Ebony Castle

Even though Doha clenched his teeth, sound escaped from his throat. Tristan’s member, which had briefly withdrawn, slowly rubbed against the cleft between his buttocks. Doha trembled in fear as the swollen tip grazed his sore opening with each touch.

“Don’t run away.”

Tristan’s curt remark brought Doha back to reality. His body had unconsciously been inching forward, his hips retreating in anticipation of the next penetration, nearly aligning with his back.

Without a word, Doha lowered his head and returned his body to its original position. The firm tip of Tristan’s member soon parted the entrance, forcing its way in without mercy.

“Ah, ugh…”

The man’s hand gripping Doha’s bony hip to keep him in place was a small mercy. This time, at least, they had used lubricant, making the penetration smoother, but the sensation of unhealed wounds reopening was chilling. As Tristan started moving his hips again, even when Doha’s posture faltered, no reproach came from him. It was as if he had resolved not to engage with him in any conversation.

Biting his torn lip, Doha endured the pain and found himself pondering. Nowhere else in the world would there be an act like this. This wasn’t a union, but a disconnection. It wasn’t procreation, nor was it a play for pleasure. It was an ordeal where simply enduring the time spent had become the entire purpose, akin to how clerics would whip their own backs in self-flagellation.

For Tristan Locke, though, it was likely not even that. He was a man who never needed to endure anything he didn’t want to, and now he was only here out of a thin sense of duty or pity. The freedom to choose, the option to stop whenever he wished—those choices, which Neim had stolen from Doha, were still Tristan’s to make.

The man behind him adjusted his grip on Doha’s sweat-slicked hips and pushed his member deeper. The swollen tip hit the innermost barrier with a soft thud, causing Doha to feel his consciousness blur. His ears filled with a buzzing noise, and the blood rushed to his head as it pressed against the bed.

“Too… deep…”

He barely managed to speak with his sluggish tongue. Tristan wordlessly pulled back slightly, moving his member near the entrance, thrusting shallowly, prodding at the torn wounds.

“Not deep enough now?”

The man chuckled, adjusting his depth slowly.

“You seem to have a lot of specific preferences… I’m starting to wonder who’s more desperate here.”

“Ah, ugh.”

“The brand is clearly on you, though.”

Tristan’s indifferent fingers grazed over the mark above Doha’s tailbone. It was where Neim’s name was inscribed. The moment his fingers brushed over the sweaty skin, Doha jerked forward as if he had been shocked.

“Hah!”

“What’s the matter?”

“Take your hand off, ah… and don’t touch….”

His body trembled uncontrollably. The light touch of Tristan’s fingers over Neim sent an electric shock-like sensation coursing through him. It was an excruciatingly intense feeling that radiated from the small of his back. He had never experienced anything like it when he touched the mark himself.

Tristan pulled his hand away. The strange sensation subsided like a storm calming down, and for the first time, Doha became fully aware of Neim’s presence. What had previously felt like just a tattoo now seemed very much tied to the man in the same bed as him.

“How curious.”

Tristan’s voice carried a rare trace of interest as he paused.

“Does it really feel different when someone else touches it?”

“…It doesn’t.”

“Would be a good test for distinguishing between people with the same name. Though, given that my full Neim is carved into you, there’s little room for confusion from the start.”

Saying this, he pressed down on the Neim mark with his fingertips, as if to confirm its location. This time, it was clearly intentional. Doha’s body curled in on itself, trembling in silence. It felt as though his vision was flashing.

Like a child poking at an insect, Tristan prodded at the densely written characters a few more times before his curiosity was satisfied, and he removed his hand without hesitation. Doha lay flat against the bed, unable to breathe.

“We’ll need to reinsert.”

Tristan remarked casually, as if only now realizing his member had slipped out.

“Relax.”

“…Yes.”

Feeling his hand on his waist, Doha shakily lifted his body and resumed the previous position. With a soft sound, Tristan pushed his rigid member back into the swollen, lubricated entrance. Doha bit his lip, stifling a pained groan. It felt as if his abdomen was being split in two, starting from his hips. Tristan adjusted the depth, thrusting about halfway in before setting into a rhythm.

