Chapter 33

Jecart opened his eyes. Immediately, a dull headache hit him. Perhaps waking up at all was because of the pain. In the darkened bedroom, he pressed his temples gently and sat up. As if out of habit, he took out a pill case, retrieved a small, white, round tablet, and swallowed it. A bitter taste trickled down his throat.

Headaches had been frequent lately. Even the medicine Heiner gave him didn’t help much. Maybe it was because of the dreams he had every night. Covering his eyes with his arm, he reflected on the mysterious dreams.

The dreams always began with a single shaft of light. Like an actor performing a monologue on stage, the surroundings were pitch dark, yet the light shone only on the place where he stood. And inevitably, a voice would reach him.

“I’ll write you a letter.”

Jecart closed his eyes with a sense of resignation and opened them again. As if waiting for this, someone’s feet appeared. They were tiny, delicate feet, easily grasped by hand. His gaze lingered gently on the ankles, just barely visible under the skirt. He knew that looking any higher would reveal nothing—everything above was cloaked in darkness.

During the first few nights, he had tried to resist upon realizing it was a dream, but no matter what he did, all he could see were the other person’s feet.

It wasn’t just vision that was limited; listening and speaking were also restricted. Beyond what was predetermined, he could neither speak nor hear.

When he realized this, Jecart understood that this was not a mere dream—it was a fragment of the past.

“…Yes.”

Finally, Jecart answered. It was less a matter of will than of habit.

“I love you.”

“……”

“Please come back safely.”

The neatly placed small feet took a step closer at that moment, then rose onto tiptoe. Jecart closed his eyes helplessly. A soft, warm sensation brushed briefly against his lips.

“…I will miss you.”

Again, words beyond his control escaped his lips. Jecart felt his fists clench. At the same time, a tight, constricting pain gripped his chest. Whenever he spoke these words to someone whose face he didn’t know, he always felt this way.

Who could it be?

At first, he guessed it was Rachel. She must have been his lover, though he had no memory.

But as he recalled more words from the other person in the dream, Jecart realized that it was not her.

The voice, each syllable strained as if suppressing tears, was certainly not Rachel’s.

It was colder, clearer…

The memory cut off at that moment. He let out a hollow laugh, prompted by the image of “that woman” that surfaced unbidden.

For a moment, he wondered if the voice belonged to her—even knowing it couldn’t be.

Jecart swallowed and curled slightly. The more he pondered the dream—or rather, the memory—the worse his headache grew, pounding as if to devour him. He felt an urge to cut off his own head.

Early in the morning, Jecart left the house. Before the sun had fully risen, the world was colder than ever.

Glissen was definitely colder than Hasmal.

He thought this matter-of-factly.

It had already been three days since Jecart stayed at Glissen’s safe house. He had yet to accomplish the purpose of his visit.

Perrel Monti.

As Rachel said, the target he was supposed to “handle without further delay” had not appeared for several days. It seemed the target was taking longer than expected to appear.

So, Jecart chose to wait. This was nothing unusual. In actual assassinations, preparation or waiting often takes far longer than the act itself.

After walking for a while, he arrived at the old hill overlooking the mansion. Morning sunlight filtered through the leaves and settled on his face.

Over the past three days, Jecart had occasionally glimpsed a woman and a child there. On the morning the snowman melted, he remembered the child crying and the woman looking awkward, and he chuckled quietly.

The woman always made him laugh in some way—whether a genuine smile or a scoff.

As the smile faded from his lips, he lit a cigarette.

Perhaps he would see them.

At the very moment Perrel Monti’s breath ceased.

Shasha swallowed nervously as she walked down the narrow, dark corridor. She was in the hallway of the Velen prison cells. Windows lined the hall, but they were all bricked up, making the corridor dark even in broad daylight.

Where on earth are they taking me?

Her anxious eyes followed the warden ahead.

Until now, Stifts had left her alone. Although being confined to a single, unheated cell was unpleasant, she was grateful that she wasn’t being tortured or interrogated.

Could it be…

Was this the beginning of something?

The thought of the worst-case scenario cut through her wandering thoughts, and she stopped unconsciously. At that moment, the warden turned back.

