Ebony Castle

In Daniel Hunt’s parlor, the sound of Verdi’s opera echoed. By the time the continuous flow of music ended, feeling as though it would never stop, the sweat trickling from Doha’s forehead stung his eyes. Daniel glanced at the clock, then reached out to remove the device from Doha’s fingers.

“Well done.”

“Thank you.”

Doha’s fingers throbbed, and his head felt fuzzy. He flexed his stiff fingers a few times, then leaned back into the plush sofa.

Daniel lowered the volume with the remote and handed him a towel.

“Today was better than the day before, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Your recovery is progressing faster than expected. At this rate, you’ll be moving all ten fingers soon.”

Doha knew these words were like candy given at the end of a tough rehabilitation session, but they were still welcome. Smiling, he wiped the sweat from his forehead with the towel.

“It’s all thanks to your care, Dr. Hunt.”

The blond doctor waved his hand with a laugh.

“No, it’s because you’re such a diligent patient, Eden.”

As he stood up, he asked, “Your friend is picking you up today, right?”

“Yes.”

Doha checked the wall clock. It was already past five, but there was no message from Niklas, who had said he would text when he arrived.

“Take your time until then. Have some more water and catch your breath.”

“Thank you.”

Doha easily lifted the glass with four functional fingers and quenched his dry throat. Across from him, Daniel, holding a water bottle, hummed along to the melody of the aria.

“You must like Verdi.”

Doha had assumed Daniel wasn’t much into classical music, given that he seemed to use his piano purely for decoration. Daniel looked puzzled for a moment, then laughed at Doha’s comment.

“I’ve only heard this one Verdi piece, so I can’t say for sure. But I’m getting into it thanks to you.”

“Because of me? Opera?”

“No, classical music. I’m just a beginner; I’ve listened up to track 56 on the ‘Classical Masterpieces 1000’ playlist.”

Doha chuckled at that. After a moment of hesitation, Daniel leaned forward and said, “Actually… I looked up a video.”

“A video?”

“A video of your competition-winning performance.”

Doha’s fingers froze for a second. Oblivious, Daniel eagerly continued describing his impressions of the video.

“It was incredible. I couldn’t believe how fast your fingers moved. It felt like you were surpassing human limits.”

“…Thank you.”

Thankfully, a vibration from Doha’s phone interrupted the conversation. The screen displayed a message from Niklas: “Traffic’s crazy!” “Still about 10 more minutes?” Doha tapped out a quick reply with his fingertips while Daniel, watching, suddenly remarked,

“By the way, today’s outfit…”

“Ah… I’m attending an old classmate’s recital.”

“A pianist too, I assume?”

“Yes.”

Julian Svensson, who had messaged Doha twice this morning urging him to come, was likely warming up backstage by now.

Niklas had mentioned that Julian had left tickets for them at the company, though he hadn’t seemed too pleased. Even when they confirmed their plans over the phone earlier, Niklas had remarked in surprise, “Eden, you’re really cool! I don’t think I would’ve gone. It doesn’t bother you at all, does it?” He had seemed genuinely curious, leaving Doha with little to say.

If it truly didn’t bother him, he probably wouldn’t be going at all. The fact that Julian’s piece for today’s recital was the same one Doha had collaborated on with the school orchestra during their university days, and that Julian had been sitting in the audience at the time, no longer mattered.

When his hands had failed a few years ago, Doha should have been more open, should have maintained relationships instead of cutting everyone off. Losing not just his career but also his connections had been the result of pointless pride. He hadn’t done anything wrong, so why had he been so afraid to show his friends and mentors his ruined hands? Why had he refused to face reality, isolating himself in a small flat?

And now, it was the same. He hadn’t been able to turn down Julian Svensson’s invitation, and he was attending a recital he had no desire to go to, all for the same stubborn pride as before. Gazing out at the setting sun over Daniel’s garden, Doha realized he had yet to overcome anything at all.

***

By the time they arrived at the concert hall in Southbank, the sun had already set. Niklas, after circling the parking lot for a while, finally found a narrow spot and parked. He turned to Doha in the passenger seat.

“Eden, the tickets are in the glove box… Ah.”

Realizing his mistake, he stopped. Instead, when Doha opened the glove box and handed him the tickets, he gaped. He marveled at Doha as he had done earlier when he saw him holding a fork at the restaurant.

