Ebony Castle

As the sunlight pierced through his closed eyelids, Doha opened his eyes.

Even after opening them, it took a while to fully come to his senses. His dazed gaze wandered around the unfamiliar room, bathed in golden morning light. The spacious room held only a large bed covered with crisp white sheets and a small vanity with thin, antique legs. He didn’t know where he was, but it wasn’t the leaky inn room, nor was it the low-ceilinged flat in London.

Outside the window, birds chirped brightly. Doha sat up and turned his head toward the window, only to regret it immediately. A severe pain pounded inside his skull.

“…Ugh…”

His mouth tasted dry and bitter. Suppressing a gag, Doha leaned his heavy head against the headboard and gazed out at the forest beyond the window. Despite the recent rain, the pale blue sky was clear, without a single cloud.

He waited for the throbbing headache to subside before carefully rising from the bed. He pushed open a door near the bed, as expected, revealing a bathroom. A large, white bathtub dominated the center of the space.

After a moment of hesitation, he meticulously closed the bathroom curtain and finished showering and brushing his teeth. He washed the mud off his bruised body and put on the fresh clothes that had been placed next to the fluffy towel. It was a white, gown-style pajama set, the kind you would only find in a hotel.

Back in the room, Doha looked around for his phone, but it was nowhere to be found, nor were the boots he had been wearing. Barefoot, he crossed the room, striped with sunlight. As soon as he turned the door handle, he was greeted by a woman in an apron standing stiffly in the hallway.

“Mr. Eden.”

The unfamiliar woman, who appeared to be in her forties, bowed her head to the startled Doha.

“I’m Hazel Myers.”

“…Hello.”

“There are slippers prepared in your room.”

Under the vanity, there were slippers that appeared brand new. Once Doha had put them on and turned back, he saw the woman’s straight posture waiting for him.

“The CEO is dining in the greenhouse. I will guide you there immediately.”

“Yes, then—”

“I will prepare a light breakfast for you. If you’re feeling unwell, would soup be preferable?”

Her side profile, as she directed the question to Doha, carried the same gentle smile as before.

Doha gave up and simply answered, “Yes.” As they rounded a corner, a staircase appeared. Hazel Myers escorted Doha down to the first-floor hall and led him through a door opposite the front entrance. The scent of bacon and eggs lingered, suggesting the kitchen was nearby.

When Hazel opened the door and stepped aside, bright sunlight and cool air flooded the dim corridor. A sprawling garden, as large as a football field, stretched out before him.

Directly ahead stood a large fountain, with geometric flower beds encircling it. Hazel led Doha along the left path that followed the mansion’s wall.

“This way, please.”

Doha followed her, stepping on the square stepping stones, and then stopped. At the end of the path stood a pristine white greenhouse, its roof and walls entirely made of glass, revealing two men inside.

Tristan Locke, seated in the most visible spot, lifted his gaze. Their eyes met through the glass.

“Mr. Eden, please go in. I’ll have your meal ready shortly.”

“…Yes, thank you.”

As Hazel opened the door, Doha’s view was briefly obscured. When Tristan reappeared, his attention was now on the secretary seated beside him at the outdoor table. Doha hesitated at the threshold, listening to Hazel’s footsteps fading away.

“The report due this week—”

The secretary’s words were cut off as he noticed Doha. Rising from his seat, he said, “Mr. Eden, please come and sit.”

He neatly closed and organized the papers spread out on the table. Doha found it difficult to move from the threshold. A beige bandage was visible on the lower part of Tristan Locke’s smooth cheek.

The secretary shifted the teapot and plates aside, making room on the table as he added, “Please close the door when you enter. Temperature control is crucial in this environment.”

“…Yes.”

With those words, Doha finally stepped inside and closed the door. The humid air inside the greenhouse was thick with the scent of roses and the sweetness of tropical fruits. Doha walked past several rose bushes in full bloom as he approached the table. Tristan Locke, without glancing his way, was calmly slicing the bread on his plate.

The seat the secretary had pulled out for him was next to Tristan and across from the secretary. Doha shifted the chair slightly to the side before sitting down. His heart pounded. Across the table, Tristan’s elegant wrist was wrapped in a long bandage. The memories of moonlight, the smell of the lake’s mud, and the weight of the man pressing down on him came flooding back.

The secretary moved the folder of documents to the far end of the table.

“If you were working—” Doha began, but the man shook his head without looking at him.

“We were having breakfast.”

At that moment, Hazel appeared again through the greenhouse doors. She approached the table, setting down a placemat and water glass in front of Doha, and poured tea from a steaming teapot.

“The soup is currently being prepared by the chef, so please wait just a little longer.”

“…Thank you.”

Red tea filled the cup decorated with rose patterns. After Hazel bowed and left, the only sound that filled the warm sunlight streaming into the greenhouse was the clinking of knives against plates.