Though his movements were not particularly harsh, the act felt more torturous to Doha than it had the previous day. Multiple times, he felt the urge to beg for it to stop, the words rising in his throat like vomit, only to be swallowed back down. Cowardly, he wished for Tristan to stop of his own accord, so that it wouldn’t be his responsibility. By the time Tristan finally finished and withdrew, Doha’s shoulders and back were slick with cold sweat.

Tristan observed the swollen entrance for a moment, then asked offhandedly:

“Perhaps you should take tomorrow off. Let your wounds heal somewhat.”

Doha immediately sat up, despite his body slumping forward.

“Why…”

“You won’t last a week at this rate. It’ll only get worse.”

Even as he spoke, his expression seemed to betray that he already knew what Doha’s answer would be. Before he could finish speaking, Doha shook his head.

“I can handle it.”

“It’s not just about enduring it.”

“I brought painkillers. Tomorrow, I’ll take one before we start.”

Although he had been warned several times not to use the medication for anything other than seizures, enduring this pain for long periods of time was no different from enduring a seizure. He only had a few pills left, but if he rationed them to one a day, he might be able to make it through.

The man, who had been watching Doha’s pale face, unexpectedly let out a dry laugh.

“You’d think you were obsessed with it.”

“…….”

“Fine. I won’t be the first to suggest stopping anymore. I’ll make sure you won’t feel cheated about the number of times we do it by the end of the week.”

“…Thank you.”

“If you need more painkillers, I can get you some. You’ll need them.”

Their bodies now separated, the man’s silhouette was stark and slightly off-kilter in the dark as he sat at the edge of the bed.

***

The next day, Doha learned what Tristan Locke truly meant by “being serious.”

For the first time, Doha woke up in Tristan’s bedroom, with no opportunity to escape to the guest room. Still groggy, he washed up and, half-awake, ate lunch in the corner of the bedroom. All the while, Tristan, busy delegating tasks to his secretary, spoke casually as soon as the secretary left with a mountain of folders and a half-empty lunch tray.

“Did you take the painkiller?”

It was broad daylight. Doha was dragged to bed without even being able to digest lunch.

Tristan acted as if he was obsessed with sex. The contact of flesh, the exchange of fluids, the intensity of the act—he meticulously and perfectly adhered to the rules of Neim treatment. Doha was penetrated in the bright afternoon bedroom, and even after taking the painkiller, the pain was so severe that he couldn’t breathe. When it became unbearable, he took Tristan’s member into his mouth. When his lips tore and his throat became raw, Tristan finished himself off and forced his release into Doha’s throat. Holding Doha’s chin to prevent him from gagging, Tristan didn’t let go until everything was swallowed. Doha barely endured, drugged by the painkillers, and passed out as dusk fell. When he opened his eyes again, it was the middle of the night, and Tristan’s member was rubbing between his buttocks.

The next day, Doha realized why the secretary had given him such disapproving looks. It seemed Tristan had abandoned all work for the week. They even ate breakfast in bed together. Except for the times when meals were brought in, the door remained firmly shut all day. Doha never left the bed, nor was he in any condition to do so.

Even between acts, Tristan would apply ointment to Doha and ensure that their bare skin stayed in contact. His body was cold and firm, as it appeared. Supporting Doha until he woke and constantly engaging in sex while awake, one might think they were in an overly passionate honeymoon.

But a closer look revealed the truth. Doha’s rear was swollen, bleeding wouldn’t stop, and his mouth was so sore that he couldn’t even eat soup. All the while, Tristan relentlessly pushed him to the edge, his lips tightly sealed in frustration and disgust, enduring as though performing a repulsive chore.

Five days passed, yet Doha’s paralyzed hands and legs showed no improvement. All the efforts seemed as pointless as pouring water into a broken jar—there was no healing.

***

On the sixth morning, Eden Yeon didn’t wake up.

