The Snow Queen

The Grim Reaper swung the whip in his hand with a snap. The whip traced a supple arc through the air and struck the backs of the vagrants. They reflexively turned around. Though their expressions weren’t clear, one thing was certain—they were frozen in place, if only for a moment.

Soon, the vagrants charged at the Reaper like a tidal wave. He made no effort to avoid them. Instead, he casually flicked the whip, displaying a relaxed demeanor. Only when the vagrants were close enough to reach him did he change his stance. With expert skill, he lashed out, crushing them one by one. His actions were as brutal as they were efficient. The vagrants collapsed, spraying blood. Every single one fell without so much as touching the Reaper. The sight was utterly surreal.

Without realizing it, I opened the window. The stinging tear gas was mixed with the wind and rushed into the hospital room. My hair flew wildly outside the window. My vision blurred in the thick, lemon-colored haze. Suddenly, a red flower fluttered down before me. Its movement was weak and precarious… like a prisoner being dragged to the gallows under the pale moonlight.

The fluttering red flower brushed against the Reaper’s shoulder. I stared at it blankly. A coldly gleaming muzzle pointed in my direction. Then, a gunshot rang out…

“Arisa?”

“Huh.”

I nearly collapsed to the floor. The doctor, with a startled expression, rushed to support me.

“The air outside is bad because of the tear gas. Why did you open the window? You were practically hanging out of it! We’re on the 18th floor.”

“Guess I got too absorbed in watching the protest.”

I awkwardly replied, swallowing my unease.

What was that?

The red flower, the gun, even the Reaper that had dominated my vision… all vanished in an instant. It was as if none of it had ever happened.

Closing the window, I looked down at the protest site once more. The Reaper was leisurely climbing into a jeep.

The gun and the red flower… Could they have something to do with my lost memories? I rubbed my left chest. This was one of the changes that had occurred over the past 11 years.

I had a bullet wound scar on my chest. Messara had explained that I’d been shot during an armed robbery after leaving a secondhand bookstore late at night. The bullet had barely missed my heart. Had I been holding a red flower back then? I tilted my head in confusion.

“Arisa, please come this way. It’s time for a full medical checkup.”

The doctor called to me. As I followed him, I cast another glance out the window. All that remained was a cloud of black smoke.

꙳•❅*ִ

The doctor said Ray’s symptoms likely didn’t stem from a brain issue.

“We’ll need the full test results to be sure, but for now, it appears to be dissociative amnesia. The symptoms vary from patient to patient, so we’ll have to continue with emotional stabilization therapy and medication.”

“I see.”

“By the way, Ray’s IQ was exceptionally high in the test results. I ran the test twice more just to be sure, but the result was the same each time. It’s amazing how much you can’t tell just by looking at someone, huh? Ha ha ha.”

Looking at the chart the doctor showed me, I almost couldn’t believe my eyes. I also skimmed through some drawings Ray had done. They were remarkably amateurish. I was about to laugh at a drawing of a cake but then froze.

“…What is this?”

“Strange, isn’t it?” the doctor replied. I stared intently at the drawing.

“In these kinds of drawings, people usually portray themselves as the protagonist, but Ray keeps drawing a woman with long black hair in a dress. You can sense a deep connection between this woman and Ray. To be frank, some gay individuals identify with women, but even considering that, this feels a bit odd.”

I explained Ray’s obsession with Snow Queen and the details of his past confinement.

“I see. That explains a lot. The drawings were unsettling. Take a look.”

We flipped through the drawings. They were chilling. Even in depictions of our daily life, Ray always had black hair. There were also several drawings of the Snow Queen trampling over a king and his courtiers, with all of them bleeding profusely. The vividly layered blood was striking.

In a drawing where Ray and I stood together in front of a white house, I felt a cold shiver run down my spine. Holding the paper, my fingertips grew cold. It felt like I was peering into some twisted, long-hidden aspect of Ray’s psyche. Most puzzling of all was the presence of the Snow Queen in these drawings.

When I asked, the doctor said human psychology isn’t like a mathematical formula and that it would take time to fully understand. The art therapist suggested that Ray’s general use of color and layout indicated he was feeling relatively positive and stable. We’d receive the results of his medical tests in two days.

I headed home with Ray. The image of Ray with black hair from the drawing wouldn’t leave my mind. It felt like I had been struck by a hammer. The meaning was clear. No matter how much I tried to deny it, I was convinced. That picture revealed the identity of that so-called king.

The king.

The answer was in that very title. Wasn’t Daytanz the king? And Ray’s dream… of being tortured by men in pointed hoods. Those matched the clothing of medieval inquisitors. Moreover, Ray despised the warrior nobles. The warrior nobles had been deeply involved in the death of the Snow Queen.

No, that can’t be.

I shook my head violently. There’s no way. Even if Ray was obsessed with the Snow Queen, how could this be? This wasn’t just about a connection. This was Ray identifying himself with the Snow Queen! Which meant… Ray had completely lost it!

I slammed the steering wheel.

“Damn it!”

Ray looked at me in shock.

“What… What’s wrong?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. The traffic is just terrible.”

I forced a smile. Keeping my nerves sharp, I stared straight ahead. For now, I had to accept the situation as it was.

Considering that Ray is gay, specifically a bottom, it wasn’t entirely impossible for him to identify with a woman. It was quite plausible. Still, to be honest, it didn’t really matter much to me. The problem was that the figure he identified with was Snow Queen.

If my hypothesis was correct, Ray got involved in political struggles because he believed himself to be Snow Queen. For ten years, he had committed all sorts of bizarre actions, driven by a desire for revenge. My throat felt dry.

Why couldn’t he believe he was Wonder Woman instead?

Right, Wonder Woman. How great would that be? She can fly, swing a magical lasso, and she’s technically a princess, wearing a crown.

The more I thought about it, the more surreal it seemed. Of all things, why Snow Queen? A woman who died in such a gruesome way, remembered for generations. And Ray, who went as far as to blacken his own hair in his drawings to identify with her.

“Doesn’t this hair look weird?”

Ray suddenly spoke up. I had been deep in thought about hair already, so I couldn’t help but flinch subconsciously.

“Weird? Where are you going with this?”

“Louise tied it like this, but it feels awkward.”

Ray touched his hair as he replied. The usually long hair he wore down had been tied back and pinned up.

“It looks fine to me. By the way, who’s Louise?”

“The art therapist. She tied it up for me, saying it was dragging on the ground. Really, though, it doesn’t look weird?”

“No, it looks neat. Why do you think it looks weird? Is it because the color of the pin doesn’t match your blonde hair?”

I asked, trying to lead the conversation. Ray answered calmly.

“It’s tied up like this, so it feels like I look like a woman.”

I looked at Ray quietly. Feeling weird because he looked like a woman? What was this supposed to mean? Wasn’t it a contradiction?