Doha took his eyes off the surface of the tea and glanced around as if he had stepped into a dream. The roses, blooming out of season, were resplendent, and the sky beyond the glass was clear without a single cloud. The only thing that proved last night wasn’t a dream was the bandage wrapped around the aristocrat’s wrist.

Doha’s gaze drifted from the blue veins visible on his wrist to his pale forearm, then along the sleeve of his robe to his broad shoulders. When he looked up a bit more, he found the man’s face. His gray eyes were watching Doha.

“……”

Suddenly, Doha’s stomach clenched in pain from the strong tea. Dropping his gaze, he hastily opened his mouth.

“Ulysses is…”

“He stepped out for a moment.”

It was not Tristan who answered but the secretary.

Thunk. Just then, a golden silhouette zipped past outside the glass of the greenhouse. In a flash, Ulysses had arrived at the door, sitting and looking inside while barking. He seemed to have rolled around somewhere in the garden, as there were leaves stuck in his fur.

Doha stood up to open the door, but the secretary stopped him.

“Hazel will be here shortly; it’s fine.”

Doha had no choice but to sit back down. Outside the glass, Ulysses wagged his fluffy tail eagerly. The secretary was right. Within seconds, Hazel appeared from the mansion with a tray in hand. As she opened the door, Ulysses bounded into the greenhouse happily.

Ulysses stopped beside Doha’s chair, looking up at him while wagging his tail quickly. As Hazel set the soup dish on the table, Doha awkwardly patted the dog’s head with the back of his hand. The warm breath of Ulysses brushed against his hand.

“It’s a leek and potato soup.”

Herbs, which appeared to be parsley, were sprinkled atop the light green soup. Hazel placed a soup spoon and a small rolled-up napkin beside Doha’s plate.

“I think it would be good to wash your hands before you start eating.”

After finishing her words, she reached out and placed Tristan’s empty plate and teacup onto the tray. It was then that Doha realized Tristan had already finished his meal before he even started.

As soon as the chair scraped back, Ulysses ran over to his master’s side. The aristocrat’s pale hand, revealed between his sleeves, gently patted the dog’s head.

“I’ll excuse myself first.”

Tristan Locke looked down at Doha and the secretary, who remained seated.

“The rest of the report will be this afternoon, Lowell.”

“Yes.”

The secretary quickly stood up to see him off. Doha, almost without realizing it, opened his mouth.

“Is your bite wound alright?”

No response came. When Doha raised his gaze a bit higher, he saw Tristan, standing by the chair, looking down at him.

“You’re asking as if you weren’t the one who bit me.”

His lips curved into a gentle smile as he spoke.

“Fortunately, it hasn’t been long since I had a tetanus shot. It seems I won’t die.”

“…Please send me the bill for the medical expenses.”

“No need. Given the difference in size, we can consider it self-defense.”

Still wearing a faint smile, he brushed past Doha. Ulysses, as if the world revolved around his master alone, eagerly followed him out of the greenhouse. Through the glass, Doha watched their tidy figures fade into the distance.

The secretary caught Doha’s gaze from across the table.

“The soup is getting cold.”

“…Yes.”

Doha belatedly grasped the heavy spoon with his stiff fingers and brought a scoop of the green soup to his mouth. The taste was soft and savory as it coated his tongue.

Although it was still uncomfortable being with the secretary, it felt much easier to breathe now that Tristan was gone. The air in the greenhouse seemed less dense. After taking a few more spoonfuls of the soup, Doha finally asked,

“Last night….”

“I should be asking you that.”

The secretary cut him off, as if he had anticipated the question.

“What happened? I heard you were carried in by the CEO late at night.”

“…I ran into Mr. Locke on my way back to the village. We started talking, and somehow, I ended up passing out in front of him.”

Even to his own ears, his explanation sounded flimsy. As expected, the secretary pressed further.

“What did you talk about with the CEO?”

“……”

Doha fell silent. He couldn’t even remember what he had said. All that came to mind was the embarrassing image of himself, like a reckless child, charging at someone he couldn’t win against with words.

The secretary reached over and pulled out a thin clear file from the bottom of the stack of folders on the table. Inside the opaque white plastic cover was a document clipped together.

He handed the file to Doha and said,

“This is the contract the CEO instructed me to prepare this morning.”

“What?”

The first line on the paper placed beside the soup dish read “Contract.” Below that were Doha’s name and Tristan’s name, followed by several clauses printed in small type. Doha quickly realized it was the financial support that Tristan Locke had mentioned by the lakeside.

If he read further, he would probably see the amount. Without looking any more, Doha pushed the folder away with the back of his hand.

“I don’t need to see it.”

“You should read it properly.”

The secretary picked up the contract again and persistently held it out. Doha reluctantly lowered his gaze and blinked. Amid the complicated legal terms, a few words stood out that didn’t seem to fit.

