Who was the idiot who had crawled into this disillusioning place on his own? For what reason was he standing among these worm-like creatures, wasting time and energy?
Before completing even half a circle, his steps slowed. Then, everyone following Oscar stopped.
Those who had been trailing Oscar halted as well.
Eric von Reihnhardt, seeing an opportunity, approached and called out.
“Your Excellency.”
Oscar’s eyes shifted toward him. The first thing he noticed was the slicked-back hair, stiff with pomade. Then the smile—stretched thin, eager to impress.
Yet only minutes earlier, Oscar had seen that man’s sinister true face.
“You damn bitch!”
The filthy curse, laced with malice, replayed in his mind like an echo. His fist tightened inside his pocket.
Even after such vulgar words had been hurled at her, she had not uttered a single protest. And the state she had been in then—
It was completely different from when he had last seen her.
The first thing he had noticed on her face, full of bewilderment, were her lips, which looked like rags. Torn. Rough. Like fabric worn thin.
Her clothes were disordered. Her hair—
The red ribbon barely clung to the ends. Strands had come loose. Her hair had looked the way it had on the bed the night before.
It had seemed as though she had been running.
Running away.
There had been nothing in that place capable of threatening her. At most, there were only empty shells—creatures currying favor with Sabine, displaying their polished insignificance.
“Meeting you today, Your Excellency, may be the greatest fortune I’ve had all year.”
So, merely this much.
“…Is that so?”
You pathetic thing.
Oscar removed his hand from his pocket and placed it on Eric’s shoulder. Eric von Reihnhardt beamed with visible relief—with a look of gratitude, bustled about.
“Yes, Your Excellency!”
A pathetic creature like you.
Oscar’s hand closed over his shoulder calmly. As he looked at him, another scene rose in his mind.
A waist pressed against a railing overlooking a dizzying drop.
A red ribbon swaying in the air.
That foolish woman, instead of running toward the stairs where he had been ascending, had leaned against a railing where one step backward meant death.
A terrifying force entered Oscar's hand gripping Eric's shoulder.
“…Ugh!”
You, who had clung to me. Who had not let go. Who had kissed my lips.
To be cornered like prey by such a miserable creature.
In that cornered moment, there had been only two paths—falling into the void, or toward Oscar von Reihnhardt.
And Han Seo-ah had chosen the void.
“Your—Your Excellency…”
The face of the worm-like creature contorted in a way that was almost amusing.
Oscar spat out his words coldly.
“Because I was glad to see you.”
“Yes? Ah—yes! I am also glad to see you, Your Excellency!”
Seeing his face, which strained to smile happily despite the pain of his shoulder feeling like it would be crushed, a sneer rose from the depths of his chest.
When Oscar laughed, Eric, and everyone around them, watched his expression and followed suit.
Everyone looked like an idiot ridiculous.
Yet the most laughable one was himself—standing here like this. He had come here because he was worried about the woman.
And he had done nothing. He had simply returned her hand to Abel.
Oscar released Eric’s shoulder, which he had been gripping as if to crush it. Without stepping further into the exhibition hall, he turned back toward the lily arch. Those around him froze at the abrupt movement.
“Brother? Are you leaving already?”
Sabine, regaining her senses, hurried after him. Yet, Oscar walked without slowing, paid no attention to her.
“Then at least tell me which piece you like. I’ll send it to you.”
“Forget it.”
“Don’t do that, okay? If you don’t tell me, I’ll just choose something and send it.”
“……”
“Ah, Brother!”
Sabine complained loudly, but Oscar no longer wished to endure Sabine’s hypocrisy or the nauseating scent saturating the air from this place.
His steps, which had already passed through the lily arch, halted abruptly before an unexpected presence.
“Oscar.”
It was his mother.
Oscar's expression hardened terrifyingly upon seeing her. The change in his expression was immediate and severe.
Sabine, who had been following behind, noticed her mother and let out a bright cry, overtaking him.
“Mother!”
Gathering the heavy fabric of her dress, Sabine hurried forward and slipped naturally into her mother’s arms, acting spoiled.
“Mother, why are you so late? Do you know how long I waited?”
Charlotte pressed a kiss to her daughter’s forehead.
“I’m sorry I’m late, Sabine.”
It was a scene that might have appeared deeply affectionate. Oscar and Charlotte, watching one another over Sabine’s head, met eyes in the air.
He had truly made a grand mistake.
A considerable one. Oscar, who had paused only briefly, was about to move again when another interruption halted him.
“Your Excellency, your hand…”
At Eric von Reihnhardt’s voice, attention shifted.
For reasons unknown to those present, one of the Marquis’s black-gloved hands hung loosely at his side. As eyes gathered, something that had accumulated at the fingertip fell to the floor.
A dull sound.
Blood.
Eric, startled, seeing the blood on his palm, stepped closer to Oscar.
“Your Excellency.”
He had only just noticed the stain on his own shoulder where Oscar had gripped him earlier. Quickly checking his vest and shirtfront, he found no damage on his white shirt. It was not his blood.
“Did you injure your hand?”