At dawn, Tristan Locke crossed the room barefoot. In his robe, he stood by the window, parting the heavy velvet curtains to gaze at the pale sky. His fingertips brushed the cold condensation from the glass.

Dark shadows of countless trees blurred against the deep blue background like a watercolor. The dense forest, soaked in mist, stood like guards protecting the isolation of the mansion. It was an inviolable time with no one awake—a slice of the day that Tristan had once entirely owned.

Slowly returning to the bed, Tristan Locke looked down at the pale face of the uninvited guest, still asleep. Delicate eyelashes lay neatly against fragile skin.

Tristan lifted the edge of the blanket and climbed in. Reaching out, he grabbed the slender wrist, pulling the young man’s lightweight body towards him. Like a habit, he laid him against his chest. Confirming their bare skin was sufficiently touching, Tristan closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, the room was bathed in the soft golden light of morning. The pianist in his arms remained unconscious.

Only then did Tristan sit up.

“Eden.”

He called softly. The sensitive pianist, who would usually wake instantly, remained still. His flushed cheeks rested against Tristan’s chest, and his rounded forehead was damp with sweat. Hot breath escaped from his cracked lips, landing moistly on Tristan’s chest.

Black hair clung to the young man’s forehead like sticky seaweed. Tristan gently shook his shoulders, but the small head lolled weakly, like a rag doll.

There were two knocks at the door.

Tristan stood, roughly draping the blanket over the young man’s body. The secretary entered the room, balancing a tray with two breakfast servings.

“Call the physician,” Tristan said instead of greeting him. The secretary, in the midst of setting the tray on the table, looked up.

“Is it serious?” His gaze shifted towards the bulging blanket. The small, still figure lying under it had a face so pale it could easily have been mistaken for a corpse.

“He’s unconscious. His body is probably reaching its limit.”

Tristan answered while tying his robe.

“Perhaps he’s just in a deep sleep?”

The secretary placed the tray’s cover back and approached the bed. Tristan stepped back, leaning against the wall as the secretary examined the young man closely.

“Eden,” he called softly, then again, louder, near his ear. Finally, after lightly shaking the pianist’s shoulder, the secretary turned to Tristan, now understanding the seriousness of the situation.

“I’ll need to check his temperature.”

“He’s running a mild fever.”

“You’re not a thermometer, CEO… Please wait here.”

The secretary left the room briskly. Tristan sat on the bed, pulling the fallen blanket back over Eden Yeon’s bare shoulder.

The secretary soon returned, sliding a thermometer between the young man’s chapped lips.

“…38.2°C.”

“I told you, it’s just a mild fever.”

“CEO,” the secretary said, removing the thermometer, “we can’t let a doctor examine him.”

Tristan didn’t disagree. The violent traces of what could only be described as rape were clear on his body, with the Neim mark on his back and the untreated paralysis. Any doctor with a conscience would find it suspicious and report it. If it were a gossip-prone doctor, the rumors would spread.

“Besides, bringing an outsider into this mansion is absolutely out of the question. The fever isn’t that high, so for now…”

“Call Daniel.”

“…Understood.”

The secretary pulled out his phone and moved to the table.

“…Yes, Dr. Hunt. This is Scott Lowell speaking.”

Tristan listened to the half-conversation with the family doctor as he pushed the thermometer back into the pianist’s mouth. The secretary impressively managed to describe “five days of non-stop anal intercourse with a same-sex partner” in the most polite language possible.

38.3°C. Through Eden Yeon’s cracked lips, Tristan could see his wet, pink tongue. Slipping his hand under the blanket and onto his chest, he felt a faint but steady heartbeat. The delicate skin over his heart was slick against Tristan’s palm.

“…Understood.”

The secretary turned, covering the receiver.

“He should have at least shown some reaction when we tried to wake him. Should we try again?”

The secretary’s voice was already loud enough to wake someone normally.

“Call Daniel… wait.”

Tristan stopped his secretary and moved his hand, still beneath the blanket, downward. He leaned closer, wrapping his arm lightly around Eden’s slim waist.