Ray believed he was Snow Queen. In that case, Ray = Snow Queen = Queen = Woman = Ray = Snow Queen. It should all align perfectly with my theory. But then why did he feel strange about looking like a woman?

A honk sounded from behind. I quickly started the car. I retraced everything from the beginning. I compared Ray to all the bottoms I’d encountered before. Most of the bottoms I knew were petite and delicate, constantly whining and begging to be called degrading names. There were plenty who caked on makeup and strutted around in women’s clothes and high heels.

But Ray?

Ray had never done anything like that. In fact, I couldn’t even imagine it. Flirting? I wished I could even catch a glimpse of it. My biggest complaint about Ray was how indifferent he was. Whining? Not a chance. And he hated being called names. I still vividly remembered almost ruining our first night together when Leopard and I tried yelling, “Hey, lady! Shake that ass!” and “You bitch!” at him.

Could it be a calm personality? That would be as silly as categorizing people by blue for boys and pink for girls. Or maybe it’s a preference for flowers? But aren’t most gardeners men? I even remembered several scenes from Japanese films where fierce samurais carefully polished orchids.

Sure, Ray’s hair was unusually long for a guy. But long hair has always been a symbol of rock stars, the epitome of machismo. Playing with dolls? Makeup? Women’s clothing? High heels? Absolutely not. Honestly, I couldn’t say this to Ray’s face, but he embodied the quintessential grumpy old bachelor in every way.

Besides, I had never once seen any sign that Ray thought of himself as a woman. If he had, like lifting his pinky while holding a teacup or something, I wouldn’t be this shocked right now.

As my excitement subsided, I realized it didn’t seem like full identification. It was more like a deep connection. But the conclusion still led back to Snow Queen. No matter how much Ray felt his situation was similar to hers, Snow Queen was a bit much, wasn’t it?

How was I supposed to fix this?

I glanced sideways at Ray, who was still awkwardly fiddling with his hair. Suddenly, an idea flashed through my mind.

Of course. The hair.

Starting tomorrow, I’d brush Ray’s hair every morning and endlessly praise his blonde hair. Over time, Ray would come to recognize that his hair was not black but blonde. That’s where I’d start. Eventually, I could nudge his sense of connection away from Snow Queen and toward Rapunzel.

I felt a bit lighter. I even considered buying Ray a collection of jeweled hairpins as a gift.

Taking off my mask, I leaned back in the chair. My mood was a wreck. Today’s paper featured Karl’s rosy engagement news. His fiancée was the daughter of Marquis Obaska, a close associate of Pusher.

So, Karl had decided to cozy up to Lotus after all.

I tapped the table with my whip. Karl’s intentions were crystal clear. He planned to keep his sister as the king’s mistress and pull the strings behind the scenes.

A true opportunist. When his sister was doing well, he openly disrespected Pusher with his aristocratic club. But now that her chances of becoming queen were gone, he was quick to cling to Pusher. I scanned the newspaper.

Even in seclusion, Karl hosted tea parties for noble children every week. Two weeks ago, at one of these parties, he reportedly fell for Miss Obaska, who attended with her nephew. Karl claimed that upon seeing her, “I was breathless, and my entire body froze.”

Yeah, right. I laughed without hesitation.

Falling head over heels at first sight for a 147 cm woman with a chest as flat as a piece of gum stuck to the pavement? And she was four years older than Karl, to boot.

He must’ve been desperate…

I stared at the photo, feeling a strange sense of unease. Maybe it was because of the mismatch between the handsome Karl and this gum-sized woman. Their engagement was scheduled for next week. Her family seemed anxious that Karl might change his mind.

I pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and confirmed Karl’s ambitions once again. He had completely lost his sense of reality. He cared nothing for his sister.

If this were during the reign of Manen and Lord Wolfscott, Karl and Irina would’ve been long gone by now. Karl had no idea how lucky he was that Pusher didn’t enjoy killing and that our alliance with the commoners had toned down the brutality of the political landscape.

I really need to figure out a way to eliminate this guy…

The problem was that there wasn’t a clear case against him. Though things had turned out in my favor, the reason the German operatives initially only sent Irina’s documents was precisely this. Reports from there indicated Karl was being praised as a well-mannered young artist. Frustrated, I yelled at the team, telling them to naturalize as Germans if they couldn’t dig up any dirt on Karl, and then hung up the phone.

“Are you there?”

A knock sounded. It was Copperhead, with Leopard following behind.

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“Have you seen the news? It’s not a huge deal, but it’s pretty amusing. Turn on the TV.”

I turned on the television. The screen showed Altonen, with an embarrassed look, sucking the toes of a glamorous actress, her body barely covered by a bikini that left only 3% to the imagination.

I leaned back in my chair, scratching my chin. It was obvious. A gift from Pusher to his business partner.

“Quite cheeky,” I remarked.

“It’s not scandal-worthy, but still fun to watch,” Copperhead added. I tapped my whip lightly on the table and asked, “What’s Altonen up to?”

Leopard, pouring vodka into his glass, replied, “What else? Getting beaten up by his wife. Anyway, what are you going to do about it?”

I sipped my vodka, weighing the situation. It would take at least four months before the king brought in a new queen. Meanwhile, Karl and Pusher had joined forces. It was time to deal a serious blow to one of them.

Who should I handle first?

The answer became clear—Pusher. I decided to hit that old man hard this time. I already had something planned, and if I played it right, it could be quite entertaining. A grin spread across my face.

“Summon the East Eden journalists to headquarters by tomorrow morning,” I ordered.

Copperhead nodded, asking, “Pusher?” His quick wit impressed me.

“Wait and see,” I responded, raising my glass. Copperhead and Leopard grinned as we clinked our glasses together. After downing the drink, I stood up abruptly. Altonen was set to attend the Marquis Obasca’s party that afternoon. It was an important gathering, a chance to gauge the balance of power among several tattooed aristocrats, including Pusher. I donned my cursed mask and grabbed my coat.

“I’m heading out. Follow me,” I said.

As we headed to the Marquis Obasca’s mansion, I fiddled with a jeweled pin—a gift I had picked up from a jewelry shop near headquarters during lunch. At a red light, the car momentarily stopped. Leopard, at the wheel, glanced at me through the rearview mirror.

“What’s that? A present for Redfox?”

“Yeah,” I replied.

“So, Redfox has been tying their hair back lately, huh? Things must be getting interesting.”

I chuckled. I wondered what kind of expression Leopard would make if he knew that Ray was currently in and out of a mental hospital. Leopard eyed my left hand with a squint.

“…I’ve been meaning to ask since the other day. That ring on your left hand—after knowing you for eight years, I’ve never seen you wear one. And it’s a sapphire? Don’t tell me you’ve registered as domestic partners with Pax?”

“I’m about to.”

At my answer, both Leopard and Copperhead widened their eyes. Naturally, I was planning to register with Pax soon. We had exchanged rings as a symbol, and the next step was the legal process.