“Your therapist is truly something. It’s like a cure-all.”

“I still have a long way to go.”

“But it’s amazing, isn’t it, being able to move something that was once paralyzed?”

They got out of the car and walked together across the dark parking lot. Niklas, who seemed unaccustomed to such events, was busy looking around the lobby, overdressed for the occasion.

“There are so many people here. Oh, there’s a bar. If we’d come early, we could have had a drink.”

In the wide, bright first-floor lobby, a long, rectangular waiting area was set up. People pulled extra chairs to sit around narrow tables, while others stood around sofas, holding glasses of wine and chatting. Inside the lobby, the warmth and noise stood in stark contrast to the chilly silence outside.

“…Yes, Richard.”

Niklas took a few steps away after mouthing “Just a moment, Eden” as he answered his phone.

On one side of the first floor, there was a poster featuring Julian Svensson’s clean-cut face. Even though it wasn’t a solo recital but a collaboration, his photo was quite large. While Doha was staring at it from a distance, two girls who appeared to be high school students came over and took a picture next to Julian’s face. Their flashy fluorescent t-shirts and ripped jeans stood out.

It seemed Niklas had noticed them when he returned.

“Oh, is it okay to dress like that?”

“…Usually not that casually.”

After saying it, Doha hesitated for a moment. The girls, who were laughing brightly and sticking their tongues out for the picture, looked like they were having fun. The world of classical music was slow to change, but a lot could have changed in the few years Doha had been away.

“I’m not sure. Maybe I’m just old-fashioned.”

“I guess I was the only one who overdressed.”

Niklas grumbled as he took off his jacket and draped it over his arm.

“Shall we head inside? Richard said Julian is backstage, but he seems too busy for greetings. Are these tickets really for good seats, like you said?”

“…Yes, they are.”

As Doha checked the ticket number again, he tried to recall. He had never sat in a box seat at this hall before, and it wasn’t the kind of seat he would have chosen had he bought the ticket himself. While the box was certainly reserved for the privileged, separating them from the rest of the audience, that was all it offered.

As soon as they were shown to one of the opera boxes that protruded from the wall, Niklas exclaimed in admiration.

“There are only four seats in here. Oh, we can see all the people below! It’s my first time sitting in a seat like this. This must be what aristocrats felt like back in the day. Eden, where do you want to sit? …Eden?”

“…I don’t mind.”

Doha snapped back to reality. The space beyond the box railing was vast, deep, and luxurious. The orchestra seats and the stage, where the grand piano was set up, came into view. It had been a long time since he’d seen a concert grand piano.

“…Eden?”

Niklas, sitting on the far right of the four seats, was watching him.

“Are you okay? You’re not feeling unwell, are you?”

“…I’m fine.”

“That’s a relief. For a moment, I thought…”

But Doha didn’t hear the rest of what Niklas said. Across from them, a door to another opera box opened. An elderly man with silver hair entered with a couple of other people. Turning to speak to his wife behind him, the man paused mid-sentence when he spotted Doha.

“…….”

He stopped in place. Their eyes met across the empty space between the boxes. Doha unconsciously hid his hands under the railing at the sight of his former mentor, whom he hadn’t seen in two years.

***

The first piece, Schumann’s overture, barely registered in Doha’s ears. From the height of the box, the orchestra looked like tiny figures, and the conductor’s baton and the bows of the string players moved rhythmically back and forth. Everything on stage shone brightly since the concert began. When Doha blinked, the afterimage lingered on the inside of his eyelids.

After the first piece ended, the conductor exited to bring out the soloist. The orchestra members turned their sheet music, and the audience buzzed with coughs and murmurs that had been held back.

Doha glanced to the side and once again met the eyes of his former mentor in the adjacent box. Even in the dim light, his eyes shone intensely.

“…….”

Next to him, Niklas leaned forward over the railing and murmured in awe. The applause spread from the orchestra seats to the rest of the audience. From backstage, the conductor returned, accompanied by Julian Svensson in a neatly tailored tuxedo.

As Julian appeared, the applause grew louder. Someone in the front of the first floor even shouted as if they were at a pop concert.

“Julian!”

Doha didn’t need to look at the neighboring box to imagine the deep furrow in his mentor’s brow. The orchestra members on stage looked down toward the audience as if trying to locate the culprit, but Julian simply smiled brightly in return. His platinum-blond hair gleamed under the stage lights. Standing next to the piano stool, he lightly touched the instrument with his fingertips, as if to claim ownership, before bowing.

