The Snow Queen

Prologue

I picked up the receiver and inserted a coin. After blowing into my hands, I slowly dialed the number. The signal rang a few times before a click sounded.

― Mm. What is it? 

It was an indifferent voice. I couldn’t move for a moment.

It was his voice.

The voice that Ray Arisa loved, the voice of Four Messara.

For the long time we were apart, that voice echoed and echoed thousands, tens of thousands of times in my ears. It wasn’t a dream like moonlight that scattered no matter how much I squeezed it. It wasn’t an illusion that would vanish like smoke when I turned my head.

It was reality.

― I said, what is it?

The voice, as before, held a faint edge of irritation.

“It’s me.”

A brief silence followed. But I knew. On the other end of the line, his emotions were trembling uncontrollably. A suffocating sensation surged through my entire body.

― …Ray.

“Yes.”

I spoke. I confessed that I loved him. That the rejection back then wasn’t my true feeling. That I was sorry. That if he still had feelings for me, I wanted to start again. I stammered through the confession.

“I don’t need jewelry or clothes. The only thing I want is you. It’s you. It’s Four Messara. I want to know your heart.”

Then the answer came in an instant.

“You have taken everything from me. My tears that taste of salt, my solid bones, my hotly flowing blood, my pulsing heart, my warm skin, my hair that sways in the wind, my shining eyes, my sharp teeth, my tongue that speaks words, my feet standing on the red earth, my gestures and movements, every single somatic cell, every piece of my heart, and even my soul—all of it belongs to you.”

It was a firm voice. That confession, spilling out as if long awaited, was almost like a sob. No, it

was

a sob.

― Wait. I’ll come to you right now. Where are you?

Messara spoke. After telling him the location, I hung up and stepped out of the phone booth. The call had lasted eight minutes.

Just eight minutes…

Feeling something strange, I looked up at the sky. The pale sun dimly lit the ashen sky. My eyes fell to the deserted alley. It was late afternoon, and the wind screamed as it swept through the dark streets.

I snapped out of it and started walking.

Just eight minutes.

I muttered again, dazed.

I leaned against the streetlight in front of the café where I was supposed to meet Messara. The wind, sharp as nails, lashed down fiercely. Signs hanging from metal bars trembled slightly. Time crawled by. Still, it didn’t feel real. I would soon meet him. I would meet Four Messara. The Four Messara I loved.

Suddenly, I lifted my head. At the far end of the road where snowflakes collided and crumbled, a red light flickered. It was faint, but I knew. I knew. Forgetting the madly swirling snowflakes, I couldn’t even breathe as I stared at the light. The light grew larger and larger.

It’s him…

Four Messara was running toward Ray Arisa.

The car came to a stop in the distance. The door swung open, and a tall man leaped out. He spread his arms wide toward me. I ran to him. He embraced me. I embraced him back. It happened in an instant. In less than eight seconds.

But in that moment, I felt the ticking hands of time that had cruelly trampled my body for so long disintegrate into nothing. There were no tears, no kisses. Only an embrace. We held each other, and neither of us moved for a long time. It was an embrace so fierce it seemed to drive even death away. In the pale lips, there was only silence.

Much later, I released my hands from his back. I looked at his face. It was a mess. The smell of alcohol was overwhelming. But it wasn’t a delusion or a hallucination—it was the living, breathing Four Messara, with body heat and a strong, beating pulse.

I smiled and touched his cold cheek.

“It’s cold. Let’s go somewhere else.”

꙳•❅*ִ

The queen died two days before the king’s return to the capital. The royal chamberlain simply announced that the cause of death was an “accident resulting from torture.”

“She passed away suddenly during the torture.”

The day after the king’s return to the capital, he finally attended to the queen’s remains. It was a sunny afternoon. The king’s summoned officials gathered in the royal garden. Before them, the torturers placed the queen’s body on a stretcher.

Only one arm protruded from beneath the shroud. But that alone was enough to guess the severity of the torture the queen had endured for two months. The condition of the arm was gruesome.

First, it was painfully thin. The bones were so sharp they seemed ready to pierce through the skin. The arm, resembling a bare winter branch, was covered with dried blood and whip marks, woven like the patterns of a tapestry. Every finger joint was twisted.

All the fingernails had been pulled out. The thumb was completely severed, leaving the white bone exposed. The countless nail marks took one’s breath away. But the most horrific thing was the stench. It was so unbearable that it was hard to believe the corpse had only been dead for four days. Even holding a handkerchief to the nose was useless. The stench crept into the nostrils like a sinister temptation.

Unable to hold back any longer, a noble exclaimed in frustration about the stench. The torturer explained that the queen’s flesh and organs had been decaying while she was still alive.

I thought to myself,

The queen, who hadn’t been seen for 15 years, was like a ghost.

But that stench was screaming out,

I existed, and I was alive.

As time passed, the king did not appear. During this time, not only the civil nobility but even the military nobility remained silent. The only sounds breaking the silence were the flies buzzing around the straw-covered body.

Later, the captain of the royal guard confided in me:

“Rumors among the soldiers guarding the underground prison never ceased. They said the queen’s screams could be heard day and night. I didn’t believe it. Despite the queen being subjected to brutal torture, she was still the queen. I tried to convince myself that the king’s close associates were spreading lies to keep the remaining civil nobles in check.”

One baron remarked:

“Allowing the queen to die under torture was probably the king’s way of protecting his beloved mistress. He wanted to use her as an example to prevent the common-born mistress from suffering at the hands of the noblewomen.”

After a long time, the king finally arrived. He stared at the stretcher for a while before briefly commanding:

“Handkerchief.”

The king covered his nose with the handkerchief handed to him by an attendant and looked at the stretcher again with an expression devoid of any emotion.