After a while, Copperhead broke the silence. “How’s Ryeong doing?”

“Same as usual.”

“What kind of answer is that from someone about to register their partnership? Are you already in a rut?”

If only it were just a rut. I wished it were that simple. It was the excessive dynamics that were the real issue. I smiled bitterly, putting the jeweled pin back into its case.

Traffic was awful. After over an hour on the road, we had only reached 27th Street. Leopard yawned repeatedly, and Copperhead was deeply absorbed in a book. I caught glimpses of names like Daytanz and Whitebirch on the pages.

“What’s that? Have you suddenly developed an interest in Snow Queen?” I asked.

“Not really. Ryeong’s a fan of Snow Queen, so I just got curious,” Copperhead replied.

“Is there anything worth getting curious about?”

“More than I thought. When you dive deeper into something you only vaguely knew about, there’s a lot that’s either absurd or fascinating.”

“Like what?”

“For example, Viola Cathedral was built as a result of the Whitebirch incident…”

“Viola Cathedral?”

Viola Cathedral was the second-largest cathedral in the kingdom. The only thing I knew about it was that it housed the tombs of generations of royals.

“Apparently, Whitebirch was forbidden by the king from attending Sunday mass and was imprisoned in a tower. Rumors spread that even before being accused of witchcraft, Whitebirch was seen flying into the hills on a broom to meet the devil, or that she had secretly converted to Protestantism.”

“Ha! A broom? Really?”

“Well, people back then had a completely different mindset. Joan of Arc was condemned as a witch just for wearing pants.”

That wasn’t just a difference in mindset—it was an issue of intelligence.

“Anyway, despite the witch rumors, there were a lot of doubts about Whitebirch’s guilt. It’s obvious. Why would Whitebirch, who was likely counting down the days to her divorce from the king, suddenly get jealous of Levitan?”

“Of course, it doesn’t make sense.”

I let out a small laugh before stopping short. The details were oddly familiar. Then I remembered—I’d read about this in

. Feeling irritated, I lit a cigarette.

Whitebirch…

I reflected on the details of the “Whitebirch Curse Incident” mentioned in

. The one who accused Whitebirch of witchcraft was the younger brother of Whitebirch’s nanny. He had claimed that his sister told him the queen cursed Levitan with magic. Instead of carefully reviewing the accusation, the Inquisition swiftly arrested the queen.

Soon after, the king’s mother summoned the nanny to a private room for a lengthy conversation. That very night, both the nanny and her brother died under mysterious circumstances. With the death of the only witness who could have recanted the accusation, Whitebirch’s fate was sealed. Just one day after her arrest, she was subjected to torture on the king’s mother’s orders. A secret trial was held only once in two months, and no magical artifacts were found in the tower.

During the war, the tattooed nobles sent numerous letters to the king, asking him to stop the pointless torture. Yet, the king allowed it to continue and even destroyed all the trial records. All this pointed to one conclusion.

“He framed Whitebirch for witchcraft to insult the tattooed nobles and marry his pregnant mistress. Two birds with one stone.”

“Exactly. There’s even more circumstantial evidence. Royals subjected to torture could supposedly request a ‘merciful death,’ sparing them excessive pain. But rumors say that the king’s mother ordered the torturers not to grant Whitebirch this mercy, insisting on extreme brutality. Despite this, Whitebirch fiercely denied the charges, showing her strength of character. It’s obvious what was going on.”

Cooperhead raised a clenched fist to emphasize “strength of character.” It was dreadful.

“Legally, the king’s mother had no right to interfere in a witch trial, especially as a non-Inquisitor. The entire process was flawed from the start, and yet the Inquisition remained silent throughout, despite being under the Vatican’s authority.”

It was revolting. As much as I wanted to stop hearing about it, I needed to know the details because of Ray’s condition. I stubbed out my cigarette and lit another.

“So, the king bribed the Inquisition with promises related to the cathedral?”

“Exactly. Construction on Viola Cathedral began one year after Whitebirch’s death. There’s no shortage of evidence suggesting collusion between the king and the Catholic Church.”

I tapped my chair. The more I knew, the clearer the subtext of

became. That was the point of it all. “The Inquisitors were no different. They all sweated nervously under the king’s cold stare…”

I now understood why the king glared at his subordinates. With suspicion about the accusations so widespread, he must have desperately wanted a false confession to justify his actions. But he never got one. Even by the end of the war, the case remained unresolved, making his men look incompetent.

Still, something didn’t sit right. The torturers in Ray’s nightmares didn’t seem to care about extracting a confession. How was that possible?

“There were conspiracy theories surrounding Whitebirch’s death too. She died right before the king’s return from war, leading some to speculate that after thoroughly torturing her to terrorize the tattooed nobles, she was killed once her usefulness ended.”

The more I heard, the more disgusted I felt. Even if I combined all my misdeeds, they wouldn’t compare to Daytanz’s cruelty. But something still bothered me.

That conspiracy theory only held up if Whitebirch never confessed, enduring until her death. But according to

, her left arm was in such a terrible state that it defied belief she hadn’t confessed earlier under such brutal torture.

Yet the king left for war, seemingly confident she wouldn’t confess. Was he Nostradamus reborn?

I tapped my chair again and mentally reviewed

. The outline of the king’s scheme became clear. Yes, that was it.

He never intended to extract a confession in the first place.

I shuddered. According to the king’s plan, it didn’t matter if his wife died early and quietly. So why did he order such severe torture? A phrase from the memoir resurfaced in my mind:

“Leaving the queen to die slowly from the torture was the king’s way of protecting his beloved mistress. He wanted to make an example so that no other noblewomen would dare harass her.”

So that was it. The man was utterly deranged.

Yet, one question remained. Why was her corpse covered with a tarp? Was the stench really that unbearable?

And why did the king glare at the Inquisitors? Was he simply caught up in his own twisted theatrical performance?

“In any case, the benefits he gained from killing his wife were enormous. He was a sharp one, even now it’s impressive. You should read about it later,” Cooperhead said, folding the page and handing me the book.

I took it and tossed it aside, feeling nauseous. To calm myself, I began fiddling with the jeweled pin again, a butterfly-shaped piece encrusted with diamonds.

From the rearview mirror, Leopard glanced at the pin, muttering, “Wow, that’s dazzling.”

I kept playing with the pin, lost in thought. This morning, I had tied Ray’s hair myself. It had started as a conditioning exercise, but I ended up enjoying it more than expected. The pin shopping had been fun too, as was flipping through hairstyle magazines. I considered straightening Ray’s curly hair one day—though the hairstylists would likely collapse from exhaustion.

What the hell…

I furrowed my brows. The dream about those accursed hawthorn branches came rushing back. The mere thought of those bastards crushing Ray’s body in silence made my blood boil. Dream or not, it was intolerable.