The applause finally died down. Julian flicked his tuxedo tails and sat on the stool. As he closed his eyes in front of the piano, the audience fell into a deep, attentive silence.

Doha instinctively glanced at the neighboring box. His mentor was no longer looking at him, but at his student on stage.

Julian opened his eyes and nodded at the conductor. His white, strong hands rose over the keys.

When was the last time Doha had heard Julian play the piano live? It must have been three years ago, during the Leeds Competition. Even then, he hadn’t heard Julian’s final piece because he had been waiting backstage, so the semifinals were the last time. He remembered Julian finishing his performance with a disappointed expression, coming off the stage and whining to him for a while.

Now, as Doha listened to Julian’s piano from this distant box seat, accompanied by the steady support of the orchestra and the applause at the end of the piece, he was hit with the passage of time. While Doha’s world had been at a standstill, the time of other pianists had continued to move forward. The Julian of today was no longer the same person who had held a third-place trophy three years ago and congratulated Doha on his victory.

The belief that everything would return to normal once his hand healed was nothing more than a delusion. The world Doha needed to return to had already moved on without him. Like missing a bus on a hot summer day, all that remained was the dust hanging faintly in the air.

***

The faint noise of intermission filled the vast hall. Through the open doors, the sound of people moving back into the lobby echoed. On stage, staff in black outfits were moving the grand piano backstage.

Doha did not turn around despite the clear presence of someone approaching from behind. A middle-aged man, who briefly rested his hand on the back of Doha’s seat, settled into a chair at the opposite end. The people who had been enjoying the concert with him in the adjacent box had left for the lobby. Niklas, who had gone to greet the company staff, was also absent.

“It’s been a while,” the mentor said. He was the professor who had taught Doha throughout his studies in London and had been the most enthusiastic when Doha had stood with the trophy at the competition.

On stage, the staff were returning the music stands and chairs to their places. There were also audience members taking photos in front of the empty stage. Doha’s mentor, observing the same scene from his vantage point, asked,

“Have all the young folks who like that guy gathered here, or is it just that there are fewer white-haired people than usual? Do you see it that way too?”

“…Yes.”

There were more young audience members at this concert than at any classical concert Doha had attended. The mentor clicked his tongue in disapproval.

“Instead of posting photos online, they should focus on practicing.”

His discontent was clear, but his affection for Julian was unmasked. Doha sat quietly, watching the people in the lobby through the open door of the hall.

The silence stretched. At the end of it, the mentor spoke.

“If you can’t do it all at once, practice giving up a little at a time.”

“…….”

“Don’t cling too long to past possibilities.”

Doha inhaled deeply without responding. His fingers, fiddling with the fabric of his bag, found something hard and rectangular. It was a new keychain he had been absentmindedly handling for days.

The mentor stood up and placed something beside Doha’s chair. Doha glanced sideways. On a stark white card contrasting sharply with the red seat, the company’s name and number were written. It was a well-known organization that connected skilled instrument teachers with promising students.

“There are many ways to be involved in music, even if you’re not on stage.”

The distance between the two chairs now felt greater than the gap between the boxes. As the mentor left, he patted Doha’s thin shoulder once, then Doha continued to gaze down into the hall until Niklas re-entered the box.

***

During the ten days without the pianist, it had rained frequently in the Scottish woods. On the day he returned, the torrential rain that began in the afternoon did not cease by evening. The secretary, standing in front of the blackened window of the corridor, turned to Tristan and said,

“It might be the last rain of the year.”

The temperature was dropping sharply. As the year-end approached, the raindrops would turn into snowflakes. Each time Jean went down to the village, he brought back stacks of firewood to the warehouse behind the small mansion. It was in preparation for the severe winter to come.

In the dining room, the fireplace blazed brightly. Even as Tristan and Lowell finished the entrée and the first main course, an empty chair at the table remained unoccupied.

“It seems to be taking a long time because of the rain,” said Jean, placing a dish on the table.

“It’s been a while since Hazel went to pick him up,” he added.

A steaming white plate was set before him. The secretary hesitated when he didn’t hear the sound of a knife, as the elegant, pale hands of the employer had yet to pick up the cutlery, and his gaze was fixed on the open dining room door.