The torturers asked:

“What shall we do with the body, Your Majesty?”

The king glanced at the torturers. Embarrassed, they scratched their heads and lowered them. The inquisitors standing nearby did the same, all sweating under the king’s cold gaze.

Despite two months of torture, they had failed to extract a confession from the queen, leaving the queen’s curse as an unsolved case even after the king’s return from war.

The king eventually looked away from the torturers and said:

“Bury her in the wasteland.”

His tone was indifferent, as if he had no particular thoughts on the matter.

The torturers carried the stretcher out of the garden. The skeletal arm that had protruded from the straw covering wobbled, as if it might fall off, and then disappeared.

That night, the king threw a party and reveled in joy. However, by then, even the youngest laundress in the palace knew how the queen had died. Even the military nobles avoided the king and shuddered at the sight of him during that night’s festivities.

The next day, the king officially declared the queen a witch. All of her belongings, except for her wedding gifts, and the records of her trial were burned and destroyed. Her family was demoted to the status of commoners, though the king’s only mercy was that he didn’t confiscate their property.

The shock of the queen’s death faded away within a few days like a bubble. Laughter once again filled the court. One marchioness yawned and said:

“She was just a queen in name only. Things are back to how they were.”

The mood changed about a month after Whitebirch’s death. Around that time, my wife cheerfully told me a strange story. I asked her where she had heard it, and she replied:

“Does it matter where it came from? Everyone knows the story, except for the king, of course.”

A week later, a celebration for the birth of the crown prince was held. The king and queen appeared as affectionate as ever. But the nobles remained patient. The first public depiction of Whitebirch in the royal portrait series did not disappoint them.

He was tragically young and beautiful. And surprisingly, in his left hand, he held a Birch branch.

After a long wait, the court painter finally introduced the portrait to the king. For a moment, the banquet hall fell silent. Everyone held their breath, eagerly anticipating the sight of the king’s grief-stricken tears.

The king pointed to Whitebirch’s portrait and asked the court painter a question.

After hearing the explanation, the king said,

“Whitebirch.”

He pronounced it in a tone as if reciting the name of his first tutor.

Then, the king turned his attention to the deerskin offered by a young count and burst into laughter. Far from shedding tears, the king seemed unusually joyous at the party. He exchanged heated glances with the new queen more than ever, laughed loudly, and danced for a long time. He even won a large sum while gambling and cheered loudly.

In the end, the nobles left the banquet hall with only disappointment. His wife grumbled:

“If the rumors weren’t true, the king wouldn’t have been so interested in that branch! It must be that a night with his ex-wife wasn’t particularly satisfying.”

“What book are you so engrossed in, Chief?”

 Leopard suddenly asked as I was about to turn the page.

“Hm. You’ve never seen me reading before?”

“It’s not that, but… I’m just surprised to see you, who usually only reads detective novels and crime stories, with such a highbrow book. The title is peculiar, too. The Memoirs of Baron Bills?”

“The Memoirs of Baron Bills? Why are you reading such a boring book?”

Cooperhead chimed in. I pretended not to hear and closed the book. I couldn’t exactly tell them the truth—that I was reading it to prepare for a conversation with Ray, who was fascinated by the Snow Queen.

“Boring book?”

Leopard’s words made Cooperhead nod in agreement.

“It’s the memoirs of Baron Bills, who served Daytanz in the mid-16th century. Supposedly, he wrote over 40,000 letters to his son while he was alive. 200 years after his death, one of his descendants published them in novel form as The Memoirs of Baron Bills. It became quite the sensation back then because it vividly revealed the secrets of the Daytanz monarchy.”

“Hmm. And our Chief is reading this?”

Leopard shot me a suspicious look. I gave a short reply:

“Just trying to cultivate some knowledge.”

Of course, that was a lie. Forget knowledge—it was so painfully boring that I only intended to read the parts where the Snow Queen was mentioned and then be done with it.

It was a Saturday, just before the end of the workday. Due to a heavy snowstorm, the road in front of headquarters had turned into a parking lot. Cooperhead and Leopard had completely given up on leaving work on time and had barged into my office, lounging around. They were pestering me with all sorts of nonsense, suggesting we go drinking or even take a group trip to the brothel.

Pitiful guys. Men without significant others always ended up like this. The ones with girlfriends or families would be braving the traffic hell just to clock out on time.

“Chief has been acting strange lately.”

Leopard spoke nonchalantly. My heart sank, but thankfully my face didn’t show it, as if I had a mask on.

“What do you mean, strange?”

I replied casually, turning back to my book.

“For the past few months, after work, didn’t he usually just drink in the office? But recently, the drinking has significantly decreased. He hardly smokes either. As soon as the workday ends, he drives off in a hurry. Don’t tell me he’s started a new relationship. What’s gotten him in such a good mood?”

“Good mood? Not at all. It’s more like he’s so miserable that he doesn’t even feel like drinking or smoking. Didn’t you know? I’ve seen Chief loitering in front of Ryeong’s used bookstore on 42nd Street more than once.”

Cooperhead chimed in, snickering. Leopard, who had been pulling out a cigarette, looked at me in surprise.

“He’s still hung up? How many times have I told you? Redfox isn’t someone you can just hold onto—just give up already.”

Give up? No way. That word didn’t exist in my dictionary. Besides, it had already been two weeks since I started again. But I didn’t say that out loud. The higher-ups were still as wary of Ray as ever.

Cooperhead shook his glass of Drambuie, laughing.

