the nobles did, nor did he seem to have inherited a fortune. There wasn’t a single plausible explanation.

― Where did all this money come from?

When asked, Lewellyn smiled sweetly and asked back.

― Do you want to know?

It was a response that made the desire to know automatically disappear. Shavonne changed his answer to a no. He was worried that there might be a shocking backstory too overwhelming to handle. For instance, a disturbing backstory like having been a pickpocket or a mugger.

― Mr. Shavonne, the way you can change your stance so quickly makes you so lovable.

Lewellyn laughed. Shavonne asked if there was ever a time when he didn’t look lovable. Lewellyn replied with an even brighter smile, saying that there was no way such a time could exist. Shavonne could only let out a weak, hollow laugh.

If checking their finances was the first thing Shavonne did upon becoming Brook, the next thing he did was to find a job.

As it happened, Grisby Shipping was constantly recruiting laborers. The job involved carrying cargo on merchant ships for ten hours, and it was said that there were hardly any applicants because it was simple but grueling work. Applicants would show up about once a month, but even they would often run away without a word before completing even three days of work because it was too hard. Shavonne wanted to do this job.

― Does it have to be that job?

Lewellyn couldn’t understand. Literally, Lewellyn’s position was why Shavonne wanted to do hard physical labor when they had enough money to live on without lifting a finger.

The docks were notorious for heavy labor along with coal mines, textile factories, and lead manufacturing plants. It was common to work fifteen hours for 3 rona per hour.

Although there was a law stating that one shouldn’t work more than ten hours a day, it was rarely observed. It was almost non-existent in places where the poor mainly worked, such as docks, coal mines, textile factories, or lead manufacturing plants. Rest time, including meal times, totaled less than thirty minutes.

So it wasn’t completely incomprehensible that Lewellyn didn’t want to let Shavonne go.

Llewellyn was so desperate to dissuade Shavonne that as soon as he saw the newspaper, he would find job advertisements (mostly looking for inspectors, proofreaders, editors, or typists) and bring them to him. Of course, Shavonne had no intention of giving up on being a laborer.

It was because all he had to do was load and unload cargo. He didn’t need to read or write long passages, correct typos and grammatical errors, or use a typewriter. He didn’t need to remember the time he had been fooled by Turner and Fawkes.

Shavonne wanted to forget the past. Even if just for a moment, he wanted to escape from the memories of the past that kept popping up.

There was a slight argument, but in the end it was agreed that Shavonne would work at Grisby Harbor. Given that Lewellyn had never won against Shavonne before, it was an expected result. Lewellyn said weakly,

― Alright. Do as you wish, Mr. Shavonne.

Shavonne glanced at Lewellyn’s face. With his eyebrows drooped dejectedly, he looked just like a seven year old child.

― Are you sulking?

― Of course I am. I’m someone so ungenerous that I sulk about everything.

―  I had no idea. From now on, I’ll have to appease you every time something happens.

The way Shavonne chose to appease him was to give Lewellyn a brief hug. Lewellyn raised an eyebrow still sulking.

― You think this is enough to soothe my feelings?

This time, he lightly pressed his lips to the bridge of Lewellyn’s nose and then pulled away. Then he asked,

― Happy now?

― Aren’t you underestimating me too much?

This time, he lightly kissed Lewellyn’s lips. Then he asked,

― Now?

― No comment.

He must be calmed down now, Shavonne thought.

The only remaining issue was whether Grisby Shipping would hire Shavonne or not. The interview was in the morning. The interviewer looked Shavonne up and down, saying he gave a negative impression, like he was too skinny or looked like he would run away after just three hours.

Even when Shavonne tried to explain that he may look weak on the outside but was actually quite strong inside, and that he wasn’t the type to run away after working for just three hours, the interviewer maintained an untrusting attitude, saying “Not sure about that, we’ll see.”

The call to start work tomorrow came in the afternoon, which was a surprising result for Shavonne, who had been feeling gloomy thinking he wouldn’t be able to become a laborer. Of course, thinking about it carefully, it wasn’t such a surprising result. Grisby Shipping suffered from labor shortages all the time, so it wasn’t like they could afford to reject an applicant.

And so Shavonne came to work at the dock. He was at the end of the transport line, receiving small cargo items weighing less than 20 kilograms and loading them onto carts. Contrary to Grisby Shipping’s prediction that he would run away after just three hours, Shavonne was working steadily. Today was exactly the fourth day.

It was a cloudy day that looked like it might snow at any moment. Perhaps because the cargo ship that came in today was quite large, there seemed to be no end to the cargo that the transport line had to move. Receive and load, send the cart back when it’s full… After doing this non-stop for six hours, his head was dizzy.

Is it because I haven’t been able to sleep for a week? Lately, he had been experiencing severe dizziness more than a dozen times a day. It was a thick dizziness that made his mind fuzzy. As he was trying to clear his head by furrowing and unfurrowing his brow, he suddenly noticed that five carts were left abandoned behind him.

It was strange. Normally, Nox – the name of the young man who took away the carts – should have collected the carts by now. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen Nox for about five hours. Was he drinking in secret somewhere?

That could be possible. Nox had said that whenever work got tiring, he would have three drinks behind the dock warehouse. He said it gave him a bitter buzz and greatly improved his efficiency. It was something Shavonne was able to hear because they were close enough to know which neighborhood each other lived in. Of course, it wasn’t that Shavonne wanted to particularly know, but Nox had opened up to him.

His head was too dizzy to think deeply. Shavonne tried to put the thoughts aside. Nox had come back quickly when he sprained his ankle while carrying a cart before, and he had come back quickly even when he got into a fight with a coworker while working, so he would probably do the same this time too.

The problem was that ‘quickly’ didn’t come. Nox didn’t appear even when the abandoned carts became ten, fifteen, and then twenty. Has something happened to him? Nox had never caused any accidents before, but Shavonne worried that maybe he had meant to drink only three glasses but ended up drinking six, or maybe he had fallen into the sea while stumbling around drunk.

Shavonne put down the cargo he was holding. He didn’t want to be nosy, but he felt he would only be at ease after confirming that Nox was okay.

He searched the harbor thoroughly but couldn’t find Nox. No one had seen him either. Everyone just said, ‘Why? Did something happen?’ The back of the dock warehouse was empty too. There weren’t even signs that anyone had been there recently to drink. It seems Nox hadn’t left his post to drink. Then?

Shavonne tried to recall if there had been anything different about Nox when he last saw him. There didn’t seem to be anything particularly different. His shabby appearance was the same, his polite greetings when meeting other workers were the same, and how he carried carts without a single complaint was the same. The only thing different from usual was the fact that Nox had suddenly disappeared.

The thought that he might have run away unable to endure the labor also crossed his mind, but only briefly. Nox had been working here for three months. According to what he had confided, he was in a situation where he had to take on any hard labor that came his way in order not to starve to death.

Unless he unexpectedly inherited a fortune from a relative he didn’t know existed or something like that, there was no way he would quit his livelihood. Moreover, if he had such thoughts, he would have given some hint to Shavonne, as they were close.

Then maybe…

“Hey! What are you standing there not doing anything?”

It was then that the foreman’s voice pierced his ears. Whether it was true or not, he would get angry first if he thought a worker was slacking off. Shavonne tried to quickly leave his spot, but the foreman started nagging before he could.

The nagging turned into insults asking if he was from the poorhouse, then into threats to admit his mistake, and then into an order to go to the dock if he knew he was wrong. Even though the transport work was already finished, the foreman was unreasonable. He said that while his coworkers were still working their butts off, why was he alone slacking off.

In the end, Shavonne had no choice but to say he understood. He didn’t want to incur any disadvantages by getting on his bad side through unnecessary arguments.