“…Why?”

Noticing the secretary’s gaze, the man turned his head and asked. His usual indifferent expression remained, so Lowell merely shook his head without saying a word.

As the meal drew to a close, the distant, faint barking of Ulysses could be heard.

“Oh, I guess they’ve arrived,” Jean said, looking back at the dining room door. The first-floor foyer was noisy. Hazel’s normally composed voice mixed with the rapid footsteps of Ulysses running down the stairs.

Jean went out holding the tray and returned shortly, sticking his head in to report.

“They had trouble with the truck’s rear wheels getting stuck in the mud on the way up. Both of them are unharmed, though.”

Perhaps due to this incident, the pianist Tristan and Jean encountered in the second-floor corridor looked dazed. He nearly collided with Tristan, coming to a sudden stop as he took slow steps toward the guest room.

“…Mr. Locke.”

His gaze, which had been unfocused, slowly regained clarity. His wet hair clung to his small face like a damp mop.

“Didn’t you have an umbrella in the car?”

He blinked as if he did not understand Tristan’s question. Hazel, who had been climbing the stairs, answered instead.

“I couldn’t leave the driver’s seat, so Mr. Eden got out to check the truck’s condition. I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t know he had the strength to push the truck.”

“Fortunately, it wasn’t a situation where pushing the truck was necessary.”

Hazel replied again. Large droplets of water fell onto the corridor floor from Eden, who stood there silently. Tristan watched the wet eyelashes with a blank expression and said,

“Get into hot water and change your clothes first.”

“Right, Eden, go wash up. I’ll reheat the food for you then.”

“I’ll prepare the bathwater for you, Mr. Eden,” Jean and Hazel added. Eden, still looking like a wet mouse, nodded and followed Hazel down the corridor.

“I’m worried he might catch a cold,” Jean muttered.

Tristan watched until the small, thin figure disappeared. Whether it was the rain washing away his usual composure, today’s Tristan displayed his frayed inner self openly. His gaze was like someone who, after struggling in the mud and realizing he couldn’t escape, was left with the look of resignation.

***

A few hours later, the pianist’s expression as he entered the bedroom was calm. He moved across the dimly lit room to the softly lit bed. His white fingers slowly spread the gown and untied the knot.

Tristan set aside the book he had been reading and watched the young man, who looked precarious. Although his pale cheeks carried a faint warmth from the bath, his damp hair and blurred eyes resembled a child abandoned in the cold street.

The desperate fervor that once drove him seemed to have disappeared. The joy that was once evident in the slightest movement of his fingers was now gone. Today, the flame that had burned in his dark pupils had completely extinguished.

The sound of rain outside was damp and heavy. Tristan spoke with a sense of disinterest.

“Lie down on your back.”

“…….”

The pianist obediently turned over as instructed, spreading his legs without resistance when Tristan grasped his ankles. Despite the sensation of cold lubricant being poured between his buttocks, he only slightly furrowed his brows.

It wasn’t until Tristan spread his soft buttocks apart that the slender body flinched. His toes curled under the pressure of the sheets.

Tristan wet his middle finger with the lubricant between the pianist’s buttocks and lightly pressed the entrance. Eden’s expression wavered like ripples on the surface of water.

“……”

Tristan slowly pushed his long finger into the tight body, watching Eden’s face as he pressed his knuckles against his buttocks. The snug, clinging sensation inside wasn’t unpleasant.

After pulling his finger out and wetting it again, the sound of squelching filled the air as the inside grew wetter. Eden, with his eyes closed, breathed steadily. Even as more fingers were added and his insides were stretched, only his rising and falling chest indicated any change—his face remained expressionless.

Tristan abruptly withdrew his fingers.

“…Ugh.”

With the same fingers that had been inside Eden, Tristan grasped his own penis, sliding his hand along its length to prepare for insertion. The small, soft pink organ of the young man lay limp.

Once he was hard enough, Tristan propped a pillow under Eden’s hips. The sheets were soaked with spilled lubricant.

“Should I add more inside?”

Instead of a warning, Tristan asked. Eden, predictably, shook his head with his eyes still closed.

Tristan immediately pushed the tip of his penis into the barely parted hole. With force, the tight entrance struggled to swallow the thick head.

“…Hngh…!”