“You’re only saying that because you haven’t seen Chief stalking Ryeong. If you saw him hiding behind a lamppost with his coat collar up, staring at Ryeong inside the bookstore with those desperate, starving eyes, you’d drop any thoughts of stopping him. Hey, Snake, be honest. You’re reading that memoir because of Ryeong, aren’t you? He’s a big fan of

The Snow Queen

, right?”

Damn woodpecker. His intuition was as sharp as ever.

“I already told you, I’m reading it to broaden my knowledge.”

“Hmph… I’ll take your word for it. Anyway, Ryeong is really something, don’t you think?”

“What’s so special about him?”

“What do you mean, what’s special? Does he really just look like a blonde doll to you? He’s special. His mental illness is one thing, but the fact that such a quiet person jumped into this brutal power struggle is a mystery. The biggest mystery is how he completely melted cold-blooded Chief. What did he do?”

“Sleep with him once, and you’ll know.”

Leopard said, but then quickly flinched under my glare.

Just then, the clock struck 1 PM. It was quitting time. I shut my book and stood up. I was tired of being stuck with these reeking single guys. I coldly shook off the two clowns who clung to my pants, begging me to hang out, and left headquarters.

It had been two weeks ago, on a Saturday. That day, white flakes swirled madly from the gray sky. As I downed a glass of vodka, frowning and contemplating switching careers for the umpteenth time that day like a washed-up private detective, a sudden phone call came.

It was Ray. It felt like a miracle. No, it

was

a miracle.

Ray, who had flown away, came back. He whispered that he loved me. He said that his previous rejection wasn’t how he truly felt. He apologized. He said that if I still had feelings for him, he wanted to start over.

As his words piled up like snowflakes, the torn pieces of my heart mended. Warmth spread through my body in an instant. My numb flesh regained its heat and breath.

And I came back to life. My pulse beat, and my eyes opened. Ray had become my Pygmalion, breathing life into me.

I burst out of the office. In no time, I reached 42nd Street. There, amidst the swirling snowflakes, stood Ray. The moment I saw him, the distance between us dissolved into a foggy silence. Everything stopped. And the cruel, violent despair that had weighed me down disappeared in an instant, like a magician vanishing behind a red curtain.

He ran towards me and practically threw himself into my arms. I held him. He held me.

And we became one. We began running through the tunnel towards completion once more. We were two weeks into this journey.

I lit a cigarette while driving. It was the first cigarette I had smoked today. Leopard was right. Lately, I had been trying to cut down on drinking and smoking. It was for Ray. This was the start. I intended to steadily carry out all the plans I had for our future. I would accomplish every single one of them.

But there was one obstacle.

Two weeks ago, as I held him in my arms amidst the swirling snowflakes, I was certain. I had left behind the pitiful stalking from my car and the lonely darkness I spent alone. Only time together remained ahead.

I was sure of it, but things had gone awry.

I tapped the steering wheel with the cigarette between my fingers.

His stubbornness…

I hadn’t realized that when he said he didn’t need jewelry or clothes, he meant it like that.

Yes, this was the problem. Ray’s stubbornness was the obstacle.

On the first night we reunited, I spent the night at Ray’s apartment. The next morning, as soon as I woke up, I said to him, “Let’s pack your things.”

His response?

“Why would I pack?”

He looked genuinely confused.

“Why? Because you’re going to live with me. There’s a lovely house on 17th Street. Oh, of course, you can come with nothing if you like. Actually, you don’t really have much to pack anyway.”

I said cheerfully. Ray just smiled quietly.

“17th Street is too far to commute to and from 42nd Street.”

“Yes, 17th Street is too far to… wait, what?”

Without much thought, I muttered along to Ray’s words, then was utterly shocked. I was dumbfounded. It was supposed to be the end of hardship and the beginning of comfort, so what was he even talking about?

Seeing me so flabbergasted, Ray calmly continued. He said he understood my point, but he wasn’t ready for cohabitation yet. He was satisfied with continuing our relationship while running his “beloved used bookstore.” And that was it.

I spent the entire day trying to persuade him, but Ray didn’t budge. I knew it already—Ray was a simple person. He was so modest that even after being exploited by Manen for 10 years, he never asked for a single penny. He was the king of simplicity and austerity from the core. So, from Ray’s perspective, things were going quite alright.

But not from my side. I was the insatiable Four Messara. I could never be the type of man who would be content with just weekend dates like Ray Arisa. Nor could I stand idly by while my lover ran a shabby used bookstore in a neighborhood where not much happened except for the occasional buzzing of flies.

I hated his poverty. From the very start, Ray’s one-room apartment, without even a doorbell, was a disaster. I had grown sick of his worn-out monk coat too.

42nd Street was also a problem. Wasn’t it one of the capital’s worst red-light districts? The “Snow White” football team was stationed just 20 minutes from his bookstore. What if he caught the eye of some pervert and ended up in trouble? Or worse, what if he met someone else and dumped me?

Call me narrow-minded if you want, but it wasn’t baseless paranoia. Ray had always been quick to open his legs from the start. But honestly, it wasn’t just about that—I couldn’t stand the idea of other men even looking at Ray. I wanted to rip out their eyes and crush their balls.

It was one problem after another. Even the surveillance team I had set up around Ray was an issue. Three days after our new start, they handed me a fresh report. Attached under a photo of Ray and me entering a hotel hand-in-hand was a note:

[Target is currently deeply involved with a man. The other party is a low-level Guiger staff member.]

It was fortunate that I personally managed Ryeong’s surveillance team. My identity was concealed under layers of cover, so it was impossible to trace me, but I still had to be careful about meeting Ray.

By this point, a question began to rise: Why? Why was Ray refusing to move in with me? I set up a few hypotheses and carefully thought them over.

Could there still be leftover feelings of resentment towards me? It was possible. Looking back on the hateful glare he used to give me, it was a miracle he had even forgiven me.