Contrary to the foreman’s words that the workers were working their butts off, the dock was empty. It seemed that quite some time had passed since everyone had gone home, as there was a downright chilly atmosphere. The only things there were the twenty carts.

Shavonne hadn’t expected Nox to have come by while he was gone, but he couldn’t help feeling disappointed. Shavonne grabbed a cart. Since Nox wasn’t there, he had to move the carts himself.

Evening was already creeping in. Small lights were turning on one by one in the small town visible in the distance, but not at the dock. It was just dark because the lights illuminating the path hadn’t been turned on.

It was when Shavonne was just approaching a cart that something came close. Before he could sense the presence approaching from behind, some cloth pressed against Shavonne’s face. A pungent smell from the cloth invaded his nose. A pain like his head was splitting shot through his nasal cavity. Shavonne twisted his body to resist, but the cloth wouldn’t come off. Far from coming off, it only pressed against his face with even more brutal force.

His body gradually became paralyzed. His arms and legs that had been struggling non stop came to a halt. Through his fading consciousness, someone’s breath seeped in. It was the breath of a nightmare.

***

When he came out of the Iroph storage holding flowers, the sunset was gleaming. Glancing at his watch, it was already 6 PM. It’s not too late, Lewellyn thought as he looked away. Only the hands of the watch that no one was looking at shone red in the sunset light.

While heading to Grisby Street, he kept glancing at the condition of the flowers. Are the flowers falling off? Are the leaves drooping? Is the smell fading? It would be troublesome if the flowers wither before giving them to Shavonne as soon as he returns home.

The flowers were from Himdau, which was across the sea, and according to Iroph’s explanation, they were not only good for ornamental purposes but also unparalleled as medicinal plants. He said the seeds of the flower were used to calm obsessions, and the stem was used to strengthen the stomach, liver, and lungs.

Above all, he said the flowers had excellent efficacy in resolving insomnia. Iroph also told a story about a gamekeeper in Himdau who had suffered from insomnia for 40 years but was cured after growing these flowers. Lewellyn didn’t believe it. Until now, all the chamomile, marjoram, and clary sage that Lewellyn had bought were well-known for being good for insomnia, but they had been of no help to Shavonne.

However, regardless of whether he believed it or not, he bought the flowers. He couldn’t help it. If it was for Shavonne, who was looking worse day by day due to insomnia, Lewellyn was in a position where he had to grasp even a rotten rope¹.

Recently, Shavonne had thinned to the degree one feels sorry for him. His eyes were bloodshot and his lips were cracked. His skin had become as lusterless as a tree bark. Every time he saw this, Lewellyn felt like his body was being torn apart. It felt like his eyes were being split and his lips were cracking. It felt like his skin was being pinched and twisted with a heated poker. The thought, ‘Is this how Shavonne feels?’, only intensified these feelings.

If Shavonne got better, Lewellyn wouldn’t be in pain either, but Shavonne showed no signs of getting better at all. According to what he had observed while pretending to be asleep, Shavonne would lie stiffly like a wooden doll every time, then toss and turn, then suddenly get up and overuse sleeping pills. It would be fortunate if the sleep gained through such means was at least deep, but Shavonne couldn’t even manage that. He only slept fitfully, waking up at the slightest stimulus.

Will this really help?

He thought, looking at the flowers. They were already red flowers, but in the sunset light, they looked crimson red as if they were covered in blood. Lewellyn was about to lightly touch the petals but stopped. He was worried that if his hand touched them, the flowers might wilt.

When he arrived at Grisby Street, it was already fully evening. Darkness was gnawing at the world. Lewellyn entered the apartment building. The guard who was always visible at this time wasn’t there, but he didn’t notice.

Lewellyn and Shavonne’s house was room 201. Lewellyn liked 201. Although it was empty, mold grew on the plain walls and there were inexplicable stains on the floor that wouldn’t come off, and the wooden floor made creaking sounds with every step as if it was already rotten or in the process of rotting, he still liked it. Because it was ‘our home’ for Lewellyn and Shavonne. They had lived together in Ira Apartments too, but back then it was just a matter of room 302 living attached to room 303. But this time it was real. It was a real ‘our home’.

As soon as he entered the house, Lewellyn realized that the air around the house was different from usual. It should have been cold after being empty for ten hours, but there was a faint, barely perceptible heat in the air.

Has Shavonne already returned home? He wanted to check, but the house was so dark that even Lewellyn, with his amazing night vision, could hardly distinguish anything. Just then, he saw a streak of dim moonlight seeping in between the thickly drawn curtains.

Lewellyn stepped towards the window, using the moonlight as a guide. The curtains were drawn in four layers. Four layers. By the time he recalled that Shavonne never drew the curtains in multiple layers, it was already too late. Something pale white had risen and was right in front of his nose.

Lewellyn knew what it was. He couldn’t not know. It was something that made all beings defenseless. It was something that made the mind hazy, the body limp, and the limbs collapse. It was something that should never be in ‘our home’. It was the gas they used to release in the penitentiary.

‘Our home’ began to fill entirely with hazy gas. Just like Lewellyn’s universe once did in the solitary cell that wasn’t even eight steps in width and length.

The first thing to lose strength was his hands. Suddenly, as if the tendons had been cut, he couldn’t put strength into his hands. The flowers he was holding fell to the floor. The stem that hit the floor with a thud bent.

His body collapsed next. Just as his knees touched the floor, he found himself face down. He tried to lift his head but couldn’t move at all. It felt like all his tendons had been cut. No, it felt like they had been eaten away. The only thing he could move was his eyes. His eyes were looking ahead. They were peering into the place beyond the gas, where footsteps that shouldn’t be heard were coming from.

Eventually, someone emerged from the gas. Although he couldn’t see the face because of the gas mask, Lewellyn could tell who the ‘someone’ was. That shadow. He couldn’t help but recognize that shadow he had seen since the time when Lewellyn wasn’t Lewellyn.

Through his scattering consciousness, the shadow of the nightmare penetrated. It was pitch black.

John Pharrell kicked the dog lightly with his foot. He wondered if the dog might be able to move. But the dog just stared blankly at the air, unable to move at all. He had been worried because the concentration of the sleeping gas was much lower than what they used in the penitentiary, but fortunately, the effect wasn’t too bad. Well, if it had been, he wouldn’t have been able to leisurely examine the dog like this.

Pharrell crouched down in front of the dog and picked up the flowers. The red flowers were drooping lifelessly. It was obvious who they were meant for without even looking. That dickhead. The one without memories.

What’s the name he is using here again? Brick? Brook? According to what the young man named Nox said, it was a pronunciation of that sort, but he wasn’t sure. It would have been good if he had heard more accurately, but before he could urge him to repeat it, Nox had fainted. Even when slapped on the cheek and doused with cold water, Nox would only wake up momentarily before losing consciousness again.

Well, in a way, it was understandable. How could that young man, who seemed to be barely twenty, be used to being interrogated? Especially when the interrogation was being done with a gun pressed against his head.

Nevertheless, Nox was useful. The dickhead lived on Grisby Street, and the guess that he didn’t seem to be living alone given that he tried to return home before 10 PM no matter what – that was all he revealed each time he briefly regained consciousness, but it was enough to find this house. There were only twelve houses in Grisby Street that had new residents in the past two weeks, and among them, only this one house had two men living together.

Pharrell examined the flowers. The stem was twisted at a strange angle, probably bent when it fell. Fawkes had said that the dog and the dickhead were in a special relationship. A special relationship. In Pharrell’s terms, it meant they were ‘playing with their own kind’.

Pharrell was quite curious whether the dickhead would accept the flowers even if he knew his lover was a dog. Could he live together knowing that? Could he hug, kiss, and have sex like he had been doing until now?