Eden’s slightly parted lips closed again, turning pale. Watching the trembling at the corner of his tightly shut eyes, Tristan pushed his hips forward. The tight space reluctantly stretched open with a sticky sound.

“Ugh… hnngh…”

Eden didn’t say a word of protest. He kept his eyes tightly closed as if enduring a punishment, while Tristan continued the fast and harsh thrusts. His hair, once dry, now curled with sweat, and his pale face was soaked with something—whether it was tears or sweat was unclear.

Tristan pounded into the slender body, his solid member roughly parting the delicate flesh. The burning heat of friction rose with every thrust. Though the inside clung to him with gratifying pressure, it felt tedious.

Today, even though he thrust deeper than usual, there were no complaints from Eden. Gripping his sweaty buttocks, Tristan pushed his hips forward a little more.

“…Ah!”

Eden’s shoulders convulsed as if in a spasm. Tristan pressed down on his quivering body, pushing deep inside to stretch him open. The thick head prodded a sensitive spot deep within.

Eden’s insides clenched and spasmed around the rigid shaft. For the first time, his eyes opened, blinking in disorientation.

“If it hurts, tell me to stop.”

Tristan spoke indifferently, looking down at his pale face.

“Why do you keep being so stubborn when you should have realized by now?”

“Hngh, ah, ah…”

“Even if you give up now, no one will say your effort was lacking. You’ve done enough to convince yourself.”

Tristan’s voice was casual, yet he violently twisted inside Eden’s body, driving in with force.

“Eugh, ugh!”

Eden’s hands, which had been gripping the sheets, flailed aimlessly in the air. His tear-filled eyes wavered, and his parted lips trembled with pain.

“You know that even if you don’t give up, I’ll eventually stop helping you, right?”

Tristan’s voice was gentle as he buried himself inside Eden, coaxing him softly.

“Remember that second contract we canceled? I’ll reward you according to that, so let’s stop here.”

Today, he was sure his words would penetrate Eden’s stubborn shell. Each time he returned from London, the pianist in front of him seemed increasingly exhausted. The path ahead of him was far longer than the grueling one he had already crawled, and the classical world was not one where completion alone held value. No one remained to assist or support him in his solitary fight.

Once he realized what he wanted was impossible, he could stop. Surely someone should have taught him that abandoning false hopes early was wise. Tristan felt both frustrated with Eden’s obstinacy and sympathy for his blindness. He understood too well the lives and sacrifices of those who succeeded as classical soloists from a young age.

Looking down at Eden’s round forehead, now beaded with sweat from enduring the pain, Tristan’s emotions tangled within him.

“Just say you want to stop, Eden.”

“……”

“At least nod your head.”

Though he tormented Eden below the waist, Tristan’s voice was inadvertently tender as it whispered near his ear. He watched, convinced that Eden was on the verge of breaking, like a fragile candle flickering in the wind.

But the thin man beneath him stayed silent, eyes closed, saying nothing. As Tristan observed, a tear that had collected in the corner of Eden’s eye slowly trickled down his temple.

“……”

The sound of rain swept through the forest beyond the window. Tristan felt something close to frustration or defeat welling inside him. An unfamiliar anxiety made his mouth dry.

“Fine, have it your way.”

Tristan shoved his penis fully inside in one harsh thrust. He gripped Eden’s buttocks firmly, thrusting deep and pressing against his insides.

“It’s almost all in. Should I try to fit it all today?”

“Ugh, mmm…”

Fear must have taken hold—Eden’s slender fingers, which had been too weak to even move before, trembled as they clung to Tristan’s chest. Grabbing Eden’s hand, Tristan wrapped it around his neck and lifted Eden’s ankle onto his shoulder. Both Eden’s wrists and ankles felt so fragile, as if they could easily snap. As Tristan increased the speed of his thrusts, Eden’s pale neck trembled as though swallowing a sob.

Deep thrusts came one after another. Tristan brushed back Eden’s wet hair to reveal his rounded forehead, letting him cling tightly. Every time Eden’s uneven breaths reached his ears, it left Tristan feeling strangely parched.

It was a kind of sex Tristan had never indulged in—a sadistic, almost spiteful act. He tormented Eden’s sensitive insides until they chafed, then pressed his tip against the raw flesh before ejaculating. The sensation left Tristan’s body languid with satisfaction. Eden, who had squeezed his eyes shut during the climax, noticeably relaxed once Tristan withdrew.