Could dreams align so perfectly with history? Even so, I prayed it was just a nightmare. The possibility that the abuse I had imagined might have actually happened sent a sharp pain through my skull.

Still fiddling with the pin, I abruptly asked, “Those guys…”

“Those guys? Who?”

“The torturers of the Snow Queen. The ones wearing pointed hoods.”

“Oh, them. Why?”

“Were they ever recorded? They must have played a significant role in scaring the tattooed nobles by torturing her.”

“Of course they were. It’s all documented.”

Cooperhead smiled. I continued fiddling with the pin and said, “Did they get promoted by Daytanz or something like that?”

“Not really. Just read the book, it’s all there. Some of the records are quite amusing. After reading them, I kind of understand why Snow Queen’s fans come up with those wild ideas.”

I burst into laughter.

“What do you mean? Is it because of that will to bury her in the wasteland? Hahaha.”

“That’s part of it. It’s just one of those things where history is open to interpretation. That’s why it’s been used as a subject in so many media over time. There’s a subtle fun in piecing it all together.”

“Ridiculous.”

I scoffed. It was absurd. Every single detailed record pointed to one thing: that

was nothing but a bogus legend.

Just look at the Viola Cathedral. That cathedral was obviously a bribe to the inquisitors. The only reason they would be rewarded with such a grand structure was because of how ‘useful’ they were to the king. If the story had been true, such a thing wouldn’t have happened.

It was clear what kind of person the king was. I’d seen his type countless times, working as a shepherd for noblemen. He was just like Lord Wolfscott, who murdered his nephews with a hearty laugh, or Manen, who embezzled an amount equivalent to five years of the national budget—a typical ‘blue-blooded’ aristocrat.

Once again, a throbbing pain crept up the back of my head. The more I dug into this, the more nauseating it became. I hated that Ray was so engrossed in these stories drenched in the stench of blood. Life is meant to be enjoyed, after all. Ray urgently needed a new role model to aspire to.

It seemed just combing his hair wouldn’t be enough. I considered giving Ray a stack of fairy tales about princesses and princes living happily ever after.

꙳•❅*ִ

“Officer Ray Arisa. Deploying now.”

I gave a sharp salute and stepped into the time machine. With applause from the scientists and young progressive politicians behind me, I pressed the switch. A blue door opened in midair, revealing the 16th century.

Everything was in place. Equipped with a high-powered Ray beam and a bazooka, this time machine also doubled as a robotic war machine. Its design—a bull’s head with the body of an octopus—was the stuff of myth. With this appearance, I could rampage freely in broad daylight, and the foolish people of the 16th century would only interpret it as “God’s wrath,” “Satan’s attack,” or “the arrival of the Antichrist.”

But people from the 19th century onward knew better. They’d understand that natural disasters and large-scale accidents had nothing to do with Jesus or Lucifer. So, they’d likely dismiss the bizarre events to come. “Those primitive ancients must have blamed the devil for war and plagues again. How unimaginative,” they’d scoff, pointing at the detailed drawings of the time machine and laughing. It was the perfect crime. I smiled coldly.

I could see the royal palace. The palace guards were stunned by the sight of the time machine, glowing as it appeared in the night sky. They threw down their spears and Karls, scattering in all directions. Bright lights poured out of the royal banquet hall. Just as I had suspected, the king was once again hosting a lavish party.

I swung the octopus legs with force, tearing the roof off the palace. Covered in black dust, the frozen figures of the king, queen, and nobles were revealed. After a moment of shock, they began screaming and fleeing. Noblewomen tripped on their dresses, causing chaos. Many of the nobles tried to hide under the tables.

The king was the first to regain his composure, sprinting down the corridor. A true battle-hardened monarch. I muttered coldly.

“But you won’t escape my Ray Scope.”

I relentlessly pursued the king, firing Ray beams. He dodged with agile flips but couldn’t evade for long. His oversized crown flew off, and his blue cloak ripped. Finally, the king was hit by the Ray beam, reduced to a skeleton in a puff of smoke. It was immensely satisfying.

With that momentum, I went wild, demolishing the palace and setting it ablaze. Watching the royal palace engulfed in flames, I laughed maniacally.

Hahahahaha!

It’s childish…

It really was. Revenge dreams usually were, but this one was especially comical. I chuckled, tossing and turning. The sheets were cold against me as they slipped down.

The book I had been reading before falling asleep was pressing uncomfortably on my shoulder. I thought about moving it but decided against it. Lying still, I took a deep breath and let out another laugh.

‘Revenge dreams.’ Ever since I realized the identity of the scoundrel haunting my visions at the age of thirteen, I’d been having these ridiculous fantasies. A boyish daydream, filled with absurd scenarios, like traveling back in time in a machine to destroy and burn down the royal palace. Or perhaps watching Daytanz throw a fit, drowning in alcohol in front of his portrait. Or I, as a knight, slaying the dragon Daytanz and rescuing Whitebirch from the tower, sending her off to marry a prince from a neighboring kingdom, leaving her in tears of gratitude.

I chuckled again.

Truly childish…

Suddenly, the book pressing on my shoulder was gently removed. The sheets were carefully pulled back up to my chest. Then, I felt a warm hand lightly brushing my cheek. Someone’s touch.

I blinked my eyes open slightly. It took a moment for my senses to adjust from the outlandish dream to reality. The fluorescent lights flickered softly in the hospital room. I must have dozed off, reading on the bed while waiting for Messara, who was working late. But what was this touch?

Ah…

It was Messara, stroking my cheek and looking at me with a gentle, affectionate gaze.

I stared blankly at him. A sudden sense of déjà vu washed over me. A similar situation had happened before. Yes, it had. I was sleeping in the hospital, and…

I was asleep, but Messara had come in. I heard the door, but I pretended to keep sleeping. Curious about what he would do, I peeked at him through half-closed eyes. For some reason, I did that.

Messara had taken off his coat and sat by my bedside, gazing at me. Then, he pulled the sheets up to my chest, just like now, and softly touched my cheek and hair. He watched me with that same gentle and kind look…and then…

“I must have disturbed your sleep.”

Messara spoke, snapping me out of my thoughts.

“Huh, when did you get here?”

“I just arrived. You were sleeping soundly, and I didn’t want to wake you, but I guess I did after all. It’s late. Let’s go home.”

Messara kissed my forehead and spoke. It was already nine o’clock. We left the hospital and headed home. A cold drizzle was falling in the chilly night.

“So, what kind of dream was it that made you laugh so much? You seemed to be having a lot of fun.”

“…It was a ridiculous dream. So absurd that I couldn’t help but laugh.”

“Hmm. Really?”

Messara tilted his head. I turned my gaze to the window.

Reflected in the glass was the image of 28-year-old Ray Arisa. It still felt unfamiliar. During art therapy, I had unconsciously colored my hair black, because in my memories, Ray Arisa was a monster with black hair and an ugly face. But the Ray Arisa reflected in the window had blond hair and a pale face.