“…Ugh…!”

Eden’s sleeping face scrunched up slightly. He furrowed his eyebrows and curled up like a child, shifting his body to the side. Tristan smoothly withdrew the hand that had been touching the Neim mark on Eden’s lower back.

“He’s responding.”

“…What did you just do?”

Seeing the secretary’s expression, Tristan chuckled.

“Not what you’re thinking.”

“…Yes, Doctor. Understood. I’ll keep you updated on his condition.”

Tristan lightly nudged Eden’s uncomfortable posture, laying him back down. His face was flushed with fever, and his rounded shoulder felt hot to the touch.

“The doctor advises we let him rest and monitor him for now,” the secretary said as he approached the bed. “I’ll call Hazel to take care of him. She mentioned that her younger sibling used to get sick often.”

Tristan blinked slowly. If they were in London, Daniel Hunt would have been at his side in under twenty minutes, and there’d be no need to rely on the housekeeper’s unverified caregiving experience.

“Either way, there’s nothing more for you to worry about now, CEO,” the secretary said, holding the breakfast tray. “The week is essentially over, and the treatment didn’t work. We’ll move him to the downstairs room, and once he wakes and recovers, we’ll send him back to London.”

The pianist’s face wasn’t visible beneath the blanket anymore. Tristan turned away without hesitation. The secretary, hurrying to catch up, asked, “CEO, would it be possible for you to review a few urgent documents while you have breakfast?”

“Meet me in the office.”

Tristan’s reply was more of a sigh. His body felt heavy and tense after a week of accumulated fatigue. When he returned to the bedroom that night, the sheets would be clean, and the bed empty. The fleeting disruption in his routine would end, and everything would return to its usual place.

***

Sunlight poured into the room through the wide-open curtains.

Even when Doha glanced around, Tristan Locke was nowhere in sight. A rare sense of languor and drowsiness weighed heavily on Doha, pinning him to the sheets. The low voice calling his name, the merciless hands shaking his shoulder to wake him—those memories echoed, imprinted on his body and mind.

“…”

Doha closed his eyes again, retreating into the darkness. He didn’t want to think about anything.

Why had he found it so hard to endure the pain and humiliation? Every time Tristan penetrated him, his body trembled with fear, and he felt ridiculous for it. The man’s cold, gray eyes mocked him the entire time, as if daring him to give up while pushing him to his limits.

Yet, every time Doha tried to escape the pain, the only thing he could cling to was Tristan Locke. As if Tristan were his salvation, the lifeline dangling in the darkness. He found comfort in the man’s strong arms and rested his cold cheek and clenched hands against his broad, firm chest. He prayed, alternately, for Tristan to stop and for him to never stop.

“…”

Doha wondered if the week had already passed while he slept. There was no sound of running water from the bathroom, and the hallway outside was eerily quiet.

With difficulty, Doha sat up. His arm wobbled as he tried to steady himself against the bed. The pain in his stomach flared up, likely from days of harsh painkillers.

A large white note was hanging halfway off the bedside table.

—Hazel

Without thinking, Doha reached for the bell. His hand brushed against the cool surface of the button, palm facing inward and fingers curled toward him.

Under the harsh midday sunlight, Doha froze as he stared at his pale hand. He held his breath, instinctively widening his eyes and focusing every nerve in his body on his fingertips.

It wasn’t his imagination.

Ever so faintly, barely noticeable without intense concentration, the tip of his pinky finger moved.

***

Sunlight filtered through the window, casting a soft glow on the rosewood desk. The stack of folders on Tristan Locke’s left gradually shrank, while the pile on the right grew taller. Still dressed in his robe, Tristan worked methodically, his pen gliding precisely across the documents.

Once Tristan finished signing, his secretary swiftly closed the folder, placing it on the right-hand pile while using the other hand to grab the next folder from the left. He quickly and concisely explained the contents, handing over the documents. The employer’s elegant signature, inscribed in black ink, appeared perfectly identical each time, as if printed.