When Tristan returned from the bathroom, Eden was sitting up, as if trying to get out of bed. His face, illuminated under the dim yellow light, looked dry and impassive, as if he hadn’t been crying moments ago. There was no trace of resentment on his face as he looked at Tristan.

Tristan caught him and laid him down flat again, climbing over him, knees on either side of his shoulders.

“Ugh, why…?”

Grabbing Eden’s chin, Tristan pressed the head of his penis between his lips.

“Suck it.”

“Huup—mm…”

Eden’s eyes widened, but he obediently opened his mouth. The penis, not yet fully hard, barely fit without tearing his lips. Tristan pressed the growing tip against his tongue, moving in and out slowly, enjoying the sensation inside his mouth. Although Eden gagged a few times when it went too deep, he cooperated, licking the underside with his squashed tongue.

Once Tristan was fully erect, he pulled back. He closed Eden’s jaw for him and gently rubbed the reddened corner of his mouth before pulling him up.

“Hold on to the front.”

“…….”

Eden, still looking uneasy, knelt and gripped the headboard in front of him. Seeing how awkwardly Eden grasped the wood with three fingers on each hand, Tristan chuckled slightly.

“At least your fingers are working for this.”

“Ah… just wait—”

As Tristan pulled his hips back and spread Eden’s legs apart, white semen dripped from his swollen entrance. Eden’s hand hurriedly moved to cover the hole, but Tristan’s voice was gentle, as if puzzled.

“Eden. I’m watching.”

“…….”

Unable to withstand the tense silence, Eden’s hand slowly lowered. Tristan roughly tugged at the folds of skin, stretching them apart as he massaged Eden’s bony buttocks. Thick, white liquid slowly trickled down between his buttocks and along his thighs.

“You’ve made quite a mess. You should’ve held it in—it would’ve been more beneficial for the treatment.”

There was no response beyond Eden’s labored breathing. Tristan turned his head by the chin, seeing Eden’s face turn pale with shame. Wiping the wetness from Eden’s lower backside, Tristan murmured.

“Looks like I’ll just have to put more in.”

“…….”

“Lift your hips.”

“…Hngh!”

When the hardened tip was brought close, the wet entrance flinched. The shoulders visible in front of him tensed into a Jean-like curl.

“Are you scared?”

He lowered his head and licked the young man’s rounded shoulders, the straight groove in the middle of his white neck and back. The salty taste of sweat mixed with the sweet taste of flesh. Tristan held the thin hips still with one hand and used the other to split the narrow entrance.

“Ugh, ugh…”

He seemed to be in pain, but the insertion was easier than before, as if the inside had adjusted. Tristan, moving in slowly and savoring the hot constriction for a moment, began to increase his pace, thrusting his waist up. Every time the thick column struggled to enter and exit, the fingers gripping the bed’s headboard turned white with strain. Heavy breathing flowed from the lowered head.

When he could no longer endure and his position collapsed, he was laid on the bed with his back against it, and Tristan pulled his hips up over his thighs. He thrust the withdrawn member deeply at a slanted angle and moved his waist. It felt like he was endlessly thirsty. His head was hot.

As dawn approached, Eden, who had been looking up with increasingly confused and resentful eyes, fell asleep as if fainting. Tristan stared down at the limp body.

“……”

It seemed quite a bit of time had passed without notice. The sky seen through the curtains was bluish, and the rain that had fallen all night had disappeared, leaving behind a lingering white mist.

***

The light filtering through the window was a dull gray. Doha realized from the faded color that the sun had already begun its descent into the afternoon.

As soon as he rose, a sharp pain and an enormous hunger hit him simultaneously.

“…Ugh….”

The digestive organs, which hadn’t been functioning properly for years, were belatedly starting to work, twisting in his belly. Doha slowly lay back down and closed his eyes.

He needed to check if the paralysis had loosened any more since last night and go downstairs for today’s rehabilitation. His body felt as heavy as waterlogged cotton. Even though he knew the afternoon was passing, he didn’t get up from his place.

The sound of the door opening woke him from a light sleep. The approaching footsteps stopped beside the bed.

“……”

The mattress shifted slightly, and Doha finally opened his eyes. Tristan Locke, who had set down a tray beside the bed, was watching him.

“You’ve been sleeping for a while.”

He said.