He won’t. Pharrell was certain. He will reject it. He won’t accept the flowers, he’ll kick it out of the house, he’ll push away the hugs, turn away from the kisses, and refuse the sex. He might even commit suicide. Well, it might be better to die quickly rather than living with the shame of having been fucked by a dog.

The thought had just crossed Pharrell’s mind when something suddenly caught his eye. There was something inside the dog’s sleeve cuff. There was something black. It was only after lifting the sleeve cuff that Pharrell could confirm what it was. It was a wristwatch.

It seemed vaguely familiar somehow. As Pharrell stared intently at the watch, he realized after a moment that it was the same watch the idiot had given to the dog eight years ago. Due to the dog’s habit of wearing it every single day after the dickhead’s departure, Pharrell had become used to seeing it. The dog was so attached to the watch that even when asked to take it off, it refused to do so without fail. Pharrell knew the dog was attached to the watch, but he had not realized the dog would still be wearing it even while living with him now. Pharrell removed the watch the dog was wearing. He judged that a memento was unnecessary for the one who would be erased from this world in just twelve hours.

At that moment, it seemed to move, and then suddenly the dog pounced on Pharrell. Pharrell’s body, crouched, toppled backward.

With a thud, the dog jumped on top of Pharrell the moment his head hit the floor. By the time Pharrell tried to shake it off, the dog’s sharp teeth had already bitten his ear.

A scream split the air. The pain that felt like being cut with a knife, the pain that felt like being hit by a mortar, tore through his ear. Pharrell flailed his limbs haphazardly, but the dog didn’t budge an inch. It clung on stubbornly even as it was hit. Pharrell hastily groped for his belt, searching for the gas sprayer.

It was an item that should not be used in the civilian areas, but Pharrell didn’t care. Well, he was about to lose his ear, so he hardly cared for that dumb principle. When he pulled the trigger, a dense gas gushed out of the sprayer nozzle.

The strength drained from the teeth that had been biting his ear. The two hands that had been crushing Pharrell’s skull fell limply. With a thud, the dog’s body collapsed.

Pharrell only briefly looked down at it. Belatedly, he was jolted awake by the sensation of something warm and sticky running down his ear. His ear. He had to check if his ear was still intact. Pharrell quickly stepped in front of the mirror.

Good news always comes accompanied by bad news. Of course, this was no exception. The good news that had come now was that Pharrell’s ear was still attached to him, and the bad news was that the earlobe was dangling as if it would fall off any moment.

The wound was deep. Even if the best surgeon in Bunch operated, he could not avoid the scar. The one who was to become the king’s right hand had an unevenly stitched ear. Pharrell couldn’t even imagine how many people would be wagging their tongues, despising him.

What were the chances that he wouldn’t get the derogatory nickname ‘Lopsided Ears’? Ten percent? Five percent? In a situation where even the king was called a blue-eyed rabbit, there was no way he could avoid having a derogatory nickname. His teeth clenched involuntarily. As if not dying quietly wasn’t enough, now he had to give me this defect as well. This dog seems hell-bent on being erased from this world as soon as possible.

At least it was fortunate that, thanks to wearing a gas mask, his face had not been bitten. If his face had been bitten, he wouldn’t have been able to treat it himself, and would have had to go to the hospital. After finishing treating his ear, Pharrell returned to the dog.

He had thought the dog would have lost consciousness by now, but the dog was still staring at Pharrell with its eyes bloodshot red. As if to bite him again if he approached, it bared its teeth fiercely. It seemed the dog’s body was paralyzed, but its consciousness was still intact.

Pharrell’s face ended up looking as if bugs had bitten him. He had thought the low concentration gas wasn’t too bad, but that seems to be a mistake after all. The high concentration gas used in the penitentiary would anesthetize a dog in the blink of an eye, but the low concentration couldn’t do that.

Damn it. If only there hadn’t been an order not to use high concentrations in civilian areas, this kind of accident wouldn’t have happened. He had an urge to retaliate, but held back. If he approached it carelessly and got attacked, it wouldn’t end with just a tattered ear.

He put the dog in the sack he had prepared. He put its feet in first, as putting the head in first could result in being bitten. Feet, legs, waist, belly, chest, shoulders, head – in that order it went into the sack, but because the dog kept squirming relentlessly in what he thought was resistance, it wasn’t easy to tie the sack.

Will it quiet down if I hit the sack with a hammer? A hot rage rose as if he could kill the dog right away, but he forcibly suppressed it. It was because of the royal order to send the dog off with respect.

If it had been an order from the queen, he would have laughed. He would have even been willing to sneer, saying that he was the one being sent off while trying to honor the dog. If it had been the prince’s order, he would have been serious. He would have even been willing to warn that His Highness was bringing trouble upon himself by being obsessed with such troublesome principles.

However, that order was personally given by the king. Pharrell dared not object. As long as he aspired to be the king’s right hand, even if ordered to type without hands or run without feet, Pharrell had to accomplish such preposterous tasks.

By the time he tied the sack, the dog had already quieted down. It seemed to have given up resisting. Or maybe it lost consciousness from the accumulated sleeping gas it inhaled. Of course, Pharrell didn’t peek inside the sack. He had no desire to mess around with the unreliable sleeping gas and suffer the consequences. Checking the dog’s condition could wait until he had a high concentration of gas.

He drew back the curtains and opened the window about a finger’s width. This technique lets the sleeping gas escape without being noticed by civilians.

Pharrell dragged out the sack. Thanks to having dealt with the guard in advance, no one particularly noticed Pharrell. He did encounter someone presumed to be a resident of the apartment building while leaving the yard, but they merely glanced down at Pharrell and the sack he was dragging without showing any reaction.

Having safely escaped the building, Pharrell soon approached the waiting carriage. Two horses, a plain body without any coat of arms… it was a carriage so common that you could see more than thirty of them if you went out on the street.

After loading the sack onto the passenger seat, he sat in the driver’s seat and grasped the reins. The firm sensation of the leather reins wrapped around his hands. It was already deep into the night. The sound of the carriage running began to echo through the thick darkness.

***

Suddenly, Shavonne opened his eyes.

The first thing he saw was a gas lamp. An incandescent gas lamp hanging from the ceiling was illuminating the room. The walls painted entirely white and the floor with white tiles reflected the gas lamp light, shining dazzlingly.

Where am I? Shavonne, who was about to look around with a frown, suddenly realized that moving felt uncomfortable. His body was tied to a chair. It was a chair with a backrest, and behind the backrest, both wrists were tied around, and the chest, waist, thighs, and ankles were also tied in the same way, so he couldn’t move at all.

Kidnapped. As that word came to mind, the forgotten memories instantly came to light. Evening, an empty dock, a cloth pressing down on the nose, the acrid smell that invaded the nostrils. Shavonne’s face turned pale. He had heard that accidents were common at the docks, but he didn’t know that ‘accidents’ included kidnapping.

He twisted his wrists all he could, but the rope didn’t budge. Far from loosening, it only tightened around his wrists with even stronger force. Although blood was drawn from the skin rubbed by the rough surface, Shavonne didn’t give up. He was desperate, as if the rope would loosen if his rubbed wrists became covered in blood. Shavonne’s movement stopped the next moment when a voice was heard from behind.

“Already awake? Interesting. It’s three hours earlier than expected.”

It was a familiar voice. It was a voice that kept coming to mind even after leaving for Grisby Street to hide. It was a voice that couldn’t be shaken off even when trying to by overworking his body with the hard labor at the dock. Fawkes. That name squirmed in his mind like a worm.

Why did Fawkes kidnap him? Was it because he felt offended after Shavonne put an end to their relationship? Did he want to make him pay for causing such displeasure? But if it was truly because of anger, he should have done so on the day their friendship ended. After all, anger is most intense when it first flares up.