Was I as intense as I am now before I lost my memories? Like I was when I was 17?

Probably not. After the success of the contract, I must have lived peacefully, embracing Whitebirch with a more mature and relaxed attitude. But something nagged at me. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed contradictory.

I had lived peacefully for 11 years. Then, I recently lost my memories. Why? How?

Could it have been that the wounds Whitebirch left were too deep? Was it a side effect? Or was it for some other reason entirely?

Whatever the cause, I wanted to recover quickly. I wanted to regain the time I had with Messara, to understand who he was and the moments we shared.

Suddenly, a memory from the hospital resurfaced. What was that scene? Why had I pretended to be asleep when Messara entered? And why had I done so out of curiosity to see what he would do?

It was astonishing. I couldn’t understand it. I almost told Messara that I remembered a bit of something, but I stopped myself. It was too embarrassing to say out loud.

Why had I done that? Why had I peeked at Messara with one eye open?

I glanced at Messara. He was driving, deep in thought. Maybe it was because of the ridiculous appearance of Daytanz in the dream, but I kept comparing him to Messara.

Unlike the cold impression of Daytanz, Messara had a gentle presence. His blond hair and gray eyes formed a harmonious and neat appearance. There was always a smile on his lips. That smile softened what could have been a cold look, thanks to his sharp eyes.

He liked teaching me how to cook or making food together. Sometimes he would surprise me with a Polaroid camera, taking photos unexpectedly. Every morning, he would pester me to shave him. He enjoyed watching cartoons, which often led to little battles over the cable remote since I preferred the art channel.

“What are you staring at like that?”

Messara asked with a sly smile. I looked down and replied, “Oh, nothing.”

Messara had sharp instincts. He would quickly react even to my slightest movements.

Messara shrugged and said, “Nothing? Hmm… But don’t you see something on the dashboard?”

I looked at the dashboard. There were several books.

“What’s this? They look like children’s books.”

“Good observation. They’re a gift.”

“A gift?”

My eyes widened. Another gift? Messara often gave me gifts. Like a magician pulling a dove from his sleeve, he would surprise me with something new every day. He always came home with an armful of shopping bags. The other day, it was a jeweled hairpin, and yesterday, a matching set of gloves and a scarf.

The dressing room at home was piled high with clothes, accessories, and trinkets Messara had given me. Dressing me up in them and admiring the result was one of his hobbies. While I appreciated it, it also made me feel a bit burdened. I even worried that Messara might have a spending problem. Just yesterday, I had gently hinted, “Shouldn’t we be a bit more frugal?”

Messara had laughed loudly and replied, “There’s no need to worry. My parents left me a generous inheritance.”

“Thank you. But why fairy tale books?”

“Hmm.”

Messara let out his characteristic little chuckle.

“Since you haven’t remembered yet, I’ll explain. You used to love reading fairy tales to me. You often read them to me in bed before I went to sleep.”

“Really?”

I was surprised. Messara nodded.

“Yes, you did. Thanks to you, I often returned to my childhood. Haha.”

“I see…”

I replied, still a bit bewildered. Reading fairy tales out loud? My voice wasn’t particularly melodious, yet apparently, I had done that.

It felt… strange.

“I’d like to hear a fairy tale from you again tonight. Pick one.”

Messara said cheerfully. I tilted my head, looking over the books. “Rapunzel,” “The Frog Prince,” “The Twelve Princes,” “The Donkey Princess”… all well-known fairy tales. One, in particular, caught my eye.

“Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.”

I picked it up and slowly flipped through the pages.

On a cold winter’s day, snowflakes as white as could be were falling from the sky. A beautiful queen was sitting by a window, sewing.

As she sewed, she looked outside at the snow and pricked her finger on the needle. Three drops of blood fell. The red on the white snow was so beautiful that the queen made a wish.

If only I had a child with skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, and hair as black as ebony!

Three drops of blood on the white snow…

What is this?

Suddenly, a strange vision flashed before my eyes. A wisp of white smoke rising over a coat as black as ebony. Red drops of blood falling onto the snow. It was so vivid.

The fleeting vision disappeared quickly. I turned the page to see an illustration of a slender girl with jet-black hair walking through the forest.

Snow White.

Whenever I read the story of Snow White, I used to joke, “This is Whitebirch.” In many ways, they were similar. The long ebony hair, the pale skin, and even the foolishness of losing in a game of temptation and defense. The difference was that Snow White was saved by the dwarfs and the prince, while Whitebirch was abandoned by everyone and died in prison.

Reality isn’t a fairy tale.

I suppressed a bitter laugh and turned the page.

“Hmm. Snow White?”

Messara smiled, clearly amused.

“Any particular reason you picked that one?”

“Well…”

I hesitated, thinking about what to say, and then mumbled, “The illustrations are pretty.”

Messara turned the steering wheel and glanced at me, his gaze surprisingly gentle.

“Haha. Snow White. I suppose I’ll fall asleep to that story tonight. There are many beautiful queens and princesses in the world. They all face hardships but ultimately find happiness in the end. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes…” I answered softly as I turned the page. The witch was tightening Snow White’s waist with a belt. On the next page, the witch was laughing while brushing Snow White’s long hair.

Absentmindedly, I touched the jeweled pin in my hair. Lately, Messara had been personally brushing and tying my hair every morning. As I thought about how the jeweled pin Messara gave me was far more beautiful than the witch’s comb, I closed the fairy tale book.

The car’s speed slowed down gradually. It seemed like it would take a while to get home due to the heavy snowfall. Messara glanced at me briefly, and I lowered my gaze.

Could it be, again…?

As expected, Messara slipped a hand under my shirt and kissed me. It was a deep kiss, one that could melt me. Even though the windows were tinted, it was still embarrassing. Messara grabbed my hand and guided it toward his lower abdomen, pressing it against the shape of his erect penis through his pants. He unzipped his trousers, pulling my hand further inside. It was hard and fully aroused.

Messara’s hand reached between my legs, touching me intimately before pulling off my clothes. I felt a twinge deep inside me. Messara had never stayed calm when the car was at a standstill, and today was no different.

Over the past few days, I had realized something: Messara had an intense sex drive. Whether it was being overly lecherous or just having high stamina, it was hard to define, but it was undeniable. I hadn’t noticed much while we were at home, but traveling back and forth from the hospital made it clear. Messara was insatiable, constantly making advances on me.

He didn’t care about the place either. We’d often done it in hospital bathrooms or consultation rooms. Oral sex in the car was routine, and he acted on impulse whenever the mood struck. Pleading with him to wait until we got home was useless. “Sex outside is more thrilling,” he’d whisper in a husky voice. Despite how thoughtful he was in every other aspect of our relationship, he was utterly relentless when it came to sex.

Just yesterday, something strange had happened.