After closing one of the folders, the secretary stepped back from the desk.

“We’re about halfway through. Please take a break and have your meal now.”

Without a word, Tristan capped his fountain pen and set it down on the desk. As he rose and moved toward the table where his breakfast tray was placed, the secretary sighed quietly. Every movement Tristan made was filled with weary lethargy, yet his posture remained impeccable, and his steps steady. The etiquette training he had received from a young age couldn’t be discarded, even after leaving the Locke household.

His approach to work and meals, treating them as distinctly separate matters, was equally ingrained. The secretary, who had inadvertently allowed his employer to go without food, quickly hurried to remove the tray cover. The food on the plate was neatly arranged, but everything had gone cold.

“…My apologies. I’ll have it prepared again immediately.”

Taking out his phone, he briefly explained the situation to the kitchen and ended the call.

When he turned back, Tristan was sitting slightly slouched in the chair beside the small table where the tray had been placed. His closed eyes slowly opened, revealing a weariness that had slipped through his usual composure.

“…Would you like to rest for a bit?”

The secretary asked. Tristan, instead of answering directly, spoke calmly.

“Make sure they’re provided with lifelong financial support. Check periodically how far the symptoms have progressed and ensure they’re receiving adequate medical help.”

“…Understood.”

“And handle it so they don’t return or appear before me again.”

“Yes. I’ll send them back to London tomorrow. You won’t need to concern yourself with it any further.”

At that moment, the office door burst open without so much as a knock.

Bang.

Tristan’s eyes shot open as he looked up. A slender young man stood on the threshold, having just thrown the door wide.

His wandering gaze locked onto Tristan, and as if drawn by an unseen force, he rushed into the office. His uneven gait suggested one leg was failing to support him properly, and he seemed on the verge of collapse as he hurried closer. Seeing his rapidly approaching face, Tristan’s eyes widened slightly.

Bathed in the sunlight streaming through the window, the young man’s pale face was twisted in an expression that seemed ready to break into tears. His swollen, reddened eyes and cracked, chapped lips were drenched in emotion.

Though the sudden brightness made his eyes sting, Tristan couldn’t look away.

“……”

Even in his dazed state, Tristan’s body instinctively began to rise halfway from his seat, accustomed to holding the man in his arms for days while he slept.

The young man, who had been charging straight toward Tristan, suddenly stopped as if coming to his senses, just before making contact. He froze, only inches away, with nothing but a sliver of space between them, facing Tristan.

“…Mr. Locke.”

His voice was hoarse. The breath that escaped between his parted lips brushed against Tristan like a breeze. His expression, caught between tears and laughter, revealed raw emotion in his dark eyes.

Tristan, who had spent days looking down impassively at the young man’s face as he endured his pain, suddenly felt a sharp pang in his chest. Like a fire catching and spreading in a single, brilliant flash of ignition.

***

It seemed that the body and mind were connected by thick bundles of nerves. Yeon Doha had managed to hold out for five days, but the moment he allowed himself to relax, the invisible thread holding him together snapped. Mere minutes after showing Tristan Locke that his finger could move, Doha began to stagger where he stood.

He spent nearly the entire remaining day of the week in a near-unconscious state. His new “hospital room” was not Tristan’s third-floor bedroom but the guest room on the second floor, where he had originally been staying. The darkened room, with its curtains drawn, became stuffy and humid with the sound of Doha’s fevered breaths.

Doha’s already fragile immune system seemed to have given up entirely, allowing even the most trivial virus in the surrounding air to take root in his small body and claim territory unchecked. He coughed into his pillow until his throat was raw, woke himself up from fevered hallucinations, and vomited up everything he had eaten, including his medication.

Occasionally, when he opened his eyes, Hazel or a worried-looking Jean would be sitting beside his bed. Jean, seeing Doha’s body trembling uncontrollably from chills, was anxious to take him to a hospital in the village or a nearby town.

“I’m fine.”

“Who’s going to believe that when you look half-dead?”