Or maybe it was my money that made him uncomfortable. Most of my wealth had been accumulated through bribes. If that was the reason, I couldn’t force him. Four Messara might lack a conscience, but he had some common sense.

I tapped off the ashes from my cigarette and muttered softly.

“If it’s neither of those…”

The last possibility was another man. That wretch who called himself a king or whatever. Maybe Ray was still hung up on him, and that was why he was keeping his distance. Just thinking about him sent a hot rush of anger through my body. A fiery jealousy flared up, so intense that I had to force myself not to think about it.

Cooperhead was right. There were too many mysteries surrounding Ray. In fact, no matter how many I added up, they still didn’t compare to the seizure Ray had suffered for two months while bedridden.

There’s no such thing as an effect without a cause. The biggest question was how Ray had ended up in such a state. Even though he acted indifferent about his own condition, I knew Ray needed urgent treatment.

When I saw him walking around, completely bundled up even in spring, the feeling I had in that moment couldn’t be described, no matter how many adjectives I tried. It was pure shock. I had demanded psychiatric treatment for him with all my might, but Ray remained unmoved.

Even as time passed, I couldn’t understand. Ray’s blonde hair shone brilliantly like a perfect D major chord, but the more I tried to figure out his heart, the more it resembled a muddy gray, growing murkier the more white was mixed in. I couldn’t grasp it at all. Realizing this left me feeling indescribably melancholy.

Still…

He said he wanted me.

That was enough. I decided to believe Ray simply wasn’t ready yet. The meteorologists were all warning that this winter would be the harshest in 50 years. And I vividly remembered Ray last year around this time, sitting in his room and sewing the eyes onto a doll.

Surely, if he found himself desperate enough to make a living, he’d come to me. I would invite him to stay with me until the winter passed, then ensure he never even dreamed of running that wretched used bookstore again by showering him with luxuries…

This was the scenario I had carefully crafted over the past two weeks. The pre-production work was complete. I even called off Ryeong’s surveillance team as of yesterday. Today was the day to finally execute the plan. I was confident it would be a success. It had to be.

42nd Street came into view in the distance. Snow poured from the dark clouds like a bleeding wound. The late afternoon sky was already as dark as night. The bronze statue of Perseus, holding Medusa’s head high in the middle of the square, looked especially cold today.

I felt like draping my coat over it.

With a smirk, I passed Perseus and parked my car in a suitable spot before heading toward Ray’s bookstore. The dry wind grazed my shoulders, and the street was filled with nothing but cold silence. Everything in the world freezes over this time of year. Only the brutal recession danced along with the snow.

I saw the used bookstore, clad in ivy, in the distance. The sparse lamplight weakly illuminated the store from a distance. Before opening the door, I peeked inside for a moment.

Through the frost-covered window, I could see Ray sitting in the corner of the bookshelf. His form was faint, like an image blurred by tears. His amber hair lay tangled, haphazardly scattered across the dusty floor.

I paused for a moment, unable to move. How was this possible? It was both fascinating and surprising. Every time I saw Ray, my heart raced like this, throbbing in one corner of my chest. It was like my heart had become a traffic light at a crosswalk, without fail.

Ray was flipping through a large art book. His piercing blue eyes, fixed on the pages, gleamed like cobalt ore in a dark cave. I had recently learned that Ray’s bookstore specialized in history books and art collections, making it quite popular among the impoverished artists of 42nd Street.

I opened the door and entered the shop. Ray glanced at me, smiled, and said, “Welcome,” before turning back to his book. I approached and asked, “What book are you so engrossed in?”

“Nothing special,” Ray replied, flipping the page with a smile. I gently sat behind him and wrapped my arms around him. Even through his thick clothing, his soft body was unmistakable against mine. Instantly, I felt a familiar heat rise in my lower abdomen. I couldn’t help but think he was incorrigible.

No wonder people called me a pervert…

“Haha. For ‘nothing special,’ you look pretty serious,” I teased.

Ray spoke with an unexpectedly serious tone. “This is a book that specializes in the portraits of European royal women. There are many pieces I haven’t seen before. This particular princess is quite unique.”

Ray’s voice was so earnest that I too began examining the picture. A woman resembling a bat filled the page.

“Unique? She just looks like an ordinary lady to me.”

“I thought you had a sharp eye, but it seems your artistic sense needs work. Look closely. What makes her unusual?”

“Hmmm… I’m not sure. The only aesthetic taste I’ve developed is for jewelry. Well, as a jewelry enthusiast, I’d say the accessories on her dress aren’t particularly sophisticated. Though, her headdress is quite striking. The pearls studded all over it make her seem very wealthy.”

“And?”

“Her face is plain. But she does have a graceful appearance fitting for a princess.”

“Heh.”

Ray chuckled and gently ran his fingers over the princess’s face in the picture.

“Graceful, huh… This is a portrait of Princess Anne of Cleves. It’s what we call a ‘false portrait.'”

“A false portrait?”

“Back then, portraits served as stand-ins for photographs. Royal families from neighboring countries relied on portraits to choose their spouses. So, painters often made their subjects look more beautiful than they really were.”

“Photo manipulation existed even back then? That’s amusing.”

“Look closely at this painting. The symmetry is almost unnatural, isn’t it? In reality, no person’s face is perfectly symmetrical. Regardless, when the King of England saw this portrait, he fell in love and decided to make her his wife.”

“Is that so?”

“But when he saw her in person for the first time, he was deeply disappointed. The king even said, ‘How could she be so ugly? She looks like a mare!’ He humiliated her with such remarks. In the end, the English Parliament annulled the marriage. But for the princess, this turned out to be a great stroke of luck.”