In the middle of sex, Messara suddenly got up and brought an apron from the kitchen. “Why did you bring that?” I asked, puzzled. But Messara said nothing, calmly wrapping the apron around my naked body. He then retrieved a black box from under the bed.

I gasped. Inside the box were all kinds of unexpected, strange toys. Still naked and wrapped in the apron, I shivered in shock while Messara smiled at me, holding one of the odd tools.

I was dying to ask when he had bought all of this, but Messara’s nonchalant demeanor stopped me. And so, I was subjected to an array of strange toys while wearing nothing but an apron. Given how naturally Messara acted, it seemed we had played this kind of game frequently.

So, for me to feel awkward now and label Messara as abnormal would be rude.

In fact, if I had truly been uncomfortable with Messara’s sexual preferences, I wouldn’t have started living with him. Perhaps, over the last 11 years, I too had developed bold sexual tastes.

The Ray Arisa of 17 years old, burdened by insecurities about his appearance, had been nothing more than a pitiful boy who would peer out of the attic window, sadly watching prostitutes below. Convinced that his ugly face would keep him a virgin for life, he despaired. But after Whitebirch’s image was wiped clean, Ray Arisa had undoubtedly changed too. I must have gained solid confidence in my appearance.

Yes, with a face like this, of course.

Ray Arisa must have gone on to experience several—perhaps dozens of—romantic relationships, growing into a bold, sexually confident adult. Judging by how I sometimes felt embarrassed by Messara’s behavior but still surrendered my body in anticipation of an orgasm, it was clear.

Anyway, no one is watching…

Messara pressed my head down. I could feel his thigh muscles, as hard as granite, under my hand. His thick and large member was standing at full attention, protruding from his unzipped pants. It smelled musky and intense. As Messara caressed my earlobe, he whispered:

“Go on.”

“Just finish and leave already,” I said as I sat up.

“Let’s have lunch together. It’s already noon. Aren’t you hungry?” The man feigned innocence. What a ridiculous person, I thought, as I slipped into a robe. It was unbelievable that someone who had been relentlessly teasing me all morning could say something so casual. He was a strange man. Ignoring the man’s lingering gaze, I poured myself a glass of water, grumbling quietly as I watered the plants.

“I’ll treat you. Let’s go out together.”

“I’m going to sleep,” I replied flatly, retrieving fresh sheets from the drawer. The bed sheets were soaked with bodily fluids because of him. That made me even angrier. I glanced at the man, who was still lying in bed, smoking a cigarette without a care.

“Can you move? I need to change the sheets,” I said.

The man smiled and stood up, heading to the bathroom. A moment later, he peeked out of the bathroom and motioned with his finger.

“There’s bubble bath soap here. How about we take a bubble bath together? The tub’s a little small, though.”

Unbelievable. Every move he made was dripping with mischief. When I didn’t respond and kept changing the sheets, he shrugged and closed the bathroom door.

“This is ridiculous,” I muttered under my breath as I finished making the bed. I gathered the man’s clothes, which were scattered all over the floor. Then I froze. His phone, which I had dropped earlier when he kissed me and pried it from my hands, was lying there on the floor.

“…Arisa? Arisa!”

“Mmm. Uh-huh.” I rubbed my eyes as I woke up. My attending physician was shaking my shoulder.

“Why are you taking a nap in the lounge when you’ve got a private room? Are you coming down with a cold? You look really tired.”

“Oh, uh… I just did a lot of housework yesterday,” I mumbled, sitting up. I certainly couldn’t tell him that I was worn out from an exhausting night with Messara. After dinner, I must have dozed off while reviewing some manuscripts in the lounge.

The doctor picked up the manuscript and glanced through it.

“What’s this? Are you writing a book or something?”

“Oh, it’s nothing special. Just something I’m working on.”

The doctor flipped through the manuscript and said, “It looks pretty professional to me.”

“…I’m not sure if it’ll ever get published. After all, it wasn’t written by an expert in the field.”

“Hmm? I wouldn’t say that. I have a keen interest in this subject, and I’m surprised by how much knowledge you have about folk remedies and plants. Did you teach yourself?”

“Not at all. I learned it from a teacher I know.”

“I see. Well, you should keep at it. For someone like you, focusing on creative work can be therapeutic. And the content seems solid. Once you finish, show it to me. I might be able to get you in touch with a publisher.”

“Really?” My eyes widened in surprise.

The doctor smiled and said, “My brother owns a publishing company.” I couldn’t believe my luck. I’d been worrying about getting it published.

“So, keep working on it. My brother is very particular. See you at tomorrow’s session.”

After giving me a pat on the shoulder, the doctor left the lounge. I scratched my head before packing the manuscript into my bag, my heart racing.

But what was that dream about?

Wasn’t that Messara? In the dream, he was lying naked on the bed, grinning at me while making cheeky remarks. His mischievous tone and behavior were no different from how he usually is.

But the strange part was me. In the dream, I didn’t know Messara’s name. I referred to him only as “the man” and acted irritated.

The situation was also bizarre. Wasn’t it a post-sex scene? How could I have slept with someone I didn’t even know, especially in my own home? Yet the atmosphere was completely natural, and Messara’s subtle looks and teasing tone felt incredibly real.

No… it must have been a meaningless dream.

It had to be. There’s no way we’d be surrounded by teddy bears piled up all over the room while both of us were naked. I must be stressed out, I thought, as I closed my bag.

I sipped some tea from the vending machine and glanced through the magazines in the lounge. One of them caught my attention: a far-left publication called

. The cover was filled with images of the Grim Reaper masks worn by Guiger officers, with the headline reading “The Whip of Hades.”

The Whip of Hades? It was amusing to think that Messara’s superior(?) was on the cover of a far-left magazine like

, and the title was comical too. I chuckled and began flipping through the pages.

But my casual reading quickly turned into shock. The article exposed the political upheaval that followed the tragic accidents involving Wolfscott and Lord Manen, revealing Guiger’s involvement behind the scenes.

…Of Lord Wolfscott’s closest aides, only Snake remains in office. The others have either died mysteriously or gone into seclusion in the countryside.

At the core of Guiger is Chief Snake, a figure shrouded in secrecy. Ironically, the only thing known about him is his complete anonymity. That has made it impossible for any assassination attempts or scandals to arise, much to the frustration of a certain anonymous noble.

“We can’t even aim at the target if we don’t know where it is,” one noble was quoted as saying.

Guiger’s officers number eleven, all reportedly in their early thirties, but the only way to identify the Chief is by the whip he often carries when responding to protests. However, during formal events, he doesn’t carry the whip, making it impossible for nobles to recognize him at such gatherings.

Many political insiders believe that Chief Snake, along with his loyal officers, will soon be formally ennobled, revealing themselves to society. The nobles have already nicknamed him Hades. Hades—the lord of the underworld, who is difficult to see due to his great distance, much like the distant, hard-to-spot planet Pluto.