Moreover, that night no one was passing by due to the incessant snowfall. There couldn’t have been a better night to attack him. Whether to strike Shavonne’s head, who was saying to never see each other again, with a weapon, or to grab the back of Shavonne’s head as he turned to leave and drag him away, it would have been much safer than coming all the way to Grisby Harbor to catch him.

So it can’t be because of Fawkes’ personal anger that he decided to kidnap me. Then why?

As if answering the question, someone’s face quickly flashed through his mind. Shavonne bit his lip tightly. A dry voice leaked between his lips.

“Did your partner tell you to do this?”

“Partner? Who?”

Shavonne barely suppressed the urge to shout ‘don’t pretend not to know’ and answered.

“I mean Owen Turner.”

Just as Fawkes had paid Turner to monitor Shavonne, Turner must have paid Fawkes to kidnap Shavonne. The purpose is obvious. He’s trying to get revenge. He probably wants to beat Shavonne, castrate him, and break his fingers. Maybe he’s even trying to lure Lewellyn by using a bleeding Shavonne as a hostage. Turner was the kind of person who would do that and more.

It was Fawkes who poured cold water on his increasing theories.

“Well, if that idiot were alive, he might have.”

Does that mean…

“He’s dead?”

Fawkes nodded. Shavonne hesitated before asking.

“…Was it suicide?”

Lewellyn said he didn’t kill Turner. He only said he pushed him into a situation painful enough to die. Did Turner take his own life because of that?

Even so, of course, he had no intention to express condolences. Shavonne wasn’t kind enough to feel sorry for the death of someone who had deceived him, used him, and even tried to rape him. Shavonne just wanted to know the truth. It was the only courtesy Shavonne could show to someone who had deceived him, used him, and even tried to rape him in life.

“No,” Fawkes answered. Shavonne didn’t understand immediately. If it wasn’t suicide, then it must be murder, but who killed Turner? That fiancée Turner supposedly swindled? Or that fiancée’s family? Or someone else who held a grudge against Turner?

Or…

Shavonne’s gaze stopped abruptly on Fawkes’ face as he was continuing his thought.

Fawkes wore an expression as if he had no interest in whether Turner’s death was suicide or murder. That insensitive expression. An expression where not even a shred of curiosity, let alone condolences, could be found.

A dry swallow went down the back of his throat. No way, no way…

Fawkes wasn’t the forgiving type, especially when Turner betrayed him and revealed how he had been paid. Is he moral enough not to commit murder? That’s not it either. You could tell just by how he kidnapped Shavonne without hesitation. If kidnapping is okay, why wouldn’t murder be? How he said he was dead, the term ‘idiot’, the insensitive expression enough to make anyone looking at him feel chilled…

He knows it’s a logical leap. He knows, but… every sense in his body was screaming instead of ‘no way’, that his suspicion was correct. Shavonne’s lips tightened. Even if he tried to loosen them for fear they might be noticed, they just wouldn’t loosen.

It was at that moment. Fawkes opened his mouth.

“Why? Does it make you uncomfortable to be with a murderer when you sleep with one?”

His back turned cold.

What he had been worried about was becoming reality. Murderer. That word was evidence that Fawkes was aware of Lewellyn’s existence.

Has Fawkes reported Lewellyn? If he did, when would the investigation start? No, maybe it has already started. While a report from someone with a low social status like Shavonne might be ignored, if someone with a high social status like Fawkes reported it, the police would start to move without a moment’s delay.

Anxiety crept up his throat. Murder, especially serial murder, is unconditionally punishable by death. There were various methods of execution such as hanging, beheading, electric chair, but for the past 20 years, only shooting has been carried out due to human rights issues.

But Lewellyn was unlikely to be executed by shooting. The Ira serial murder case was an incident that turned public sentiment away from the royal family. Public opinion wasn’t very good because the serial killer was walking the streets openly, but the royal family, far from catching the serial killer, was putting writers who mocked the king as a ‘blue-eyed bunny’ in prison.

To appease public opinion, it was necessary to carry out as harsh a punishment as possible. A ‘gentle’ punishment like shooting was far from enough, and it needed to be at least at the level of hanging, beheading, or the electric chair.

If Lewellyn is executed…

His chest was burning. It felt like all the organs beneath his ribs were on fire. Was I ten years old, or nine? The scene of a hanging that he accidentally witnessed while running an errand for the orphanage director vividly came back to life before his eyes.

I don’t remember if the condemned was a man or a woman. I don’t remember if they were young or old. I don’t remember if the crime was insulting the royal family, or rape, arson, and murder. There’s only one thing I remember. The corpse of the condemned person, hanging with their limbs dangling. And those eyes. Those eyes that were no longer looking at this world.

“What do you mean by murderer?”

Shavonne swallowed the saliva he had gathered, trying not to show it. His throat was dry.

“You’ve planted so many people around me that you can’t even remember who I’ve been with? I’m sorry, Fawkes, but the people I’ve slept with were a typist, a horseman, a chimney sweep, a typesetter, and an osteopath. I’ve never slept with a murderer.”

“Your acting has improved. If I didn’t know you, I would have been completely fooled.”

Shavonne just bit his lower lip tightly at the nonchalant response. Fawkes knew that Lewellyn was a serial killer. It wasn’t that he was doubting, or unsure. He wasn’t believing it either. He ‘knew’ it. No matter how naturally Shavonne tried to deny it, it was only obvious that Fawkes wouldn’t be fooled.

Here, tied to this chair and unable to move even a step, what could Shavonne possibly do? What could he do to save Lewellyn, just as Lewellyn had saved Shavonne?

There was no way out anymore. There was nothing he could do except say words that wouldn’t work.

“…Leave Lewellyn alone.”

Shavonne opened his mouth. His voice came out cracked, barely squeezed out.

“This is between you and me. Don’t drag an innocent person into this.”

“‘Innocent person’?”

Fawkes asked back. His voice, which had been subdued all along, suddenly rose. What the? Did I say something wrong? Before he could grasp the situation, Fawkes spoke first.

“This is a matter between us and him. The one who’s unfortunately caught up in this is none other than you.”

For a moment, Shavonne blinked, wondering if he had heard wrong. But no. Fawkes had definitely said ‘a matter between us and him’.

A matter between us and him?

It was a short phrase, but it contained numerous questions. Who is ‘us’, and what problem is there between Fawkes and Lewellyn? ‘A matter’ implied knowing of the other’s existence. After all, you can’t have a problem with someone whose existence you don’t even know. Whether it’s one-sided knowledge or mutual, there was no doubt that Fawkes knew about Lewellyn.

But how does he know?

Are they family? Or relatives? Or maybe from the same hometown? But it wasn’t the tone one would use for family, relatives, or hometown acquaintances… I don’t know. My head feels foggy, as if covered in mist.

Of course, Shavonne didn’t need to know everything. Just as Lewellyn didn’t know everything about Shavonne, it was natural that Shavonne didn’t know everything about Lewellyn. But this one thing, he had to know. This one thing, he had to.

“…Are you going to harm Lewellyn?”

The asking voice was hoarse. Shavonne looked up at Fawkes with bloodshot eyes. Hoping Fawkes would say no. Wishing he would shake his head.

The only important thing was Lewellyn’s safety. In front of that, questions about who ‘us’ was, what problem there was, how they knew Lewellyn, were just trivial curiosities.

But Fawkes didn’t say no. He didn’t shake his head. He just said the following with an expressionless face:

“We’re just taking care of what needs to be taken care of.”

Take care of… Those words made his mind go blank. The ‘taking care of’ Fawkes was talking about couldn’t be something as childish as a fistfight. Maybe it meant cutting the tendons in his body and selling him as an illegal slave. Maybe it meant cutting off his limbs, making him disabled, and throwing him out on the street. And maybe, just maybe…

His jaw trembled involuntarily. Even though he was tied up and couldn’t move, he could feel himself shaking. If Lewellyn could no longer be with Shavonne. If Lewellyn could no longer love Shavonne, and could no longer receive Shavonne’s love.