“I’ll explain it to you.”

The secretary said, keeping his fingers on the folder’s cover.

“First, this is a non-disclosure agreement. You are not permitted to disclose any information related to the CEO, the Locke family, or anything that has occurred or will occur in this mansion, including its location, to anyone outside. If you understand, we’ll move on to the next part.”

“…Yes.”

“What the CEO is offering you, Mr. Eden, is a period of one week. If there is no visible improvement from Neim treatment through physical contact within that time, you must immediately cease all attempts and leave. You are not to return to the mansion or seek further intervention. Do you understand?”

Doha looked up at the secretary, unsure of what he had just heard. The secretary began flipping through another folder.

“You weren’t aware, I see. Unlike bilateral Neim symptoms, unilateral Neim might be untreatable.”

“…What?”

What the secretary handed to Doha was a collection of papers, including copies of research articles and newspaper clippings regarding unilateral Neim. The date on the first page indicated it was over ten years old. Despite the apparent attempt to gather all available information, the folder was surprisingly thin, likely due to the rarity of cases, which left the data inconclusive. Some cases showed no improvement at all, while others saw only partial recovery in parts of the body.

Doha glanced up at the secretary, who seemed to be waiting for a response.

“A week?”

“Yes.”

“And if there’s improvement within that week?”

The secretary, still expressionless, flipped to a clause in the contract.

“In the event that it is determined all symptoms can be fully treated to the point of complete recovery, meaning Mr. Eden is able to play the piano again without any hindrance, the CEO will provide continued treatment at his discretion.”

“…….”

Even with such a vague condition, lacking a specified duration, Doha found the situation odd. Just the day before, Tristan Locke had refused the idea entirely—what had caused him to change his mind in less than a day?

“And then…”

Before Doha could finish the question, the secretary turned to the next page of the contract.

“I will now explain the remaining conditions. Before attempting treatment, you must undergo an STD screening by a medical professional selected by us. You will not have control over the type or manner of physical contact—the CEO’s instructions must be followed in full. During the week specified in the contract, you must remain at the mansion, and all means of communication with the outside will be restricted.”

The secretary paused, as if that was the end. Doha thought over what he had just heard and reached for the contract, as if it might disappear. His hand bumped against the cold surface of the table rather than the pen. The secretary, now holding the pen, handed it over.

“And… before you decide, there is also this contract.”

He handed over another folder. At first, Doha thought it was a copy of the contract he had just read. His name and Tristan’s were both written on the first page, and there was another non-disclosure agreement at the start.

From the second page onward, however, there was no overlap. The secretary flipped through it and turned it back toward Doha.

Below that was an amount Doha had never seen in his life.

It was, as Tristan Locke had said, more money than Eden could ever need for the rest of his life. Considering that Doha’s life expectancy was already shortened by Neim, it was money that would remove the need to worry about finances forever.

“This is the amount the CEO himself specified,” the secretary said.

“Even if you successfully return to your career as a pianist, it’s more than you could earn in a lifetime.”

He placed both contracts in front of Doha.

“I’ll give you some time to think about it. You can’t consult anyone from the outside, but until around this time tomorrow…”

Doha wasn’t listening to the secretary anymore. He was staring at both contracts. The contract on the right slowly flipped its front page back over, covering the pound sign and the numbers beside it.

The sum of money a man was willing to pay to cut him out of his life. To Tristan, it wasn’t a large amount, but to Doha, as the secretary had said, it was a fortune he could never earn even if he worked his entire life. Doha thought of the most expensive grand piano he had ever wanted, a house big enough to hold it, and a neighborhood where a garden would greet him from the window instead of gray buildings. It was enough money to quietly live out the rest of his life.

Noticing that Doha was reaching for the pen, the secretary stopped speaking.

“Mr. Eden.”

His hand missed, and the pen rolled across the table. Doha pulled the first contract closer, the one he had initially looked at.

“Do I just write my name here?”

“…Yes.”

With trembling hands, Doha clumsily removed the pen’s cap and, in childish scrawl, signed next to Tristan Locke’s elegant signature: ‘Eden Yeon.’ His shaking hand left the signature a mess. He repeated the process on the copies, where the black ink bled into the fine paper.

“…….”

When he looked up, the secretary had a puzzled expression, as if trying to understand a person who made no sense to him.

“You’ve bought yourself an expensive week.”

He picked up the contract Doha had declined and, with precision, tore it in half and crumpled both pieces in his hands. The rolled-up paper fell off the edge of the table.

“I’ll inform the CEO of your decision, Mr. Eden.”

He handed one of the signed copies to Doha before rising from his seat.

“Feel free to finish your meal and come in when you’re ready.”

The soup had gone cold. Doha watched as the secretary left, and sunlight filtered through the glass ceiling, pouring autumn light into the greenhouse’s summer warmth.