At the bottom of the article was a small box stating, “This article was written by an anonymous contributor and may not reflect the views of this publication.”

I closed the magazine, feeling dazed. The suspicions I had harbored about the fall of figures like Ekdal, Edelma, Suominen, and Lord Manen were now crystallized into certainty.

If the article was to be believed, Guiger was lurking in the shadows. It was possible. One of the things that had surprised me about the political situation eleven years later was how that idiot Wolfscott had risen to power in Japonica. He was also the only one of the five major figures to survive, albeit in a vegetative state. Perhaps that was Snake’s form of mercy to his superior.

But it had nothing to do with me. I had washed my hands of that world a long time ago.

The political arena was no place for just anyone to play. Maybe that’s why I had said goodbye to Lord Manen. As I put the magazine back on the shelf, I paused.

A cellphone…

The image of the phone lying on the floor in my dream flashed before my eyes. I didn’t have a cellphone right now. But if that dream wasn’t just a meaningless dream, then it meant I had a phone at least a year ago.

Should I ask Messara about the phone?

Just as I was lost in thought, someone tapped me lightly on the shoulder from behind. It was Messara.

“Have you been waiting long? Why are you sitting here instead of in your private room?”

“Oh… just having some tea. There’s no vending machine in the room.”

“Hmm, I see. Maybe I should get a tea set for the room. Oh, here.”

Messara handed me a long, yellow case. Curious, I asked, “What’s this?”

Messara smiled and said, “It’s a bubble bath. It’s supposed to have a refreshing lemon and jasmine scent. I thought we could try it tonight.”

“Okay…” I muttered, feeling a bit embarrassed as I packed the bath product into my bag.

Messara loved bubble baths. After sex, we would always soak in the tub together, savoring the moment. There were over twenty different bath products lined up in the bathroom, a testament to Messara’s curiosity about new things.

As Messara draped my coat over my shoulders, he said, “My parents must have had a really good relationship. I never thought much of it before, but now that I’ve used their private bathroom, I can understand. Especially the en suite in their bedroom. It has a magnificent Victorian bathtub, beautiful Italian brown tiles that give off a stylish vibe, and one wall is a large glass window that looks out over a holly forest. When it snows, the view is breathtaking.”

“Is that so? I always feel nervous that someone might be watching from outside.”

“Haha, don’t worry. It’s special glass, impossible to see through from the outside.

Messara shrugged. As he had said, the private bathroom was unusually large and extravagant. The bed was also spacious, large enough for three or four people to roll around comfortably. Because Messara disliked wearing condoms, we had to put an extra mattress cover on top before sex. Fortunately, Messara’s mother had made dozens of those covers, which eased the burden of doing laundry. At first, I had wondered why there were so many handmade covers, but now they were proving useful.

Suddenly, a strange thought crossed my mind, and my cheeks flushed with embarrassment. I wondered if I had become as sly as Messara and quickly bowed my head.

We drove home, and today, Messara seemed to be in a good mood. He was smiling brightly, occasionally tapping the steering wheel and humming. After glancing at me, he suddenly kissed me on the cheek.

“Did something good happen today?”

“Heh, of course! Today’s the day I got my bonus. There’s nothing better for a salaryman than a bonus, right? Hahaha.”

Messara laughed heartily, and I found myself laughing along with him. He turned up the car audio so loud it made my ears ring, and a lively waltz played.

Messara hummed to the rhythm, shaking his shoulders. The car entered the elevated highway of the new city district. Neon signs and billboards from the buildings lining both sides zipped past the car windows.

Lowering the window, Messara shouted, “How about a drive? It’s the perfect night to hit the road since it’s not snowing. This is the kingdom’s best driving route!”

The wind poured in through the open window. I held down my wind-blown hair with my hands and exclaimed, “Wow…”

Neon lights illuminating the night drew long lines, disappearing into the pitch-black darkness. Giant billboards and holograms incessantly pushed out advertisements. All of a sudden, Messara burst into loud laughter, nearly a full-blown fit of giggles, as his gaze fixed on one billboard.

I glanced over out of curiosity, but then squinted. The barrage of light from the billboard was almost painful to my eyes. Amid the flickering images, I spotted a flustered Lotus Pusher running in panic.

Next came the headline: “Marquis Cavalli, prominent tattoo aristocrat, found dead in regular café―Murder as a Warning?” A video of officers carrying a stretcher toward an ambulance played. The screen soon switched to a sultry woman whispering, “Digitalis, the new perfume from Ilestica…”

Messara stepped on the gas. The sudden speed increase made me scream as I hunched over in my seat.

“Hahaha! Tell me anything you want to buy! I’ll buy it for you, no matter what!” Messara shouted. Gripping the seatbelt tightly, I yelled back, “Just slow down!” It felt like I was on a rollercoaster. My screams mixed with Messara’s laughter, blending into the waltz, spiraling into chaos. The moonlight, filled with madness, shattered into pieces. It was a sharp, biting night, like the sting of a lemon.

Later that night, Messara handed me a case as a surprise gift. When I opened it, my eyes widened. Inside was a vintage mobile phone. Messara said he bought it just in case I lost my memory again. He added that my original phone had been lost a few months ago.

Being a vintage item, it didn’t have internet access. Messara called it a “pretty toy.” I only found out two days later, thanks to Louise, that this old phone was actually several times more expensive than a brand-new one.

꙳•❅*ִ

I unfolded the morning paper. The front-page headline read, “Lotus Crushed to Death by Sweet Potatoes.”

…The trigger for this was the Ordinary Sweet Potato Compensation Struggle. This incident originated from the promises Pusher made during last year’s election in the Ordinary Province.

The Ordinary Province is part of Pusher’s domain and is famous as the kingdom’s largest producer of greenhouse sweet potatoes. Pusher promised to purchase sweet potatoes in large quantities and succeeded in monopolizing the seats in the province for the tattooed aristocrats.

However, after the election, Pusher failed to fulfill this promise, causing significant losses to the farmers. Enraged, the farmers finally staged a large-scale protest…

Naturally, I was behind this sweet potato sit-in. I had given the leader of the farmers’ association some money and incited the protest. I had boldly plagiarized Manen’s tactic of paying vagrants to stir up demonstrations. It was quite profitable.

And as a “bonus,” the sudden death of Marquis Cavalli made the second page.

Cavalli was a gigolo, notorious for swindling allowances from elderly ladies of the social elite. Known for his legendary 30 cm asset, he was also Pusher’s closest advisor and the lover of his daughter, Rosamond, the heir-apparent.

Yesterday, during lunch, Leopard and I visited the bar where Pusher’s daughter and Cavalli frequently met. In the restroom, I personally twisted Cavalli’s neck 180 degrees, and after refreshing myself with a beer, I left the bar.

Hahaha.

I smiled faintly.