Dressed in a loose-knit sweater and pants, even sitting lazily on the bed, he had a palpable aura that commanded the surrounding air.

Reacting to the pressure, Doha sat up. This was his bedroom, not a place where he could look up at him as if he were a lord. Tristan, having waited silently, personally removed the tray lid.

“Eat.”

“…Thank you.”

A steaming congee, similar to Korean white rice porridge, was served in a large bowl. Doha picked up the spoon without looking at Tristan, focusing his gaze on the tray.

“Rest here today.”

Tristan said, watching Doha eat his patient meal.

“It looks like you won’t be able to walk. Sitting for long periods will also be difficult. I’ll have dinner prepared separately.”

“…Yes.”

Hot congee clung to the swollen spots inside his mouth. Doha quickly finished half of the bowl. Even though he didn’t feel like eating, his spoon moved rhythmically, and his mouth automatically opened as the spoon approached. The congee was seasoned just right.

Tristan, who had risen as if about to leave, said:

“You’re quite skilled with the spoon now.”

“……”

Doha looked down at his hand, following his gaze. The spoon moved quite adeptly as he had said. His fingers didn’t tremble precariously under the weight of the metal spoon, and he didn’t spill any as it reached his mouth. It was a miraculous improvement compared to a few months ago. Things hadn’t stayed the same. He was gradually making progress.

“Even if you give up now, no one will say your efforts were lacking. You’ve done enough to convince yourself.”

After swallowing the food and taking a few breaths, Doha looked up at Tristan.

“My rehabilitation tools are in my bag downstairs.”

His voice was hoarse. The beautiful man’s eyebrows slowly lifted. He looked at Doha with an unfamiliar expression of curiosity. Doha continued speaking without paying it any mind.

“The leather case in the large pocket… it’s black.”

“Is this a favor?”

His tone was not sarcastic. The man willingly got up.

“Keep eating.”

As Tristan left with the case and returned from downstairs, Doha had finished the congee and set the tray aside.

Tristan sat beside the bed and personally unzipped the tool case. He seemed intrigued by the large contents.

“These are not sophisticated medical instruments.”

He frowned as he touched the fixed devices, apparently not impressed.

“Do they work?”

“…Yes, they seem to.”

“That’s a relief.”

As he said, the Neim rehabilitation tools resembled medieval torture devices or poorly finished children’s toys. The wires and springs were crude and bulky.

“How long does the rehabilitation take?”

He asked.

“About four hours.”

“Every day?”

“Yes.”

Even if he started now, it would end after sunset. Doha, though reluctant to do the tedious and painful rehabilitation in front of Tristan, had no choice but to bring the case over.

It was a relief that he had to go to the bathroom first. When he mentioned he needed to soak his hands in hot water, Tristan said casually:

“In that case, you might as well take care of your nails.”

“…What?”

He looked at Doha, tilting his head slightly and pulling down the collar of his knit sweater. Several red scratch-like lines were etched into the white skin on the back of his neck. It looked as if it had been scratched by an animal’s claws. Doha realized what he was talking about after staring for a while.

“…I’m sorry.”

He quickly bowed his head. He barely remembered the times when he had clung to his neck in unbearable moments.

“I didn’t…”

“It’s fine.”

Tristan said generously.

“However, it’s problematic if it happens every day. I don’t like seeing injuries on my body. Can you cut your own nails?”

Doha shook his head silently. The back of his neck and ears felt warm.

He extended his open palm in front of Doha. The fingers were long and delicate, the graceful hands of someone who had never worked a day in their life. Doha automatically placed his hand over it, as he did with Daniel.

The palm was smooth and cold. The moment his flesh touched it, he felt a slight sense of relief. It was a comfort only Neim could provide.

Tilting his hand slightly to inspect the length of the nails, Tristan asked:

“What have you been doing all this time?”

“…I don’t know.”

Given how little it seemed to matter, it appeared that his nails hadn’t grown due to the symptoms.

Tristan laughed at the bewildered answer. Doha was thinking of someone in the mansion who might cut his nails. Jean would do it without hesitation, but he didn’t want to show his unsightly hands up close. Hazel would probably do it but be inwardly displeased. As he thought about it, Tristan, holding his hand and examining it, said:

“Now’s a good time to cut them.”

He released the hand and stood up. The sense of weakness returned as soon as their skin parted.