***

After signing the contract, things moved quickly, as if to make up for lost time.

“You’ll be staying at the mansion from today. We don’t have a proper guest room since we’ve never had a guest stay over, but if you need anything, ask Hazel.”

The secretary, whom Doha had met again in the entry hall, led him down a hallway on the first floor. The small, simple rooms on either side suggested that this area might once have housed servants, unlike the grander rooms upstairs.

“There’s a clinic in the village, so you’ll visit today. I’ll contact the doctor for you. It’s also the day the cook goes to the village for groceries, so you can head down together and come back at the same time. You can also pick up your luggage from the inn while you’re there.”

The secretary glanced at Doha’s face before adding, “The cook’s name is Jean. He’s a well-known chef in the London fine dining scene and now works exclusively for the CEO.”

“…I see.”

Doha felt overwhelmed. Even before the door opened, he could hear the clatter of dishes. A stout man with curly hair stood at the large sink, washing pots and pans. The secretary stepped aside to let Doha see.

“Eden, this is Jean Thibault. Jean, this is Eden Yeon, the CEO’s guest. Since you’ll be heading into the village today, please give him a ride.”

“So, you’re the one who left the soup unfinished.”

Jean wiped his hands on a cloth and approached with large strides, extending his massive hand. Even though he had experienced situations like this before, Doha was momentarily flustered. He couldn’t bring himself to extend his deformed hand and just stood there. Jean quickly masked his surprise, awkwardly raising the rejected hand and instead giving Doha a friendly pat on the shoulder.

“The leek didn’t suit your taste, did it?”

“…Oh, no, it was delicious.”

Doha couldn’t even remember the taste of the soup, as his mind had been completely preoccupied with the contract.

“Take care of him, Jean.”

The secretary checked his watch and turned toward Doha.

“You should change your clothes before you go. I’ll find something suitable and bring it to you.”

“Alright.”

“Until further notice, aside from your guest room, please only enter areas you’ve gotten prior approval for. The mansion is old, and many areas are in disrepair.”

It was a clear warning not to wander around the estate. Doha hadn’t planned to explore anyway, so he simply nodded. Without saying goodbye, the secretary closed the door behind him, leaving Doha alone with the chef in the spacious kitchen with its large windows.

“Uh…”

Jean scratched his curly hair, looking a bit uncomfortable.

“Would you like some tea? A morning snack? Coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

Doha sat down on a stool beside the island counter that Jean had gestured toward.

“Then, please excuse me for a moment. Let me finish scrubbing this pot.”

Jean returned to the other side of the counter, asking for Doha’s understanding. The loud sound of running water drowned out Doha’s response. Pots clattered in the sink. Doha watched for a while as Jean’s thick arms vigorously scrubbed with a brush, then turned to look out the sunlit window. To the left, he could see the greenhouse in the distance, and straight ahead, there was a large vegetable garden surrounded by two layers of fencing.

Jean placed the now-clean pot in the drying rack, shook the water off his hands, and leaned against the counter across from Doha.

“The garden’s quite impressive, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s very large.”

“We put up the fence because of that mutt. I had to ask the gardener to install a wire mesh underground, too. The dog kept digging his way in.”

Jean was clearly referring to Ulysses. Watching Jean mimic the dog’s fast digging motion with its paws, Doha asked cautiously.

“Does the dog… eat vegetables?”

“Oh, absolutely. Loves them. The night before we were set to harvest the carrots, he jumped the fence and dug up the garden like it was his personal playground. He took a bite out of all the juiciest carrots and left the rest scattered all over the place.”

Jean’s large hand trembled as he recalled the memory.

“After all the work I put in! Chasing off bugs and birds all season long!”

Now that Doha was looking closely, he noticed a wooden scarecrow standing inside the sturdy fence. It seemed Jean was serious about growing produce, far beyond just a hobby. Curious, Doha cautiously asked.

“Can’t you just get groceries from the village?”

“To be exact, we get deliveries from Inverness. Speaking of which, if you’re staying here for a while, I’ll need to increase the next order.”

“…I’m…”

At that moment, the sound of fast-approaching footsteps interrupted him, and the door swung open. Standing in the doorway was the housekeeper Doha had met earlier that morning.

“Mr. Eden, I heard you need clothes to wear into the village.”

“Oh, yes.”

“How about trying these on for now?”

The housekeeper handed over the bundle of clothes she had been carrying under one arm: a bright yellow hoodie, jeans, and Doha’s own parka that he had left in Tristan’s car.

“I picked these from my casual wear. The CEO’s clothes and Mr. Lowell’s would be far too big for you, unfortunately. My apologies.”

Jean laughed openly from the side. Doha could feel his ears burning as he accepted the clothes with a polite thank you.

“Thank you.”

“You can return them later.”