Chapter 28
The dawn was quiet and gloomy. Rachel pulled out a cigarette in the hallway of her shabby hideout villa. Fsssh—fsssh—. Unlike usual, even when she struck the flint, the flame refused to ignite. Irritably, she threw the oil lighter aside—though she knew it wasn’t the lighter’s fault, but her own trembling hands. The lighter bounced off the gray walls, where the paint had peeled in patches, clattering loudly.
Rachel anxiously searched through her clothes, looking for another lighter.
Tap, tap.
Then, the uniform sound of a typewriter began to echo in her mind like tinnitus. It was the “voice” of χ, whom she had just met. χ always communicated through a typewriter across the black glass wall. Even the person delivering the notes was masked, so Rachel had never seen χ’s face—or heard his voice directly.
[Didn’t I tell you not to come here recklessly?]
The first note she had received was an unmistakable reprimand. She hadn’t wanted to shrink, yet her shoulders involuntarily hunched. This place always made her feel so small. What Miji offered was never curiosity but a vague, oppressive fear.
‘Zecart assigning Chief Inspector Stifts… Why make such a decision? And that order given before… You know the resistance has “that woman.” If they even get a hint…’
Tap! Tap!
The typewriter’s sound suddenly grew louder, slicing through Rachel’s trembling voice. A suffocating weight, like being buried under a boulder, descended on her. Breathing became difficult.
[Since when did I owe you an explanation? Go back and wait for your next order.]
Deprived even of the chance to ask, Rachel returned to her hideout, finding no answers. She felt like a fox returning to its den after a failed hunt—empty and desolate.
At that moment, instead of the lighter, her hand found a familiar piece of metal—a Derringer pistol she always carried.
For a moment, Rachel’s green eyes went unfocused, dazed. Unlike the automatic pistol at her waist, this tiny gun held only two bullets. She knew exactly its purpose: her little gun, never having tasted blood, yet craving it.
Click.
The faint sound of the chamber loading seeped into the morning air. Like under a spell, her mind felt even hazier, and the cigarette in her mouth fell to the floor. Cold metal pressed against her now wider-open mouth. Holding her breath, Rachel’s hand trembled slightly around the gun. The thought that a single twitch of her finger could bring her eternal rest kept nudging her forward.
Then, suddenly—
“What are you doing?”
The weight of a hand on the gun pressed into her mouth. Rachel opened her eyes, which she hadn’t realized were closed. In the blurred view, a man with black hair was looking down at her.
“Pointless act.”
Following the man’s calm hand, the gun slipped from between her lips.
“…Zecart.”
The two of them naturally entered Rachel’s hideout. There was no unnecessary conversation. Rachel quietly went into the dressing room to change, while Zecart took something from a paper bag he brought and laid it out on the living room table.
Once Rachel returned in comfortable clothes, she asked:
“What’s this?”
“Bread and cookies.”
“…You just bought this?”
“I bought it on the way here. Didn’t want to come empty-handed.”
Even with his explanation, Rachel’s bewildered expression didn’t soften. Then she let out a faint, exasperated laugh. What a thoughtless man, she thought. Even Marcus, who bickered with her, knew she hated sweets—but he had the nerve to bring bread and cookies.
Rachel picked up a cookie. Coated in sugar, it looked painfully sweet.
“You don’t like sweets either, do you?”
“…I said I bought them on the way.”
He gave a perfunctory answer and bit into a cookie. Sure enough, it didn’t suit his taste, and he frowned immediately. Rachel shook her head and put the cookie down.
“Let’s just have a drink instead.”
“….”
“I’m not a child—cookies are useless.”
Standing up, she went to the kitchen and pulled out a bottle of strong vodka. Meanwhile, he was still picking at a cookie.
Rachel poured a glass and placed it in front of him. Filling her own, she lightly gestured with her chin.
“Drink.”
No toast was made. The glasses emptied one after another. More time was spent on drinking than talking. The occasional conversation completely stopped by the time the bottle was finished.
Watching Zecart, who didn’t ask anything, Rachel tilted her heavy head slightly. A sluggish intoxication rolled over her.
“Didn’t you come here to tell me something?”
Zecart paused mid-drink. Setting the glass down after wetting his lips, he replied:
“Why do you think that?”
“Because you wouldn’t come to me without a reason.”
“I didn’t come to talk, per se.”
“Really?”
“Actually, the opposite. I came to hear something rather than say something.”
Rachel briefly dropped her gaze. She knew what he wanted to hear. No matter how dull, he must have noticed she had been avoiding him lately. He’d want to know why.
“And if I… have nothing to say?”
Even as she asked, Rachel secretly hoped he would question her. She wanted to be able to say something—anything—to him. A confession, a reckoning.
But—
“Anyway, fine.”
Just as expected.
Rachel let out a bitter smile.
“Have you met Marcus?”
“Yes.”
“…What will you do?”
Zecart sighed, as if just recalling it was troublesome.
“If it’s about the Chief Inspector position, I won’t do it. No matter what you say, I won’t—don’t try to persuade me.”
“And the report? What will you write?”
“Hmm… the obvious, I guess.”
“Something like: Tried once but failed, then moved more secretly so tracking became difficult… Something like that?”
His black eyes blinked slowly instead of replying. Rachel laughed lightly, tipsy.
“Well, that sounds plausible enough to get by. But why do I feel like that’s not all?”
“….”
“Why do I feel like you didn’t fail to kill, but chose not to?”
Facing his unwavering black eyes, Rachel lifted the bottle with her wobbly hand, realizing it was already empty, and set it down helplessly. Zecart offered his half-full glass to her. Even then, no denial came to her question.
Rachel chuckled.
“Zecart.”
“Speak.”
“Do you know? None of the current members of the organization have ever failed an order. Anyone who failed disappeared.”
“….”
“In one way or another.”
“Of course.”
Zecart nodded calmly. It was as expected. Being killed by a target, or eliminated by the organization—failure meant death.
“Aren’t you curious what happens to a target that isn’t eliminated?”
“What happens?”
“They’re handed over to a partner.”
“What?”
“If you can’t do it, I will. And you know I show no mercy when handling targets—not just the targets, but those around them too.”
For a moment, Zecart’s jaw tensed, and his eyes cooled. Noticing his agitation, Rachel’s smile disappeared.
“I don’t know why you hesitate to eliminate a target.”
No—she actually did know.
“Stop wasting time and deal with it.”
“…Rachel.”
“I hope you understand what I mean.”
“….”
“I’ll go in first and rest. No need to clean up, just make sure to close the door behind you.”
Rachel then stood from the table.
Since morning, the streets had been washed in gray under the cloudy weather.
Edith had stepped into the park with Leon and Perrel but, feeling the chill, was ready to leave. Leon, deeply engrossed in playing with Perrel, noticed the change in mood and pouted.
“Leon, let’s go in. You’ll catch a cold.”
Rubbing Leon’s red, cold cheeks, Edith reassured him. She worried he might throw a tantrum, but thankfully, he reached out his arm to her.
“You’re a good boy.”
Edith hugged Leon. Stroking Perrel’s head beside them, Leon smiled shyly.
The three of them left the park and entered the main street. They noticed a crowd gathered, murmuring, outside a shop.
Exchanging a glance with Perrel, Edith tilted her head.
“Is something happening?”
“I’ll go check.”
Perrel ran toward the crowd. When he returned, he held up a newspaper with a stiff expression and extended it toward her.
“Why… what is it…?”