“Why? Because the king only cared about appearances?”

“Something like that. After all, the king was none other than Henry VIII.”

Ray smiled and lightly tapped Anne’s cheek with his finger. His smile was strangely peculiar, and I fell silent.

As Ray turned the pages, he looked back at me.

“Ah. You must be cold. Would you like some tea?”

“Sounds good.”

While Ray prepared tea at the counter, I continued flipping through the pages. Most of the queens and princesses looked rather plain. If these were enhanced portraits, I couldn’t help but wonder what they actually looked like in person.

I turned a few more pages and came across the Snow Queen. She was a mysterious beauty, like a faint mist in the night. For the first time today, I learned the formal title of the portrait:

The Queen in White Dress

. Her beauty was exceptional.

She’s almost too beautiful. I wonder if this portrait is also exaggerated.

I examined the image skeptically. Ray, who was carrying a teacup over, hesitated.

“…Why are you staring at that picture so intensely?”

“Huh? Oh, well, isn’t this your Madonna? I was curious.”

“…”

Ray handed me the teacup and sat down, clearly flustered.

“Madonna, you say? Do I really seem that obsessed with the Snow Queen?”

“Yeah, it’s quite obvious. You’ve got over ten

Whitebirch

books on your shelf. Plus…”

I almost mentioned how his ritual tools were also made from Whitebirch branches, but stopped myself. I sipped my tea and changed the subject. “Well, she is quite the stunning beauty.”

“But apart from the wedding ring on her left ring finger, she isn’t wearing any other jewelry. Her long black hair and white velvet dress, paired with such minimal accessories… Honestly, her style would still be considered fashionable today. She must have had great self-presentation and immense confidence in her appearance. Ha, I suppose her nickname as the Snow Queen even ties into the color of her dress. After all, the queen in Andersen’s fairy tale wore a white dress too, didn’t she?”

“Maybe. That nickname did arise due to the kingdom’s prolonged unusual weather patterns. It probably helped that a famous 18th-century play was titled

The White Queen

as well.”

Ray turned the page, looking oddly flustered, and I tilted my head in confusion. Was it the “Madonna” comment that threw him off?

꙳•❅*ִ

The remark about self-presentation stung deep. How could that be true? There was another reason she wasn’t wearing much wedding jewelry.

As absurd as Messara’s interpretation was, he still hit closer to the truth than I expected. It was true that Whitebirch had immense confidence in her appearance. She’d often stare into the mirror and mutter, “The king will regret this, hmph!”

The painting…

Without realizing, my thoughts drifted back to that dream. I still had doubts. Could it be possible that Daytanz had truly thought of Whitebirch for fifty years? Did he continue to love her? Did he agonize in regret and self-reproach, staring at the worn canvas, with its faint, faded brushstrokes?

Or was it all just a fleeting moment of sentimentality, a passing thought about her? Memories, after all, are like autumn leaves. If one isn’t careful, they crumble into nothingness, forgotten. The way Daytanz acted after Whitebirch’s death only fueled my doubts.

Messara glanced over at me while drinking his tea.

“What kind of tea is this? It has such a unique flavor.”

“It’s green tea. Is this your first time trying it?”

Messara nodded with an “Mm-hmm.” His relaxed expression made me smile. This situation was turning out to be quite the comedy.

Messara showed no particular reaction to the Whitebirch portrait. He seemed so at ease that I began to doubt my judgment about him being Daytanz. Of course, I wasn’t wrong. Messara was undoubtedly the same bastard from the 16th century. How bizarre it was to encounter him again in this lifetime, now as my lover and adversary—the same man who had once committed unspeakable atrocities without hesitation.

“Could it be coincidence? Or is it fate?

It doesn’t matter.

I bit my lip. It really didn’t matter. I kept telling myself over and over: Messara is Messara, and Ray is Ray. Daytanz and Whitebirch are just sunlight shattered by a mirror. They faded away a long time ago. It was time to flip the hourglass.

I need to stop these gloomy thoughts.

I sighed and turned the page. There was another portrait of Henry VIII’s wife, Jane Seymour. Henry VIII had six wives, two of whom he had executed. I thought,

The only people who could rival Daytanz’s cruelty would be Henry VIII or Bluebeard

. I was about to turn the page again when I froze.

Damn.

Messara was subtly inching closer behind me. It was more surprising that he had stayed still this long, knowing his personality. But here he was, after less than 30 minutes.

“…It’s Saturday afternoon, four o’clock. Someone could come in.”

“That will never happen.”

Messara refuted me firmly. In fairness, the store’s winter business was so slow that I only saw two or three customers a day. And now Messara was guiding my hand between his legs. He was already rock hard.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. This was typical of him. This is how I ended up completely fooled by him. When it came to personal interactions, Messara had nothing better to do with his time.

“Just this once here. And after we’re done, I’ll take you somewhere else. I had plans for today.”

“Somewhere else?”

Messara just smiled. A sly, playful grin. He was probably planning to take me to another shopping center to buy a load of gifts and hand them to me.

There was no helping it. Messara had already slid my underwear down. It was ridiculous. The more we met, the more I realized how incredibly driven by his sexual desires he was. When he wanted it, he had to have it right then and there. I couldn’t keep up.

For a man who was so composed in other areas, it was baffling how unrestrained he was when it came to sex. That burning desire, paired with an unwavering stamina, was a real issue.

What a handful…

I lay down slowly, spreading my legs just as Messara wanted. Suddenly, I thought about the first day we reunited. That day, Messara was shockingly well-mannered. He was, for that one day.