If… Lewellyn dies like that.

If that happens, Shavonne would…

“You don’t look well.”

Suddenly, a voice fell from above. When he looked up, he saw the gaze. A gaze that was neither sad nor happy, neither moved nor calm, neither ignoring nor respecting Shavonne. It was a gaze that only someone in an absolute superior position, no, someone who knew exactly that they were in an absolute superior position, could make.

Absolute superiority and absolute inferiority. It was a familiar relationship. In the orphanage, it was between the director and the orphans, in the publishing house, it was between the client and the contractor, in the apartment, it was between the manager and the tenant who was always late with rent.

It’s just that this time, it had changed to kidnapper and kidnap victim. Trying to climb up recklessly would only result in getting pushed down. It was wise to stay still. Staying still was what made the orphanage feed him, the publishing house give him work, and the apartment not kick him out. Even now, if he stays still, he might be able to save his life. Unlike what often happens with kidnapped people, he might not die.

But what about Lewellyn?

Fawkes said it wasn’t a problem between him and Shavonne. He said it was a problem between them and Lewellyn. That meant that whatever Shavonne did was irrelevant to Lewellyn. In other words, it meant that Lewellyn wouldn’t not die just because Shavonne stayed still now.

Is there a reason to live if Lewellyn dies? When he asked himself, the answer came without hesitation. It was ‘no’. A love where neither has a reason to live without the other. The time when he thought this was nothing more than a simple romance felt like a distant past.

If Lewellyn died, Shavonne would die too. The only difference relied on whether he died immediately or in pain. If he was going to die anyway, he didn’t want to hold back. He didn’t want to try to put on a face because of fear.

If he wanted to sneer, he’d sneer, if he wanted to smirk, he’d smirk, if he wanted to provoke, he’d provoke. He had never done it even once in his life, so he wanted to do as he pleased for this one day. Especially because this might be Shavonne’s last ‘today’.

“Is your head just for decoration? Think about it. How could my face look good when I’m tied up, unable to move, and I’ve even heard that my lover will be killed?”

“That’s because you don’t know the true nature of your lover.”

Shavonne frowned, not understanding. True nature? Is there something more than being a murderer? While he was thinking, Fawkes moved to the table where the whiskey was placed.

Shavonne was puzzled. Was Fawkes a drinker? Thinking back over 8 years of memories, he couldn’t recall Fawkes drinking. He only remembered Fawkes firmly refusing glasses of alcohol, saying he didn’t want to fuzz his mind with alcohol.

Come to think of it, Fawkes always only drank tea. Instead of a wine cellar that mansions usually have, Fawkes’ mansion only had a tea cellar.

But now?

Fawkes emptied the glass in one gulp. Suddenly, it caught his eye that Fawkes’ hand was trembling. It was trembling very slightly, to the extent that you wouldn’t notice unless you looked closely.

A person who used to refuse alcohol saying ‘I don’t want to fuzz my mind with alcohol’ is now drinking. Translated, it meant he was drinking ‘because he wants to fuzz his mind with alcohol’.

Fawkes was shaken.

Unexpected words flowed out just as he was thinking this.

“Do you know about his abnormal condition?”

He couldn’t not know. Didn’t he almost kill him by giving sleeping pills without knowing that Lewellyn had an abnormal condition? Shavonne nodded in affirmation. A question was asked immediately.

“How much do you know?”

There wasn’t much to say about how much. Overall or partial pigment deficiency, cold sensitivity, abnormal hypersensitivity to drugs. Those things he had read in the newspaper were all Shavonne knew. But he couldn’t just say it straight out. He couldn’t show all his cards to the enemy.

“I know as much as I know.”

“‘As much as you know’?”

Fawkes asked back. Was it an illusion, or did that voice seem to have a hint of laughter in it? It wasn’t a laugh of joy, but one that seemed forced.

“Then do you know that one out of a thousand people with abnormal conditions is a mutant? That they are bred for special purposes?”

It would have been better if he were slow on the uptake. Then he might not have understood what Fawkes was trying to say. But such luck, as always, did not follow Shavonne. Abnormal constitution, mutant, bred for special purposes… The words danced in his head. His heart pounded. It fluttered as if it was about to burst out of his ribs, making a thump-thump sound.

“We call them dogs. We don’t give them separate names. When we need to distinguish them, we call them the first dog, the second dog, and so on.”

“…”

“The one you call Lewellyn is the seventh dog.”

His stomach churned, then settled, then churned again. A sense of unreality washed over him. His five senses became hazy as if dreaming. He felt like he was floating. The raging thoughts in his head and the pounding heart didn’t feel like his own.

“It’s not that there weren’t problems with any of the dogs, but the seventh dog was particularly troublesome. It couldn’t be controlled. It would have been one thing if it was just towards other people, but it was like that even towards its master. We hoped it would learn to obey as it grew older, but the results were not good. No, they were disastrous. When it was a pup, all it did was bare its teeth and growl, but after it grew up, it bit people nearly every day. We cleared away corpses daily. It was to the point where it was considered a miracle to come out alive after entering the kennel.”

“…”

“The government couldn’t help but be skeptical. What the government wanted was a dog loyal enough to die without hesitation if its master ordered it to die, but the seventh dog not only lacked loyalty, it couldn’t even be controlled. Opinions clashed between those who said it should be disposed of as soon as possible and those who said we should keep watching it, if only for the sake of the budget that had been invested so far. At first, the opinions were evenly split, but as the days of the dog attacking people grew longer, the opinion that it should be disposed of gained weight.”

“…”

He tilted the whiskey bottle as he spoke. Though there was a distance of several steps, it wasn’t so far that one couldn’t see the hand holding the bottle. Perhaps he was gripping it too tightly. His knuckles were so white that the tendons seemed to stand out.

“That’s when a strange thing happened.”

As the glass filled, Fawkes straightened the bottle he had been tilting. It was at that moment. The last drop of alcohol remaining on the bottle’s mouth fell. With a plop, ripples began to form in layers inside the glass.

“The dog that would attack anyone, whether man or woman, old or young, wouldn’t do so to just one person.”

With each layer, a voice came to mind. One layer for the seventh dog, two layers for the kennel, three layers for the one person. And the fourth layer…

“To you.”

‘You.’

All the ripples stopped.

And the next moment, a terrible tsunami that would sweep everything away, or perhaps had already swept everything away, crashed into Shavonne’s world.

All ripples are like that. They rise when they collide, seem to rise and then disperse, seem to disperse and then disappear. Shavonne usually didn’t try hard to suppress the ripples. It was a natural thing. Time would resolve it. If left alone, it would disappear on its own.

At least until now, that had been the case.

“What did you just say?”

For the first time, he realized. The fact that ripples could spread endlessly and take over one’s body. The fact that they could make one sway so much that they couldn’t stand straight and tremble so much that they couldn’t even sit down. It was no longer a ripple. It was a massive tsunami.

His raging mind and pounding heart calmed down. The floating, dreamy sensation disappeared. All that remained were the waves. Thousands and tens of thousands of waves were everywhere. Reason and emotion, consciousness and unconsciousness, mind and heart. No place was an exception.

“Do you remember working at Lute Penitentiary?”

For a moment, he wondered if he had heard wrong, but it was only for a moment. Shavonne’s hearing wasn’t that bad. His mind wasn’t clear either, but it wasn’t so foggy that he’d have trouble understanding him.

He had heard him perfectly. Fawkes had said Lute Penitentiary. With such precise pronunciation that it was impossible to mishear. His body stiffened like a drowned corpse. It felt as if his bones and flesh were wrapped in water so cold that he might faint if touched, frozen solid just like that.

