Chapter 23
Three years ago, Zekart couldn’t return to his normal life for nearly half a year. The reason was severe injuries. Not just his body, but above all, the psychological aftereffects were the worst. Unlike the body, a shattered mind doesn’t heal or rebuild itself simply with medication. Even after being discharged, he suffered frequent seizures and terrifying panic attacks. That was also why Zekart began obsessing over the memories he had briefly lost. A void creates an intense desire. If he could reclaim them, perhaps the relentless pain, as if everything were endlessly collapsing, would finally fade.
The first thing he did was search for his family. Surely, he hadn’t been left completely alone in the world—someone must have given birth to him, someone must have raised him. As he suspected, there was indeed a family.
‘Whether I can really call them family, though, I don’t know.’
The man who was his biological father had been a farmer. A drunkard, he constantly inflicted violence on his family. When Zekart’s mother died of illness, he abandoned his only son at an orphanage. The boy, raised without parents, enlisted and became a soldier before reaching adulthood.
Of course, Zekart didn’t remember all of this firsthand. He read records and listened to testimonies—from the orphanage and from neighbors left behind in his hometown.
The reason the witness wasn’t his father but a neighbor was that when Zekart finally searched for him, his father had long been dead. No one remembered the place where the man, who died young from alcohol, was buried.
Learning the truth left Zekart profoundly hollow. He had thought it would be significant. Something essential to his life, the loss of which caused this pain.
But in reality, the past he finally faced was so pitiful that he thought it had been better forgotten.
How could this be?
Could he hurt so much over losing something so trivial?
Could it feel as if bones were breaking and flesh being carved away?
The hollow question, with no answer, echoed endlessly.
Zekart guessed that if it hadn’t been for Heinrich, he wouldn’t have survived that period without going mad. But that didn’t mean he was healed. His “treatment” was more akin to anesthesia. He no longer felt the pain that remained.
“I am Hasmalin.”
Shaking off the past the woman had reminded him of, Zekart said it aloud. She shook her head violently, as if refusing to believe it. The movement made the blanket slip, revealing her unusually pale shoulders. Zekart reached out and drew the blanket back over her. A fleeting thought passed his mind—how unlike himself this small kindness was. Yet, she hadn’t even noticed.
“Mac, you are from Berg. You were a Berg military officer, and although your father and mother passed away early in an accident, they were respected in Berg for a long time. They were good people.”
Edith tried to maintain as calm a voice as possible, measuring each syllable carefully. Perhaps in case he became agitated. But his jet-black eyes remained unnervingly calm, eerily still. And his response was equally measured.
“Maybe. So that means I’m not one of them, right?”
Edith bit her lip hard. Her expression changed. Her hands, clutching the blanket, reached out as if pursued by something, toward the collar of the man seated in the chair.
Edith began unbuttoning his shirt. In doing so, the blanket slipped down below her shoulders. She felt the cool air against her skin, but one thought dominated her entirely.
“What are you doing?”
“Stay still.”
A slight struggle ensued. Edith’s firm words subdued his resistance. Her hands trembled, too anxious to move quickly, and one by one the buttons came undone slowly.
‘Do you know, Mac? What’s on your back?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Yes, I thought so. That’s why I won’t tell you. Just know that there’s something on your body only I know, something even you don’t.’
The memory of their previous conversation heightened her anticipation. Like it was a great secret, Edith had never revealed it even to herself—the two marks beneath his shoulder blades. They weren’t special. The color and size were ordinary. But Edith liked their placement—somewhere only she, able to see his bare back carefully, could notice.
Finally, Edith unbuttoned his last button. Their eyes met briefly. The man’s hardened eyes seemed endlessly cold, yet an unidentifiable heat shimmered within. Meeting that gaze, Edith slowly lowered her eyes. She noticed his Adam’s apple move slowly. Her fingertips trembled slightly as she parted his shirt.
Thud. The shirt fell to the floor, cutting across the silence.