We spent six hours just talking, had dinner, and then went to sleep peacefully. The most we did was oral, with no deviant acts to speak of—it surprised me so much that I wondered if I’d misjudged him. He even looked melancholy when he stepped into the bathroom to smoke after. I assumed he had spent time reflecting during our separation… only to realize how wrong I was the very next day.

After three hours of conversation, we went to a hotel and had penetrative sex. On the third day, we talked for two hours before going back to my place. During sex, he choked my waist.

On the fourth day, we talked for about an hour before he started to have sex with me in the used bookstore. He choked my neck and waist that time.

These days, the time we spend talking is getting shorter, and the intensity of our sex is escalating. It seems even Messara finds his own deviant urges difficult to handle. He often glanced at me with pitiful eyes, as if silently begging for understanding. It made me laugh.

“Why are you laughing?” Messara asked, playing with my chest. I snapped back to reality.

“Oh, it just tickled.”

“Hm?”

He tilted his head but then buried his face in my neck again. As the kissing and caressing continued, I found myself getting more and more excited. Messara was always good at kissing and touching, and I melted into his touch.

With hazy sensations, I wrapped my legs around his waist. His body was solid like a rock, pressing down on me, making it hard to breathe. I couldn’t take it anymore—the strange sensation from below kept rising.

“M-Messara…”

“What? Are you asking me to put it in? I thought you said we might have customers.”

Messara teased, though he slid his fingers down below, chuckling softly. It was unbearably embarrassing. Without even realizing it, my body had responded. His fingers felt every twitch.

“Relax.”

He whispered as he gently nudged, but soon enough, he thrust inside roughly.

“Ah…”

I widened my eyes as something big and hard filled me to the brim, almost reaching up to my stomach. The sensation of being filled all at once, teetering between extreme pain and pleasure, was overwhelming. Messara hoisted my legs onto his shoulders, lifting me off the floor, and kept thrusting at a fast pace from the start.

“Ah, ah, ah! S-slow down!”

“Why all the fuss? This is nothing.”

Messara only pushed deeper. His coarse pubic hair rubbed against me roughly as he pounded in and out. The movements were harsh, a stark contrast to his gentle foreplay.

Somewhere, my body ached. The pleasure rose steadily, consuming my whole body. I moaned, clinging to Messara’s shoulders.

“Do you like it? Do you? Squeeze tighter…”

Messara licked my nipples, nibbling on them playfully. I was about to climax. The pleasure rising within me was a fireball. The feeling of his constant in-and-out at the entrance was vivid.

His furious thrusts felt like they would stab through me, pounding my insides. Messara kept asking if I liked it, but all I could do was scream. The thrusting reached a peak. An orgasm wracked my body, and my vision went white.

Then suddenly, the door chime rang. I froze. Messara, who had been relentlessly pushing, also stopped in his tracks. A brief moment passed.

“Damn it…”

Messara cursed under his breath, and I took in a sharp breath. Inside, I was getting soaked. His penis was spurting out semen in small bursts, not all at once but repeatedly. The liquid didn’t just stay inside; it trickled out, running down my arched back.

Messara bit his lip in frustration. I stared up at the ceiling, unable to even close my legs. Only one thought crossed my mind: Did they see? They must have seen.

How embarrassing.

His penis slipped out, and Messara zipped up his pants, his expression tense. Even though a while had passed, there was no sign that the intruder had left.

Messara sharply turned his head.

“What are you staring at! Get out of here right now!”

A moment later, I heard the door open. Through the glass, I saw a shadow hurrying away. The sound of the bell jingling in the silence hung heavy, like an uneasy echo.

Messara stood still, his eyes fixed on the entrance. Only after the jingle of the bell completely faded did he finally turn back to me.

“Did that scare you?”

“Uh…”

Grasping his hand, I managed to get up. Messara used a handkerchief to wipe off the fluids on my body, then helped me get dressed.

“Sorry. I meant to pull out in time. My stubbornness ended up embarrassing you. I promise we won’t do this here again.”

Messara hesitated as he said this, glancing over at me. I replied with a simple, “It’s fine,” before heading back to the counter. Things like this happen.

After all, this is 42nd Street.

With that in mind, I poured myself a cup of tea. Messara put on his coat and said, “Wait a moment. I’ll be back with the car,” before stepping outside. I stared absently out the window.

The glass, frosted over with condensation, was murky. Through the snowflakes gently drifting down like feathers, Messara disappeared from view.

I wondered when he’d be back.

I pressed my legs together. Inside, I still felt sticky. I could feel the semen trickling down my walls, and the thought crossed my mind that if I wasn’t careful, it might soak into my underwear.

Hunched over, I wrapped my arms around my lower belly, but the discomfort didn’t go away. Knowing how particular Messara was about this kind of thing, I figured he wasn’t feeling great about it either.

Messara hated condoms, but he was extremely meticulous about cleanliness afterward. Even when I was exhausted, he’d always insist on taking a shower. If I couldn’t move, he would clean me up himself. On the first night we had sex at Snow White, when I was flustered by the fluids leaking from inside me, he even taught me how to clean up with the showerhead. He wasn’t kidding when he said he got regular STD tests.

Suddenly, the bell jangled again, and I snapped my head up. It wasn’t Messara. A middle-aged man in a coat stepped into the shop.

“Sorry, but we’re closing soon, sir.”

The man stared intently at me. His face wasn’t familiar. He didn’t seem to be one of the usual struggling artists who frequented the place. His appearance was far more polished.

He scanned me up and down, his face reddening. I felt uncomfortable and averted my gaze to the counter as I spoke.

“We’re closing, sir. Sorry, but please come back another time.”

The man just fiddled with the cane in his hand.

“Sir. I’m sorry, but we’re closing.”

“…I’m not here to buy a book.”

“Then… are you asking for directions?”