“No, let me correct that,” Fawkes amended. “To be precise, I should ask if you remember ‘going to work’ there. Because no matter how much I ask, you won’t remember ‘having worked’ there.”

Did he remember going to work at Lute Penitentiary? The answer would be ‘yes’. Although he only had one memory, it was a memory nonetheless.

Shavonne remembered applying after seeing a job posting for a guard nine years ago in winter. The problem was that he had no other memories besides that. He had no memory of going to Lute Penitentiary, no memory of meeting anyone there, no memory of working there. All memories spent at Lute Penitentiary had disappeared.

No, to be precise, it would be more accurate to say they were ‘cut off’. His memories ended with applying after seeing the job posting for a guard in November nine years ago, and then resumed with him being penniless and wandering the streets in January eight years ago.

People called Shavonne a lunatic. Their argument was that even though his behavior was normal, there was no problem in calling him a lunatic since he had no memories.

Shavonne met Fawkes in August of that year, during the period when he was being called a lunatic. That time he didn’t bring up the story of Lute Penitentiary because he didn’t want to be called a lunatic. No, he was downright avoiding it.

Shavonne would leave the place if someone was about to mention the name Lute, and he would keep his mouth tightly shut if someone asked if there was anyone who had worked as a guard. Since Shavonne hadn’t told him, there was no way Fawkes could have known that Shavonne had worked at Lute Penitentiary. It should have been like that.

However, Fawkes knew. Not only that, he even knew that Shavonne had no memories.

What does that mean?

Even when he asked himself, there was no answer. He thought that the truth would become clearer the more he knew, but it seemed that he had been mistaken. The more he knew, the more ambiguous everything became.

It felt like something was being pushed up under his throat. The problem was that right now, Shavonne didn’t even know if it was a knife, scissors, saw, or hammer.

Idiot. Fool. A dimwit wearing his head just for decoration. Shavonne cursed himself like that. To be precise, his own stupidity. He deserved to be cursed. There was no one more foolish than a person who couldn’t even figure out the nature of the danger when it was approaching.

Like the mythological snake that grows two heads in place of one when it’s cut off, solving one question made several more grow in its place. No matter how much he racked his brain, everything was at a standstill.

“When you met the dog there, you were a guard in training. Of course, you were called a guard in training in name only, but in reality, you were no different from a slave. You had to do as you were told. If they needed an errand boy, you had to do it without a word, and if they needed someone to talk to, you had to listen quietly even to stories no one wanted to hear. You even had to stay still like a sandbag if someone wanted to hit something.”

“…”

“That’s why you became disliked.”

“…”

“How would you feel? If someone could freely interact with the dog without any worry while you couldn’t even come near for fear of being attacked. Not only that, but also the fact that they weren’t someone with power like the warden or vice warden, but a guard in training who was treated as a slave.”

“…”

“No one liked you. When someone found out about your night wanderings, it was perhaps natural that they tipped off the higher-ups.”

“…”

“The word was passed from the chief officer to the correctional officer, to the senior correctional officer. Eventually, it reached the vice warden’s ears. As far as I know, the vice warden wasn’t much of a gentleman, but he wasn’t enough of a ruffian to assault someone he had just met. That day was different, though. I heard he beat you for a full five hours. With his own hands, without borrowing the hands of his subordinates. The vice warden said he would throw you out as soon as dawn broke. If the warden hadn’t stepped in to protect you, that’s probably what would have happened.”

“…”

“The warden already knew that you were in contact with the dog. He had been turning a blind eye. When other guards felt a strange sense of inferiority seeing that the dog didn’t attack you, the warden was weighing the possibility of using you.”

“…”

“The warden thought you were suitable as a trainer. Your role was to teach the dog how to communicate with humans. Furthermore, if you could teach loyalty and absolute obedience, that would be even better. The condition the warden offered in his proposal was everything you needed. He said he would give you a family. He could even give you friends or a lover if you wanted. Oh, and of course, he didn’t forget to add enough money for you to live comfortably for the rest of your life. You hesitated and then asked for a week’s time. You said you would bring an answer within a week.”

“…”

“But you know what’s funny?”

“…”

“That very night, the same night you asked for a week’s time, you tried to sneak out of the detention center. You never had any intention of becoming a trainer in the first place. What did you say? That you didn’t want to exploit people’s feelings.” He added, “It’s ridiculous. It’s not even a ‘person’.”

“…”

“The warden doesn’t like being deceived. Well, who likes being deceived? But he particularly hates it. As soon as you were caught, the warden told you to choose between dying or becoming a trainer.”

“…”

“In the end, you ended up entering the kennel where the dog was. Well, it was the obvious choice. Anyone in their right mind wouldn’t throw away their lives because of a mere dog.”

“…”

“The problem arose from an unexpected place. Your mind started to waver. Not like that was completely unreasonable. Whether it was because you were forcibly brought into the kennel,, or because you had to exploit a ‘person’s’ feelings to survive, or for some other reason, the fact was that you were under extreme stress.”

“…”

“As you know, a mentally ill person can’t perform such a crucial task.”

“…”

“You were expelled just like that. The initial plan was to kill you, but the permission didn’t come through. It was because you fell into the civilian category as a guard in training. In the end, all we could do was throw you out onto the streets.”

“…”

“Of course, you weren’t entirely useless. The dog did become docile in the end. It wasn’t something you did, but something we achieved by using your life as collateral. Still, it wouldn’t have been possible without you.”

“…”

“Everything was perfect. At least until last winter.”

“…”

“Last winter, just before the disposal—for political reasons—the dog disappeared. Or more accurately, it ran away.”

“…”

“…It went to find you.”

Shavonne’s eyes stopped.

“It was unexpected. I wouldn’t have done that. No, nobody would have. Would you go looking for someone you knew for just about three months, almost 10 years ago, just because you had nowhere else to go?”

As he lifted his head, he could see Fawkes’ Adam’s apple moving. It was a violent movement as if it would burst through the flesh. But only for a moment. It didn’t take long for Fawkes to compose his voice.

“And that’s all. It took longer than expected, but everything is falling back into place.”

“Back into place?” The question popped out involuntarily before he realized it. His voice was hoarse and cracked from not speaking for so long. “I really don’t understand. What exactly do you mean by ‘back into place’?”

Fawkes put down his glass. Clank. The sound of the glass hitting the table rang out loudly.

“You don’t understand?”

Fawkes’ eyes looked directly at Shavonne. They were black eyes.

“It means that by tomorrow morning at the latest, the dog will be disposed of in Lute, and your memories will be erased.”

Words have equivalents. The word ‘memory’ is like that too. Just as the word ‘winter’ corresponds to ‘cold’ and the word ‘water’ corresponds to ‘flows’, the word ‘memory’ corresponds to ‘forgotten’. Erasure, that is, to erase and remove, isn’t an equivalent. Obviously, while you can try to forget memories, you can’t erase and remove them like a record.

So why is Fawkes…

It was then. As if reading Shavonne’s thoughts, Fawkes spoke up at that moment.

“Have you ever thought about why your memories disappeared?”

There’s no way he hadn’t. Why did he lose his memories, why did he become a lunatic, why was he wandering these streets when he should have been working as a guard at Lute Penitentiary? Shavonne spent sleepless nights pondering these questions every day. Looking at case studies, meeting doctors, seeking out amnesia patients… He had been busy without a moment’s rest for a whole month.

Despite all the effort for a month, Shavonne couldn’t find any answers. Not even a single clue. All he got was contempt and pity from people, disgusted glances, and a broken body.

Finding the answer doesn’t immediately solve the problem. It doesn’t bring back memories, doesn’t cure mental illness, doesn’t provide enough money to leave the streets. It doesn’t erase the humiliation felt when receiving contemptuous, pitying, and disgusted looks, nor does it heal a broken body.