The Marquise, still holding her daughter, also looked toward Oscar’s hand.
Oscar did not answer. He simply slid the dangling hand into his pocket.
As the blood disappeared from sight, those who had been staring at it lifted their eyes in near unison and looked at his face.
His features—sometimes capable of boyishness—were now frozen.
Cold.
So cold it seemed that even if pierced, no blood would flow.
There was a detachment about him, as though neither his own blood nor anyone else’s held meaning. A heartlessness that seemed not care emanated from his entire body like a heat haze.
Eric, who had spoken up, immediately flinched back like a frightened turtle, retracting his neck as soon as he saw Oscar's cold expression, and the other nobles similarly stopped asking him about the wound.
Charlotte did not.
She met Oscar’s gaze calmly, wearing a composed expression.
“You came, even though you must be busy, Oscar.”
“……”
“Seeing siblings so close, you cannot imagine how happy your mother is.”
Oscar let out a low laugh at the voice—soft enough to melt whoever listened to it.
“Is that so?”
“Are you leaving?”
“Mother, stop my brother. He’s already leaving.”
“I have matters to attend to.”
The siblings spoke at the same time. Charlotte looked from her son to her daughter.
“Yes, then you must go. Sabine, you understand. Your mother is here instead.”
Oscar shifted his gaze elsewhere. Charlotte, lightly holding Sabine’s arm, began to walk away.
Rustle.
The Marquise approached with elegant steps, passing close to her son without his looking at her.
“Go home safely.”
She whispered it as she brushed by.
At the same moment, Oscar began walking as well.
Three people bound by the name of blood. They passed one another like oil and water, unable to blend.
In the space where mother and daughter had walked, the perfume lingered—a cloying scent that pressed against the temples.
By the time he reached the railing where she had leaned earlier, the perfume had thinned. Only then did Oscar draw a long breath. He stepped closer. And looked down from the railing.
The edge of the railing that had seemed like a cliff when she stood there appeared like a platform for a ruler when he stood upon it.
Simon approached Oscar, who stood at the railing, and reported,
“The carriage carrying the target is heading toward the mansion by way of the outskirts. The backup team is erasing all traces.”
Oscar did not respond.
He descended the stairs.
The suffocating floral scent faded, yet the tightness in his chest remained.
Even after leaving the department store and entering the carriage, the tightness did not ease. Oscar removed his gloves. Blood was still seeping from the wound in his hand. However, he ignored it and opened the window first.
“Cigarette.”
He took the cigarette Simon handed him and placed it between his lips. With hurried fingers, he lit it himself and drew in smoke as though escaping. As the acrid smoke filled his lungs, he felt a slight easing.
“Haa…”
A haze spread through him as he inhaled deeply from the smoke filling his lungs. The filthy sensation that had churned within dulled. Oscar leaned his head against the backrest and smoked as though clinging to life itself. He loosely gripped the towel Simon offered, paying no attention to the bleeding, and finished one cigarette in moments. After finishing one in an instant, he put another in his mouth consecutively.
The way he smoked was frantic.
Desperate.
He was postponing something that kept bubbling up.
Cover it.
His instinct, which had saved him countless times, warned him strongly. He felt a voice telling him not to even try to find out what he needed to cover up.
Do not look.
Do not uncover it.
He closed his eyes instead.
By the time the second cigarette had burned halfway, the carriage entered the Marquis’s mansion grounds. Even with his eyes closed, he could sense the route—which part of the mansion the carriage was passing. It went through the damp forest, up the sloping incline, and finally slowed down, making a sharp turn.
The carriage slowed.
He opened his eyes. Through the square window, the familiar mansion came into view. And the wolves lined in wait.
The carriage stopped. The door opened from outside.
Oscar rose slowly. His body felt heavy.
When he stepped down, the wind struck him. His field of vision expanded upwards, downwards, left, and right.
Above—the black night sky resting over the mansion roof.
Below—the gravel illuminated by the mansion lights.
On either side—the line of wolves and the forest boundary, blurring into the darkness.
Like a low-quality photograph out of focus, the entire scene of the mansion appeared indistinct in his eyes—depicted in hazy light and darkness. He lifted the cigarette dangling from his fingers to his lips and inhaled deeply, but there was no taste. The cigarette, which had briefly served as refuge, now felt no different from empty air.
Darn it!
Everything before his eyes remained indistinct and washed in shadow. Only the image of one thing, caught faintly at the edge of his vision, stood out with unnatural clarity. The woman.
“When are you coming?”
If she had intended to say such a thing, she should at least have been waiting.
He flicked the half-smoked cigarette aside carelessly and began walking.
He walked the path set before him. As he moved, the heavy presences around him stirred as if they had been waiting.
The Marquis—leading the wolves—crossed the wide-open doors and ascended the carpeted stairs. The wolves dispersed in different directions. Only a few—Barbara among them—followed behind him.
Barbara hurried to keep pace—following her master, almost ran. Oscar passed through the hall instantaneous. She ran ahead to open the door.
“Don’t follow.”
Oscar stopped her without looking. He continued walking with long strides.
His steps were almost unconscious.
—