“Not that either. I saw… well, I saw something earlier, and I know what it was.”

“What? What do you mean by that?”

I trailed off as I realized who this man was. He was the unwelcome visitor from earlier.

Great.

My face flushed with embarrassment. I wanted to crawl into a hole. But what did he mean by “I know what it was”?

“It was rape, wasn’t it? I recognized the uniform the man was wearing. He’s a Guiger officer. I’ll testify for you—report it right away. I’m sorry for running off earlier; I was just scared of the man who was yelling.”

“Rape…”

I was dumbfounded. Rape?

It was absurd, but considering the reputation associated with Messara’s job, I couldn’t blame him. Still, it was an uncomfortable misunderstanding. I briefly glared at the man, who now hung his head low, and spoke up.

“You misunderstood. Thank you for your concern, but that man is my friend.”

“Huh… your friend?”

The man looked up at me, eyes wide.

“Yes. My friend. The shop’s been slow lately, so we didn’t think anyone would come in, and we were just having fun. Does that clear things up?”

“Oh, uh, yes. Yes. I see. My apologies for… interrupting.”

The man scratched his head, his face turning even redder.

What a strange guy…

This was 42nd Street. Nobody would even bat an eye at a blowjob happening right on the sidewalk. He must’ve been an outsider, unfamiliar with the place. His accent also carried a hint of German.

“Ray, are you done cleaning up? Let’s head out.”

Just then, Messara walked in. As he approached me, he noticed the man and frowned. I grabbed my coat and took out the keys.

“Let’s go.”

Messara just stared at the man with a blank expression. I was momentarily taken aback by his reaction. It wouldn’t have been strange for someone as observant as Messara to recognize who the man was right away, but his reaction seemed over the top.

The man, looking terrified, glanced back and forth between me and Messara. I grabbed Messara’s arm and urged him, “Let’s go.”

“Heh…”

Messara let out a soft laugh, then shouted cheerfully, “What are you staring at, old man? Never seen a gay couple before?”

The man’s face turned beet red in an instant.

“I-I’m sorry.”

The man hastily ran out the door, and Messara chuckled to himself.

We left the bookstore together, stepping into the snow as it relentlessly blanketed the streets with its cognac-colored glow. It wasn’t until I locked the door that I noticed the cane leaning against the counter.

꙳•❅*ִ

“Rape, huh? That old geezer sure has some nerve,” I fumed, frustration bubbling up as I thought back on the incident.

Rape, really?

As soon as I was promoted to Guiger Chief, one of my first actions was to fire any officers with a history of sexual assault. Moreover, I made it a rule that no one with such a record could ever be hired again. Keeping work and sex as far apart as possible—that was my personal motto. Sideburns proved the value of that philosophy and died a quiet death because of it.

Rape was something only ugly, incompetent people resorted to. A capable man would never need to resort to such actions. No matter how much of a sadist I was, I still had my pride. I had no intention of squandering my natural talent for killing by becoming a third-rate murderer, picking off helpless prostitutes like Jack the Ripper. If that had been my goal, I wouldn’t have bothered getting involved in political warfare.

I tapped the steering wheel lightly and leaned back in my seat. Ray had already fallen asleep. The traffic was awful, and it looked like it would take around two hours to reach our destination.

But what was that old man doing there?

Tannelli Sorel. The very man who had ruined our “afternoon affair.” Even in the heat of my frustration, I couldn’t help but be dumbfounded. What on earth was someone like him doing in a brothel’s secondhand bookstore? And then he even came back, offering to testify as a witness in a supposed rape case?

What an odd fellow.

Tannelli Sorel, age 54. The kingdom’s most prominent oil tycoon, jeweler, and art dealer. He spent most of the year in Germany and was notorious for his extreme aversion to the media. He was also famously a far-leftist. In most places, “far-left” typically referred to communists or labor activists, but in the kingdom, it meant advocates for the abolition of the monarchy. Sorel was a major financial backer of Freebird, the largest monarch-abolition organization in the kingdom, donating large sums to it every year.

On top of all these titles, he was also a children’s book author as a side job. A real eccentric.

Up until a few days ago, I hadn’t even known what Sorel looked like. The Guiger Chief position wasn’t the kind of job that allowed for paying attention to monarch-abolitionists. If it hadn’t been for the royal party five days ago, I would have lived my whole life without knowing that Sorel had a mole near his nose or that he was a skilled Latin dancer.

I glanced over at Ray. Sure enough, he was sleeping with his mouth wide open.

A strange coincidence…

At that party five days ago, I overheard something intriguing. While listening to some nobles talk behind a curtain, I learned that the reason for Sorel’s attendance at the royal party was rather peculiar. It had to do with the Queen of Snow portrait.

The Queen of Snow portrait had long been a part of the royal family’s collection. It was one of the most valuable and highly coveted pieces in their art holdings. Apparently, after years of lobbying, Sorel had finally gotten his hands on it. It was strange for such an outspoken anti-monarchist to covet the queen’s portrait, of all things.

“What’s the reason behind that?” I asked Cooperhead.

“Well, the court painter who painted the Queen of Snow portrait in the 16th century was one of Sorel’s ancestors. Magso Sorel, the court painter. And of course, it’s an incredibly valuable piece,” Cooperhead explained.

“I see,” I nodded, and that was the end of my interest in Sorel. I had only felt a moment of disappointment that my plan to take Ray on a date to the palace to see the portrait had been ruined.

And now, that very same man had shown up at Ray’s shop?

Something felt off.

Maybe he was just looking for a fling and happened to wander into Ray’s bookstore by accident.

The line of cars ahead started moving. I quickly grabbed the steering wheel.

My prediction was spot-on—it took us two full hours to reach our destination. It had been an annoyingly troublesome day.