“It’s just a cold. And you really shouldn’t keep coming here, Jean. You’ll catch the virus.”

“Seriously… I’m not sure who’s supposed to be worried about whom right now.”

As he drifted back into sleep, Doha’s final words were:

“I’m not going to the village. …I need to stay here.”

Once Doha realized the treatment was working, he thought to himself,

He had been so focused on the treatment’s effectiveness that he hadn’t thought about what would come afterward. When he had the chance, he should have done anything to match Tristan’s tastes, but instead, he had been too preoccupied with enduring.

Feverish thoughts of the famous figures who had once dated Tristan Locke—faces and bodies he had seen in the media—floated through Doha’s mind.

The secretary, who hadn’t shown up for days, finally arrived late one evening.

Doha woke with a start at the sound of the door opening. Light from the hallway spilled into the dark room through the crack in the door.

“Mr. Eden.”

The secretary’s voice came from near the door.

“I’m going to turn on the lights for a moment.”

Doha tried to respond but instead coughed. The dry, raspy sound broke through his cracked lips.

The secretary, apparently taking that as a sign of agreement, pressed the wall switch near the door. The chandelier on the ceiling flickered to life, brightening the room.

Ignoring the sting in his eyes, Doha reflexively raised his hand into the air. His curved hand cast a dark shadow against the backlight. Focusing with his pounding head, he watched as, after a moment, the tip of his pinky finger twitched ever so slightly. Doha let his hand fall back onto the blanket.

“I forgot to congratulate you.”

The secretary said as he sat down in the chair beside the bed.

“It seems you were quite lucky.”

“……”

The tone was clearly not one of genuine congratulations, so Doha chose not to respond. The anxiety that had settled after seeing his fingers move quickly rose again.

Over the past few days, Doha had developed the habit of checking the movement of his hand not only right after waking up but every few minutes. The fingertip that had initially moved a half-joint now barely twitched, noticeable only if he paid close attention. It was hard to tell if it was due to the chill-induced tremors.

Noticing Doha’s gaze fixed on his hand, the secretary asked, “Is the paralysis returning?”

“…Yes.”

“Think of it like a poison. They say it’s easier to understand that way. You’ve purged a lot of the poison that’s built up over the years, so the symptoms are gradually fading. Since you’ve stopped contact for a few days, the symptoms are coming back.”

Feeling Doha’s eyes on him, the secretary placed the black folder he’d been holding under his arm onto the bed.

“Let me explain what’s next. From now on, you are not to receive treatment from the Neim specialist hospital or any other place. Neim treatment needs specialized rehabilitation therapy. We will introduce you to a doctor in London.”

“…Yes. Then…”

“Since you want to return to performing as a pianist, you should be in London anyway, right? To avoid disrupting the CEO’s daily life, it’s best if you only visit occasionally. The frequency and duration of treatment will be adjusted according to the doctor’s recommendation.”

“…Yes.”

“Until the treatment schedule is confirmed, you should leave here and return to London. Until then, stay out of sight so as not to bother the CEO.”

“…Yes, understood.”

It wasn’t really a request for Doha’s consent. It was an implicit order for him to leave and stay away from Tristan’s sight as soon as possible.

Doha recalled the strange expression Tristan Locke had when he burst into the office. The eerily exposed rawness in his face had quickly disappeared, replaced by his usual smooth, impassive expression as he stood up. He had even looked at Doha’s hand and politely congratulated him. It was around that moment Doha realized that the news he had brought wasn’t good news for Tristan, and he had stood there, blankly, unable to say anything.

“Rest well.”

Just before the secretary grabbed the door handle, he spoke.

“Shall I turn off the light?”

Doha nodded. With one hand on the light switch, the secretary paused for a moment, looking back at Doha lying on the bed. He spoke again.

“Until Eden arrived, I, like the general public, thought that Neim was something rather romantic, though occasionally inconvenient. There’s even a famous movie about it. But now, seeing this…”

His eyes wandered over Doha’s emaciated body half-hidden beneath the blanket, the grotesquely bent hands, the cracked and blistered lips, and the feverish eyes. To beg for intimacy from someone he didn’t love, to lay down his pride so miserably, and to survive by hanging on to someone else’s mercy for the rest of his life.