That’s why. That’s why Shavonne had no choice but to give up on finding the answer.

For a moment, he wondered that if he had known he would end up like this, he might not have given up so easily back then.

“Your memories were erased.”

It felt like something frozen, like the polar sea, was pouring over his bones. Shavonne knew what it was. He knew what it was before it became the sea, before it was a huge tsunami, before it was a low wave, before it was a tiny ripple, and before it was all of those things, when it was just a single drop of water. Truth.

“Did I ever tell you what kind of doctor I am?”

He did. He remembered clearly the face that answered he practiced medicine when asked what he did for a living. He also recalled mentioning opening a hospital under his name on Rewood Street. Since we talked about it in our first meeting, that must be a memory from 8 years ago… Shavonne’s expression hardened as he thought about it absentmindedly.

Right. It might have been the first meeting for the memoryless Shavonne, but not necessarily for Fawkes. Realizing this, his voice naturally became rusty. Like iron corroded by seawater.

“Are you asking because you don’t know? Didn’t you say with your own mouth that you were a doctor?”

“Ah, yes. I am a doctor indeed.”

It was a strange answer. Before there was time to say anything, he added,

“I’m a hypnotist.”

“…”

A stench rose and fell in his throat. Silence wetted his tongue.

“I was the one who erased your memories before expelling you.”

A stench so strong he could barely breathe ran through his entire body, through his blood. The sea swayed before his dizzy eyes. Waves breaking with white foam, the surface, and deep below, a drowned corpse turned to wax.

“Why…”

Shavonne opened his mouth.

“Why are you telling me this?”

It was a story that didn’t need to be told. At least as long as Fawkes wasn’t the type of person who gained pleasure from telling things he knew that others didn’t. Or well, he could be someone who feels pleasure watching Shavonne’s reaction upon learning the truth, or someone who feels superior teaching something he knows to someone who knows nothing, but anyway.

“Don’t get me wrong. Despite how I may look, I’m not someone who’s desperate to run my mouth without reason.”

Fawkes said.

“This was just a strategy to break your hypnosis as quickly as possible.” He immediately added. “Think of it as putting together a puzzle. There’s a world of difference in speed between assembling a puzzle knowing the big picture and doing it without knowing. Hypnosis is the same. The more you know about the circumstances before and after, the faster it breaks.”

His stomach churned. That came before understanding words like hypnosis. The stench that had subsided was climbing a steep ridge again. Unlike earlier when it was quiet, this time it was repeating a mad rise and fall like waves on a stormy day. He felt dizzy. It felt like he would be plunged into the sea at any moment.

Why? He managed to open his mouth and ask. He wanted to ask a whole question like ‘Why are you trying to break the hypnosis?’ rather than just an interrogative like ‘Why?’, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. With each syllable he spat out, his stomach churned as if he might vomit up the stench at any moment.

“It’s to put you under a new hypnosis.”

New hypnosis. The words went over his head. He heard them but couldn’t understand what they meant. He knew the word ‘new’ and he knew the word ‘hypnosis’, but he couldn’t understand what they meant together.

Did his body realize something? Independently of his head, the muscles around his eyes started to twitch. It was such a subtle spasm that only he would know it was happening, and he thought it would be easy to control, but it wasn’t. No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t control it.

“I could put you under a new hypnosis without breaking the old one, but double hypnosis isn’t very effective. And I don’t want my hypnosis to be ruined. Especially not one on this large a scale.”

“…Large scale?”

The spasm moved from his eyes to his tongue. A tremor was evident in each word he spoke.

“Yes, large scale.” Fawkes’ gaze lowered slightly and then rose again. It was a black gaze. “If the previous hypnosis was limited to erasing 3 months of memories from Lute, this hypnosis will erase a lifetime of memories, so it’s appropriate to call it that.”

The world was submerged in water. Or perhaps water was submerging into the world.

“You’ll forget everything. Me, the seventh dog, even yourself. Even this conversation I’m having with you now.”

Why is this happening? If Lewellyn were here in front of him, that’s what he’d want to ask. Why is this happening? Why is this happening, Lewellyn?

“This is how it should have been from the beginning. If we couldn’t kill you, we should have erased not just part of your memories, but all of them.”

Why is it so cold,

“Then there would have been no more troubles.”

Why is it so sad,

“…I wouldn’t have had to dream of suicide every day.”

Why does it have to be so painful?

“You’ll live as a servant of the Hinze family. Hinze is known for treating employees harshly. He’s famous for torturing employees without hesitation if he thinks they’re not obeying. In other words, you won’t be able to cause any more trouble.”

He thought that maybe he was being punished for committing a sin. For daring to be born when even the mother who gave birth to him didn’t love him. For daring to not even have a friendly personality despite having no money, no talent, and no way with words to charm people, despite being an orphan with nothing. For daring to want to be happy. For daring to have someone he wanted to be with, for daring to love, for daring to want to protect…

Countless sins floated through his mind. But, but you know. Couldn’t it be that anyone, if they’re human, might forget their place sometimes?

So why Shavonne…

“But don’t worry too much. Your life will be much better than now. You’ll have family, friends, and a lover. They’re all experienced actors, so there won’t be any mistakes.”

Was it because he was unlucky? Because Shavonne was born with bad luck, and therefore unfortunately failed to become human? Yes, that could be it. Maybe Shavonne is something that looks like a human but isn’t actually human. Like a doll, or a mold, or a model, or something like that.

If Lewellyn were here in front of him, this time he’d want to ask like this. Why? Lewellyn, why did I have to be so unlucky?

Why on earth?

“Get ready.”

Suddenly a voice came through. Shavonne opened his eyes wide. Fawkes, who always spoke with clear pronunciation like a public speaker, had his words slightly slurred just now. Alcohol. The presence he had overlooked until now wedged into his mind.

Fawkes had been drinking. Whiskey, at that.

Although he wasn’t shouting at the top of his lungs, vomiting, or crying like typical drunks do, Fawkes was in an intoxicated state. He couldn’t not be. He had emptied half a bottle of whiskey over 40 proof in the blink of an eye, enough to muddle the mind of even the best drinker in Bunch. Let alone Fawkes, who wasn’t accustomed to alcohol.

There are stages to intoxication. Starting from simply feeling good, there are a total of seven stages up to coma. The tongue curling is stage 4. It’s at the same level as having difficulty controlling one’s body. In Fawkes’ case, his tongue was ‘slightly’ curled, so his body control would be ‘slightly’ difficult. It’s easy to subdue a drunk person, after all, their moves would be sluggish. It would have been even more doable if he wasn’t tied up like this, though.

This might be Shavonne’s only chance to take down Fawkes.

He knew that if he failed, it won’t end with just having his memories erased. He’d pay the price for resisting when he should be submissive. If Fawkes is feeling generous, it might end with just broken limbs, but if not… who knows. He couldn’t know whether his eyes would be gouged out, his nose cut off, or his tongue cut out, but in any case, he wouldn’t escape being maimed.

It would be a lie to say he wasn’t afraid. However, there was something he feared more than having his eyes gouged out, his nose cut off, or his tongue cut out, so he hesitated no longer. No, he could no longer hesitate.

“A life with family, friends, and a lover.”

He began. Taking an invisible deep breath, he continued.

“What kind of life is that?”

The purpose of speech is not always communication. In some cases, it can be communication, and in others, it can be disconnection. In some cases, it can be healing, and in others, it can be violence. In some cases, it can be fact-checking, and in others, it can be insinuation. And in cases like this, it’s distraction.

Words are effective at distracting. Especially when it takes the form of a question that requires the other person to actively answer rather than just passively listen. Thanks to this, Fawkes fails to see through Shavonne’s act.