Jaguar informed me that the media was going wild with stories about the so-called “Sweet Potato Swamp.” Farmers across the kingdom had been suffering from over a century of extreme weather, and Pusher had taken advantage of this to grab his seat in parliament, only to abandon the farmers afterward. The media, which had been bored, now had fresh meat to sink their teeth into.

I had helped the farmers, tarnished Pusher’s reputation, and earned a nice bonus on top. I’ve always been a ruthless loan shark, only satisfied when I get back five times the principal.

In the middle of a departmental meeting, I got a call from Congressman Fontane.

After the call, I turned on the television. It was quite the spectacle. Pusher, covered head-to-toe in eggs, was running in a panic, surrounded by his aides. A reporter, heavily equipped with a mask and jumper, commented, “The square is in chaos, packed with furious farmers.” Just then, the reporter was hit in the back of the head with a wooden stick and collapsed with a scream.

The camera zoomed wildly into the air before the screen suddenly cut off. The broadcast hastily switched to commercials. It was a decent show. The results exceeded all expectations.

Now all we had to do was sit back and watch the battle between Pusher and the commoner congressmen. For a while, Pusher wouldn’t even have time for a cup of tea with Karl. Hahaha.

After the meeting ended, I attended to some official duties in the office. Handling Japonica affairs my way was thrilling and fun, but it also had the downside of increasing my workload. It seemed like I would need to reorganize the division of tasks among the department heads soon. Before I knew it, it was 4:00 p.m.

“Are you in?”

It was Cooperhead and Leopard. “Let’s take a quick smoke break,” they said, lighting cigarettes side by side. I also pulled out a cigarette for the first time today. Leopard glanced at my cigarette pack and remarked, “Wow, you’ve been sticking to half a pack all week.”

“So, what’s going on? Any word from Germany?”

“Yeah. This morning alone, I got two desperate calls, begging to be sent back home.”

Cooperhead grumbled as he flicked his cigarette ash. Leopard added, “Karl is hosting back-to-back tea parties and witch parties today and tomorrow.”

“So, the engagement is in three days?”

“That’s right, next Monday.”

Leopard replied, and Cooperhead put out his cigarette, saying, “Just wait. Don’t you think we’ll hear some good news soon? They’ll probably pull off something big before long.”

I smoked in silence, lost in thought. The department heads believed that if the dispatched team in Germany couldn’t dig up any dirt, we should wait until Karl committed some real fraud. However, I thought differently.

He wasn’t the type to commit fraud recklessly unless he had a solid foundation. After all, he had plenty of money. If we didn’t find anything within a month, I was prepared to play my final card: an “accident.”

In truth, it wasn’t a card I wanted to play. Karl was explosively popular with the public. If he were assassinated prematurely, the public would surely erupt in outrage. That anger would translate into a sharp decline in support for the martial aristocracy. In other words, a huge number of votes would be lost.

I stubbed out my cigarette and downed a glass of punch.

A witch party and a tea party.

These events also added to Karl’s public image. The witch party, a cultural festival for young aristocrats and commoners, had only been held twice but was already wildly popular. At the tea parties, Karl was subtly expanding his influence by building connections with the wives of prominent figures.

“How many witch party and tea party reports have we received?”

“We’ve got eighteen video recordings taken by the servant we planted with Karl’s staff. They include the first tea party where he met Lady Obaska. Why?”

“I figured I should review them myself at least once. I haven’t seen any of the tea party footage yet.”

“Hah!”

Leopard burst out laughing. Cooperhead lit another cigarette and said, “I strongly advise against watching the tea party footage. What’s my rank again? As the intelligence director, it’s my duty to be the first to review all materials. Just a quick glance, and I got chills. Kids were running around, swinging toys and screeching like demons—no actual demons could compare.”

Cooperhead shuddered, seemingly not joking.

“No wonder the ladies are charmed by Karl. He bakes cookies for those little demons and even plays piano for them. The married men’s club can’t stop talking about how Karl must be truly ambitious to endure such a thorny path.”

“Demons? They’re just kids. I bet you were even worse at that age.”

“Well, noble children are that bad, so I shudder to think how much of a horror movie Chief’s childhood must have been.”

Cooperhead shrugged his shoulders, bantering. He was never one to lose in a war of words.

We spent some time reminiscing about the mischievous deeds of Cooperhead and Leopard’s childhoods. Cooperhead boasted that his greatest joy was using a water gun to spray women’s skirts. Leopard shared that he refused to wear clothes until he was six, giving his mother a hard time every morning just to get him into underwear. Riding the neighbor’s golden retriever like a horse, I realized they were as wild as I had been.

I straightened up and glanced at the clock. It was 4:15 p.m. This time of day often felt tedious, right before quitting time. I suddenly chuckled to myself. Tedious? Me, the workaholic who even the department heads praised, feeling bored? When did this start?

It all began when I met Ray. To be exact, it started after I first hospitalized Ray. How intense that memory must have been for me to remember it even now.

As always, right after work, I headed to Ray’s hospital room. I opened the door without a second thought, and Ray was sitting up in bed, eating.

“Oh, you’re having a meal. Seems like I came at a bad time.”

I joked as I walked into the room. Ray, bringing a glass of milk to his lips, smiled with his eyes. His eyes curved into crescent moons. I hesitated for a moment—it was the first time I’d seen him smile like that. Ray set the glass down and smiled.

“Welcome.”

Milk trickled from the corner of Ray’s mouth as he spoke, and I momentarily lost myself. A sudden tension built in my lower body. The surge of desire was overwhelming. But I couldn’t just pounce on someone in the middle of eating, so I sat down for the time being. Even though my breathing grew noticeably heavy, oblivious Ray continued to eat slowly, completely unaware.

During those minutes, I didn’t budge. I felt that if I moved even a little, I might lose all self-control and pounce on him like a beast. Twenty minutes later, a staff member came to collect Ray’s tray. The moment the staff left, I locked the door and pounced on Ray. His eyes widened in surprise.

Without hesitation, I pulled off Ray’s underwear. Spreading his legs wide, I thrust into him and came, over and over, three times in a row without stopping.

Why had I been so excited? At the time, I thought it was because of the milk. I was convinced that the trickle of milk running down Ray’s lips reminded me of semen. But that wasn’t it. Now, I understood clearly. It wasn’t the milk—it was what Ray had said.

“Welcome.”

It was the first time I had heard those words. Someone who had always been indifferent to my visits, for the first time, greeted me with a “Welcome,” smiling with his eyes. I had been aroused by those words and that gaze. I had been overwhelmingly happy, and I mistook that happiness for sexual desire. How absurd.

That’s when it started. Around this time of day, I developed the habit of checking the clock, remembering the sound of “Welcome.” When I finished work and headed to Ray’s room, the first thing Ray always said was “Welcome.” Even now, despite the memory loss, it was the same.

I wondered if Ray even realized it was his habitual phrase. Could he know how much I cherished hearing that word?

No way he would.