Edith’s eyes jolted as she took in his bare upper body. She instinctively covered her mouth with both hands, fearing a scream might escape. His body bore no unscarred surface. Muscles tightly woven were covered with lacerations, cuts, and burns, some overlapping. Some cuts were slashed again, some burned, some bore the marks of being pierced by something. Her irregular breaths escaped between her fingers, damp and hot.
“Uh… how…”
The faint voice sounded like a strangled groan. Just looking at him made it hard to breathe. Edith bit her lips and carefully traced the densely scarred surface with her eyes. Then, she stopped abruptly at a particular spot—on his shoulder. Among the countless scars, there was one relatively recent one: the one she had inflicted with scissors.
After staring at it for a while, Edith slowly raised her gaze. She saw eyes like black glass, empty and hollow.
“…That must’ve hurt.”
“…”
“Just being pricked by thorns hurts enough.”
Her voice broke from emotion. She took a breath before continuing.
“Could you… turn around for a moment?”
“…”
“Please. This is the last time. I won’t force anything else.”
He blinked slowly, as if reluctant, then stood. His shadow darkened Edith completely. Turning his back to the light from the window, his expression vanished. The man began to slowly rotate. During that brief moment, Edith’s emotions fluctuated.
I hope there’s a mark only I know. That means… you are Maximilian.
Yet at the same time,
No… I hope there isn’t. I hope you died peacefully. I hope you didn’t endure this horrible pain.
She even wished for his peace.
Finally, the man fully turned. His broad back, bearing the marks of the whip, unfolded before Edith. Her trembling gaze wavered briefly before settling on one place, and lingered for a long time.
“…You.”
＊＊＊
“Ah, it’s so chaotic, just stay still for a moment.”
Despite Marcus’ scolding, Rachel couldn’t calm herself. She darted this way and that, then suddenly glared at Marcus.
“It’s your fault.”
Marcus looked puzzled, as if he didn’t understand how she came to that conclusion.
“Hah! How is the terrorist attack at Herman Miller’s funeral my fault?”
“It was your job originally. If you hadn’t drunk so much, Zekart wouldn’t have even gone there.”
“Oh really? So you’re saying I could’ve gone and died?”
“Yes! Whether you die or not.”
Marcus, about to explode, just sighed and shook his head. Rachel was always like this when it came to Zekart.
“Enough. Where would that guy die suddenly? The entire city hall area is under lockdown, chaos everywhere. That’s why he can’t come.”
Rachel turned sharply, probably heading to Zekart’s hiding place, Marcus guessed. Watching her red hair sway with each step, he suddenly called out.
Rachel turned around immediately, her sharp green eyes meeting his.
“Do you… like Zekart?”
“…What?”
“Come on. You’re restless about anything involving Zekart. Aren’t you actually falling for him, instead of just role-playing a partner?”
A brief silence followed. Her denial came after a moment.
“Are you crazy? Like him? Me, Zekart? Ridiculous. I’m just concerned as a partner.”
Despite her unnatural explanation, Marcus nodded calmly.
“Sure. How could you? Of all people.”
Through his glasses, Marcus’ cold gaze distorted. The smile that should have shown understanding was instead a cold mockery.
“Unless your head got shot, you couldn’t possibly like someone you personally tortured stitch by stitch. That would be too brazen.”
“…”
“Right?”
Rachel couldn’t reply. Marcus noticed her pale cheeks and laughed aloud.
“Zekart would never know that the one who turned his body into a rag was you.”
“…Shut up.”
“But don’t worry. If Zekart regains his memory, he’d probably kill you first—but that won’t happen.”
Marcus was sure of it. To create Zekart, the organization had put extraordinary care into every detail.
They not only crafted his past meticulously but also placed witnesses to back it up. Every related document had been forged, and even the tiny mark on his body had been carefully removed. That’s why it couldn’t be found. It wasn’t hidden—it was completely erased.
“You know that too.”
“…”
“That the lost memories could never return.”
Rachel lowered her head in resignation instead of replying. Marcus’ quiet laughter vanished completely at this moment. He murmured with a hollow expression.
“…Just like you and I.”
No, just like all of us.