“Neim is more like a curse.”

“……”

“A curse for both the one who has it and for our CEO, who unwillingly holds Eden’s life in his hands.”

Since it wasn’t a statement that required a response, Doha closed his eyes. Soon, he heard the door close and the sound of the secretary’s footsteps fading away. The sound of his labored, feverish breathing filled the dark room. Even through his closed eyelids, the same color of night pressed down on him.

***

Yellow and red autumn leaves floated on the fountain’s pond. The intricate veins that once carried water and nutrients through the star-shaped leaves were visible like tiny blood vessels. After staring at them for a while, Doha resumed walking along the garden path.

It had been a long time since he’d gone outside, and the cool breeze felt refreshing. He huddled into his scarf as he carefully walked around a large pile of fallen leaves blocking his way. He passed the greenhouse reflecting the morning sunlight and the orchard, then turned around the tall hedges of the maze and opened the low gate on the opposite side, revealing a wide, open space.

The rectangular swimming pool was empty of water. As he approached the edge, he finally noticed a red head with a ponytail sticking up from the bottom. Hazel, who was standing in the pool, looked up at the sound of his footsteps.

“Mr. Eden.”

She rested the rake she had been using against the pool wall and climbed out using the ladder.

“Were you looking for me?”

“Yes. Jean mentioned you might be here.”

“Would you like to sit for a moment?”

Doha sat on the bench next to the pool, as she suggested. After climbing completely out of the pool, Hazel wiped the sweat from her brow and retied her loose hair. Looking at the large pile of leaves inside the pool, Doha asked, “Do you handle all the gardening yourself?”

“No,” Hazel shook her head. “There’s Mark, the gardener. He’s a bit eccentric, so he rarely comes into the main house and lives alone in the outbuilding.”

“So, it’s you, Jean, Lowell, and Mark… Four of you?”

“Yes. Including the CEO, that makes five. Six, if you count Ulysses.”

Hazel sat on another bench nearby, maintaining a bit of distance. Doha looked toward the mansion’s towering chimneys in the distance. It was a vast mansion, large enough to house dozens, yet only five people and a dog lived there. The emptiness of the place was palpable.

After a brief silence, Hazel spoke, breaking the stillness. “Are you riding in Jean’s truck?”

“Yes. He’ll take me to the village, and from there, I’ve arranged for someone to drive me to the airport.”

“I see. It’s been a while since you’ve returned to London. I imagine many people are waiting for you.”

“……”

Beyond the hedge maze, a blue sky was visible. The air carried the deep, earthy scent of autumn leaves. Doha glanced at the round, curled leaves at his feet and finally remembered what he had come to say.

“I owe you a great deal. …Thank you.”

“I simply did what I was supposed to do for a guest. I’m just glad to see you’ve recovered.”

With a polite yet distant tone, Hazel stood up. Her manner made it feel as though expressing gratitude was somehow out of place. Doha also rose from the bench.

“Well then, safe travels.”

With those words, Hazel grabbed the pool ladder and descended out of sight. Soon, she disappeared entirely from Doha’s view.

The sound of raking leaves mixed with the chirping of birds from the nearby woods. Realizing Jean was probably waiting for him, Doha turned to leave.

He had already said his goodbyes to the secretary, and he could talk with Jean on the way to the village. Aside from the gardener, the only person Doha hadn’t properly bid farewell to was the mansion’s owner. In the ten or so days it had taken Doha to recover after their last meeting in the office, he had neither seen Tristan Locke nor heard his footsteps or voice.

Doha glanced up at the numerous nameless windows of the mansion that had just come into view. For a moment, he thought he might catch a glimpse of Tristan Locke’s face behind one of those windows, but it was only a fleeting thought. The sunlight reflected off the uncovered windows, making it impossible to see anything beyond the blinding glare.