I shook Ray awake.

“We’re here. Time to get up.”

Ray groggily opened his eyes.

“Where are we…?”

“Where do you think? My house. A very special one, too.”

“Special?”

Ray looked around, eyeing the house. It was a cozy two-story home with white walls and a black roof, in a distinctly Austrian style.

I led Ray inside. The plan was in motion.

Ray glanced around the interior and commented, “It’s certainly special. Doesn’t feel like your home at all.”

“Of course.”

I merely shrugged my shoulders. As Ray said, this house didn’t match the great Snake, the king of wealth, at all. It was a modest home, suitable for a typical middle-class family in every way.

Ray continued to glance around. He skimmed over the photo frames on the wall and fiddled with the checkered fabric covering the antique sofa. That was a decent enough reaction. I smiled softly.

Ray stroked the checkered fabric hesitantly and spoke, “This house, by any chance…”

“Yes. It’s the house my parents left me. I told you they passed away suddenly in a car accident when I was twenty.”

“I thought so. I figured it out from that.”

Ray pointed to the photo frames that filled the wall. The pictures showed me, from infancy to age twenty, posing with my parents or friends.

I had already told Ray, but I was a hopeless troublemaker from a young age, and it showed in the photos. In most of them, I had a big grin on my face, despite being covered in bruises. Even I had to admit I looked rather villainous. Being gay and not having a son who would take after me was a blessing.

Ray closely examined the photo frames. Silently, I followed behind him, grinning.

Ray was an orphan. Because of that, he was likely to be easily swayed by the cozy atmosphere of a home. So, I brought him to this house, which retained the warmth of a family, to soften him up. Then, I’d persuade him to spend this winter here with me. That was the plan—operation “Home, Sweet Home.”

It was a solid strategy. After all, I’d grown up with years of scheming, and I wasn’t about to fail now. The talk of this being a special house wasn’t just a baseless comment either. This was the home I had lived in from birth until three years after my parents passed away. Even after moving into a luxurious apartment upon my promotion, I never sold it. I cared for this place enough to personally clean and maintain it twice a year.

After Ray rejected my offer to live together, I brainstormed how to overcome this setback, and then it hit me—this house. It was 45 minutes from headquarters and had a peaceful view. I immediately contacted an interior designer and a security company to replace the old kitchen appliances and install a security system. I finished the preparations, including a thorough cleaning, just three days ago.

The signs were good. Ray was smiling as he looked at the family photos. I threw my second move.

“Would you like to see my room?”

I led Ray upstairs to my room. The walls were plastered with posters of pro wrestlers and boxers, and various sports equipment, including a basketball, was scattered on the floor. The shelves were crammed with comic books and detective novels, and CDs were piled up near the stereo.

“Wow, I didn’t know you were into detective novels.”

As a second-hand bookstore owner, Ray naturally went straight for the books. I smirked. It was a good thing I burned all my gay magazines in the backyard three days ago during the cleanup.

After coming out to my parents at 14, I didn’t care if my mother cried or not—I dragged handsome boys home and had my fun. I even subscribed to gay magazines openly. Of course, I had no intention of ever sharing that unfilial and filthy part of my past with Ray. Ever.

I made my third move.

“Would you like to take a look at my high school yearbook?”

We flipped through the yearbook together. Ray burst into laughter at my appearance at the prom.

“Back then, it was all the rage among teenagers. When I was about to leave dressed like that, my father had something to say. ‘Son, what on earth are you wearing?’ I grumbled to myself, ‘What nonsense is the old man spouting?’ A year later, I felt sorry for the girl in the photo with me. She’s probably hiding her high school yearbook from her husband to this day because of that prom photo.”

“Haha, you’re completely different now. You pay so much attention to fashion.”

“I did pay attention, but it still turned out like that. Many famous designers have their own fashion mishaps in their youth, don’t they? It was a phase.”

“Haha!”

Ray wiped away tears as he laughed, and I couldn’t resist giving him a quick kiss on the lips. I felt my lower half melting. I wanted to strip him down and take him right then and there.

But I had to restrain myself. Now was the time for restraint and patience. Revealing my true nature too soon would get me thrown off the field before I even had a chance to score. It would be impossible to completely change my image of being a ‘polite pervert’ in just one day, but I planned to improve it to some extent.

Ray kept flipping through the yearbook with a smile. It seemed like I had successfully shown off my modest side.

“Let’s head downstairs. I’m hungry. How about we make dinner together?”

We cooked dinner together. Well, mostly I did the cooking while Ray watched. Ever since we restarted our relationship, I’d discovered something terrifying about Ray—he was a terrible cook, and to make matters worse, he was a vegetarian. For my own well-being, I needed to teach him the joys of good food as soon as possible.

As I pulled out some wine, I said, “I’ll set the table. Why don’t you watch some TV in the living room?”

“Sure.”

As I set the table and lit the candles, I occasionally glanced over at the living room. Ray was completely absorbed in the TV. When I finished setting the table, I called out to him.

“Everything’s ready. Time to eat.”

Ray didn’t move.

“…Ray?”

What’s he watching so intently? I tilted my head and walked over to the sofa.

“Ray.”

I tapped him on the shoulder from behind. Suddenly, Ray slumped forward, almost collapsing. My heart dropped.

“Ray…?”

Just as I was about to catch him, Ray slowly turned his head toward me. His blue eyes met mine like a scream. For a split second, it felt like my entire body froze.

His wide blue eyes glistened with a hint of tears. After a brief pause, I asked, confused, “Why?”

Ray quickly stood up.

This is the 2nd half of the same novel named as Glass Garden. This is just a continuation, so nothing significant has changed.