Of course, the fact that Fawkes was drunk also played a big part. If he hadn’t been drunk, he would have seen through not only the act but also the underlying scheme. He had never thought that the lack of concentration the alcohol gave was a good thing (naturally, since he had to repeat the same thing three times when dealing with drunk people), but now his mind had changed.

He discreetly gauged the distance to Fawkes. It’s far. Even taking in mind the usual error in eyeballing distances, it looked like a good ten steps away.

He couldn’t take Fawkes down from this far. It would have been the same even if his body wasn’t bound like now. He needed to close the distance. Since Shavonne, who was tightly bound, couldn’t do that, the only answer was for Fawkes to approach him himself.

The only problem was that this opportunity would happen once – when he approaches Shavonne to put him under hypnosis. If he failed, there wouldn’t be another chance. As soon as he was hypnotized, he’d forget about Fawkes and the plan to take him down.

There was only one chance. When ten steps narrow to three, when the warmth draws near, shadows loom, and the sharp smell of alcohol stings his nose. That’s when Fawkes must be taken down.

He decided not to consider ‘what if I fail’. Shavonne’s only card was hope. There was no choice but to believe.

“It’s a life worthy of a human.”

With the answer, footsteps began to approach. One step, two steps… The sound of shoe soles hitting the floor grew closer.

“It’s a life where you can learn to live through others.”

From ten steps to five, from five to three, Shavonne couldn’t take his eyes off Fawkes’ shoes closing the distance in the blink of an eye. If he looked away, he might miss a movement, and if he missed a movement, variables could arise, and if variables arose, the plan could go awry.

A voice in his head chided him for being overly tense, but it couldn’t be helped. At this moment, tension was Shavonne’s savior. It was his eyes fixed on the target without blinking, his pounding pulse, his tightly clenched muscles, and his heart beating so hard it ached.

“It’s also a life where you can learn to love as much as you’ve been loved, and learn to be loved as much as you love.”

Beads of sweat formed on his eyelashes. It was the cold sweat that often comes with tension. Blink, blink, he deliberately opened and closed his eyes quickly to shake them off, and only then did his vision clear.

That’s when it happened. When the footsteps that had been continuing suddenly stopped.

Warmth. A looming shadow. The sharp smell of alcohol stinging his nose. Along with these, shoes stood just one step away. From afar, he hadn’t noticed, but now he saw they were new. Or perhaps old ones maintained to look new.

Shoes are typically worn for as short as a day or as long as a week, and can get dirty, but these were different. From the upper to the sole, from the shank to everything else, there was a glossy shine. It was at that moment that a certain realization pierced through his mind.

That’s it.

If Fawkes had used a chair, rope, and a cloth soaked in chloroform to subdue Shavonne, what Shavonne would use was the shoes. More precisely, the ‘cleanliness’ of the shoes.

Shavonne opened his mouth.

“Say, what do you have on your shoes?”

Fawkes made two mistakes. The first was carelessly looking down at his shoes at those words. The second was tying Shavonne to a chair that wasn’t high enough.

The basics of restraint dictate that the feet should not touch the ground. If not careful, the restrained person might be able to kick off and jump up, chair and all.

Of course, whether you jump ten centimeters or a hundred centimeters, falling is the same. The only difference is whether you break your nose, crack your forehead, or get a concussion. You might think no one would be foolish enough to do such a thing, but there is. Right here, in fact.

He jumped up with all his might. If it had been just his body, it might have been different, but weighed down by the heavy chair, he barely rose half a span. But it didn’t matter. Shavonne’s goal wasn’t to rise, but to topple over. Fawkes tried to retreat belatedly, but it was too late. By the time he tried to pull away, he was already flattened beneath Shavonne tied to the chair.

Fawkes, who had to bear not only the fall but also the weight of Shavonne toppling over him, seemed dazed. The physical impact was significant enough, but the alcohol in his system made it even more challenging. On the other hand, Shavonne was able to regain his senses quickly, thanks to Fawkes’ body cushioning the impact of the fall.

As soon as his strength returned, Shavonne immediately headbutted Fawkes’ face. With a dull thud, blood splattered in all directions. It was a nosebleed. Seen from a distance, Fawkes’ nose was already a bloody mess. As a bonus, his once straight nose bridge was now grotesquely crumpled.

He wanted to savor the moment, but there was no time. He continued to headbutt until Fawkes’ face was ruined, his cheekbones sunken, eyebrow bones twisted, and a lump forming on his forehead. His forehead stung from the headbutts, but he couldn’t stop. No, he mustn’t stop.

Fawkes, who had been twisting his head to shake off Shavonne, eventually started flailing his arms and legs to try to pull his body out from under him. He seemed to have judged that there was no chance of winning while pinned under Shavonne, who was still tied to the chair.

Shavonne had no intention of letting Fawkes gain the upper hand. However, while Fawkes had sobered up from this ordeal, Shavonne was still tied up. If the fight continued, it was clear who would win.

Then, he had to end it as quickly as possible.

For a moment, he thought he saw something. Something white. Something fluffy. Something gently swaying in a soft flow. By the time he realized it was the fine hair between the eyebrows, an idea had already flashed through his mind.

He slammed his head down hard towards the spot between the eyebrows. At the moment of impact, whether it was a real sound or an illusion, he heard something shatter. The next moment, a numbing pain pierced his ears.

Vital points weren’t just a myth seeing how Fawkes, who hadn’t lost consciousness even when his cheekbones sank, his eyebrow bones twisted, and a lump formed on his forehead, suddenly collapsed in an instant. Shavonne examined Fawkes with a skeptical eye. Just in case, he poked him a few times, but there was no response. There was only silence

Any more stimulation might wake Fawkes up. He retreated without touching him further. Of course, given the nature of the restraints, he had to roll with the chair he was tied to. With a thud, the chair fell to the side. Shavonne, tied to the chair, toppled over with it. His head, hitting the hard floor, felt like it was about to split open.

Rolling, crawling, rolling, crawling. Enduring the pain that felt like his bones were trembling, he reached the table. Carefully, to ensure the bottle didn’t fall towards his head, he knocked over the table. As expected, the bottle shattered, scattering shards everywhere. The fragments were sharp enough to cause deep bleeding if he was careless.

He picked up a shard and cut the rope. Starting with his hands first. He proceeded cautiously, one strand at a time, to avoid cutting himself. Chest, waist, thighs, ankles… The rope came apart surprisingly easily, being unbelievable how it had been restraining his body until now.

As he stood up, his legs wobbled. His muscles ached, suggesting he had been tied up longer than he had thought. Looking around to see if there was anything worth taking, Shavonne spotted a desk with three drawers. Opening the first drawer revealed a collection of business cards. Useless. The second drawer contained some documents, but they were filled with words he didn’t understand, so they were equally useless.

The reward came from the third drawer, which he opened without expectations. There was a gun. Not a fake gun made for play, but a real gun.

Shavonne had never even imagined he would use a gun. Guns were for important people. Not for a ghostwriter who didn’t have a single book in his own name. Not for someone who was so poor that couldn’t even pay the monthly rent for his apartment, let alone worry about where the next meal would come from. Not for Shavonne.

Until now, that’s what he had thought.

According to what Fawkes had said, Lewellyn would die by tomorrow morning at the latest. ‘At the latest.’ That implied that even if he arrived at Lute before morning, Lewellyn might already be dead. But he couldn’t just wait for morning to come. He couldn’t just sit there waiting helplessly for news of Lewellyn’s death to arrive.

Shavonne picked up the gun. Even if he was nobody. Even if he was nothing. Despite all that, he had to go. He had to go and bring back his world.

All Shavonne could do now was try. And pray.

Lewellyn.

Please be alive.

Only the night answered. A night so black that one couldn’t distinguish what was path and what was fall.