Startled, Shasha froze. She felt a piercing gaze over her trembling hands as she hugged her stomach. Her shoulders tensed.

“Shasha Schultz.”

At the warden’s call, she creaked her head up.

“Go in.”

“…Yes?”

“I said go in.”

Only then did Shasha notice the door in front of her. She saw the sign beside it:

[Visitation Room]

Relieved that it was not an interrogation room, she exhaled lightly. Hesitantly, she took a step forward. The chain around her ankle scraped with each movement.

The warden unlocked the door with a key.

Visitation? What’s this about?

As her unease eased slightly, a new question arose. Who would come to see her? The resistance was out of the question, and all of her family besides Karon had died in the war. And yet… a visitation.

Finally, Shasha could see who had come for her.

“Hello.”

The visitor greeted her with a surprisingly cheerful tone, and Shasha, still in shock, hesitated.

“You are Shasha Schultz, correct?”

“…Yes.”

Her answer came slowly, as she had not expected this person. Dressed in a black nun’s habit with a veil over her hair, the visitor was unmistakably a nun.

“I’m Monica.”

She introduced herself with a thoroughly baptismal name and gestured to the chair in front of her.

“Please sit.”

Shasha approached the chair as if spellbound. Though she had never met this nun before, the very title carried a vague sense of trust. Monica smiled gently as they sat across from each other.

“…May I ask why you came to see me?”

Shasha hesitated to broach the subject, and Monica’s smile grew slightly mischievous.

“It seems you might need confession.”

“…Excuse me?”

“Think of it like a business trip, perhaps.”

Shasha’s expression stiffened. She seemed to understand the implication behind the vague words.

“I have nothing to confess.”

Shasha spoke each syllable with emphasis. She was not fearless, but if her resolve had been anything less, she would never have joined the resistance in the first place.

“Then I see you are without sin.”

“Of course not. Rather…”

A faint smile appeared on Shasha’s lips. It was vanity, stiff and obvious, but she didn’t care.

“I’m afraid that if I confessed to a nun, it might reach someone other than God.”

As if expecting that, Monica closed and opened her eyes with a sigh. The smiles disappeared from both of them.

The silence was broken when the heavy steel door rattled again. Shasha, facing the door, did not see who entered. Monica’s green eyes glanced past her briefly. Tilting her head gently toward Shasha, who stubbornly stared forward, Monica said:

“Look who’s here, Shasha.”

“….”

“A welcome guest.”

Shasha bit her lip, unable to understand why the nun’s words sounded so ominous. They seemed less divine and more demonic. She felt that what she would see upon turning would be hell.

After a long hesitation, Shasha slowly rose. And finally, she faced hell.

“…Ah… ah…”

From her agape lips came a meaningless metallic sound. Unable to scream, all she could manage was a whimper mingled with tears.

A bloodied man dragged in by the warden, barely standing. If not for the glimpses of brown hair amidst the blood, Shasha might have refused to believe he was Karon.

The warden who brought him left abruptly, almost throwing him into the room. The thud echoed loudly.

Ah, this is what it feels like for the heart to break, for the chest to shatter.

“…Ka-Karon.”

Shasha barely held onto her composure and stepped toward him. But someone reached him before she could—the nun. Monica had removed her veil, and her red hair rippled silently.

Shasha stopped, unable to take another step. She saw the razor-sharp knife Monica had drawn from a garter under her skirt.

“No, no!”

In an instant, the knife pierced deeply into Karon’s thigh and withdrew. Blood gushed fiercely from the wound. It was hard to believe that all this blood belonged to Karon, already dying.

Her vision blurred, and the scene in front of her fragmented. Overwhelmed with despair, Shasha saw Monica approach with the bloodied knife, whispering:

“If you stop the bleeding now, he’ll survive, Shasha.”

“….”

“Really… no words?”

No answer came. Rachel clicked her tongue. The shock had left Shasha stunned. Rachel pressed the knife lightly against her neck, enough to draw a thin line of blood. At last, Shasha’s wandering gaze met hers.

Rachel smiled as if satisfied.

“Next…”

The knife slid slightly downward before stopping at the most swollen area.

“Here.”

Her beautiful green eyes curved into a gentle smile.