A Bitter Confession and the Empty Bed

The final night of the year demanded a song. In the Witheridge detention center, however, only chilling screams echoed through the corridors long after midnight.

“Enough. I’m so fucking bored.”

One of the officers, lounging around the card table on the first floor, stood, cranked the radio louder, and let the singer’s shredded voice swallow the screams. The man’s face loosened.

Sudden emergency drills had stranded them here instead of home. All the officers from the northern command sat in the first-floor lounge of the underground command post in the west. Between the two commands there was always an undercurrent of tension.

The north had hidden rebels for decades and couldn’t control its own territory. The west didn’t want the north poking its nose in and stealing credit.

It was a familiar story.

Soon the radio switched from music to a news interview.

“To all our listeners across the kingdom, the Rochester royal family has prepared no sweeter Christmas gift than this.”

“Of course not.”

**Camden’s Vampire** had become the hero of Christmas.

It was supposed to be a weekly celebrating the savior, but all it carried was worship of Winston. It was as boring as the screams.

No one bothered to change the channel; everyone stayed seated. Newspapers, magazines—everywhere—ran front-page stories on the Blanchard Revolutionary Army. Today’s newspaper on the table featured a photo of “Little Jimmy” in prison stripes on the front page, the headline screaming that the devil’s face had finally been revealed. Civilians didn’t know the man in the photo was only hours out of custody.

An officer across the table sneered at the shiny face beside it.

“Next thing you know, a movie’s coming out.”

“Already seeing the poster. Title’s ‘Miracle on Christmas,’ or something equally ridiculous.”

While the officers shuffled cards and traded dull gossip, the interview continued.

“So the palace must have prepared a gift for Major Winston. Professor, what do you make of it?”

“It’s an old story, but I remember Major Richard Winston’s death. He was posthumously promoted to colonel. The public felt he should have received his title at the time.”

“Everyone is on edge today. The palace hasn’t confirmed anything, but whispers say the king’s New Year’s speech will include the announcement. Everyone’s hoping for a surprise decoration.”

“Faster than anyone expected…”

“The public won’t be ignored.”

“A New Year’s speech is perfect for the show. And the spotlight on Winston will be shared with the king tomorrow.”

Everyone gave a bitter laugh. It was obvious the king craved the attention focused on Winston. Today was Winston worship; tomorrow it would be Winston and the king sharing the praise.

Decoration was still an open question, but the one-rank promotion had already been decided inside the army.

“Major at his age, already wearing colonel’s bars.”

The rumor was that the western command had requested the promotion even before the investigation was finished, and headquarters had approved it.

Arresting the leader and clearing out the headquarters was already enough for a medal. The headquarters wouldn’t have argued.

“Starting operations on Christmas—how callous.”

Everyone was on vacation heading home. It was outrageous.

“At first I thought they were joking. They let the men go on vacation and then started the op. No common sense.”

It turned out the entire command was on vacation, so they chose the holiday to launch the raid.

“They already knew the village existed. They calculated every rebel would return for Christmas.”

That’s why they could arrest the core people while leaving only the small fry at the bottom of the power pyramid.

“People say he’s terrifying when you meet him. The more you learn, the more terrifying he is.”

An officer placed his cards and asked suddenly.

“So what happened to the double agent?”

The others shrugged; no one knew.

“After doing his job, he should have been pardoned, right?”

“Still, how did he talk?”

Rebels were always questioned, but most didn’t know the headquarters location. When a big name was captured, they either stayed silent until execution or were attacked on the transport. They were vicious.

“Who knows. I wanted to ask but the western command was so tense I couldn’t.”

“Anyway, that woman betrayed her own side so openly she’ll have to hide forever.”

“Her husband was a rebel too, right? She got the whole family new identities and got deployed. My guess…”

A sudden screech of tires on the pavement silenced the table. The officer at the window muttered, “Here we go again.”

Major Winston had come to the detention center once more at this hour. One man stood up, clicked his tongue.

“If I were Winston I’d be throwing parties instead of dumping my men in this hole. Rent a cabaret, serve the most expensive champagne, pretty girls on either side…”

Winston had been living here lately. He still traveled to Blackburn every day but only when operations required.

“Addict. That’s why he’s terrifying. Smart and hardworking at the same time.”

The men under him must be miserable, but the promotion chances were real. They slipped out to the corridor to leave him a message.

The moment the line of officers formed, Winston turned into the corridor and headed toward them. His eyes under the deeply pressed beret were as harsh as ever.

While others were enjoying the festival, the man who’d organized it looked like he’d come to a funeral.

On the first day someone had tried to congratulate him; he’d taken the full force of those eyes. After that no one spoke.

It was impossible to understand. He’d earned the highest military honor since the restoration, avenged his father, yet he acted like a failed operation.

Speculation about his mood ran wild.

Some said revenge was pointless—his father would never come back. Others said it was because Patrick Pullman, the new accomplice, had already been killed.

*He missed the mark again.*

Winston walked straight ahead without looking at the salutes. Campbell lieutenant was the only one who followed, staring at his back.

*Do not speak to Major.*

Campbell warned the northern lieutenants with his eyes and followed Winston down the stairs.

Winston was living the best and worst time of his life. No, maybe not the best. He had arrested hundreds of enemies but only one woman haunted him.

The operation had ended in disaster for Winston.

Campbell watched Winston’s retreating figure disappear around the corner. Though he looked unbreakable, Campbell had known him since academy days and defined him differently.

Nitro that explodes at a feather’s touch.

The most unstable he had ever seen. He kept his senses sharper than usual and spoke carefully.

When the barred security area appeared, the guards opened the gate before the orders came. They knew his moods.

Without pausing, Winston headed to the room where the captured leader of the fallen rebels was held.

The door opened. Blanchard, lying on the bed in the corner, turned. The moment their eyes met, the color drained from the man whose body was covered in bruises.

Winston gestured sharply at the table. The guards hauled Blanchard upright.

“Ugh…”

Even the face and body were bruised. He slumped into the chair and kept moaning. His clothes hadn’t been changed since morning; brown stains soaked the gray prison jumpsuit. In the morning they had been red.

Winston’s shirt was clean. Campbell took the jacket he offered and placed the folder on the table before Winston could ask.

The soldiers left. Only the three of them remained. The paper rustling sounded especially ominous. Winston slid two photos across the table in front of Blanchard.

One showed the rear of a motorboat with “Escape” written on the nameplate.

Escape boat.

In any other situation Winston would have made a sarcastic joke about the perfect coincidence. Today was no ordinary day.

“M1001 model produced by Castiel.”

Leon told the model name and watched Blanchard’s eyes intently.

“Correct.”

Blanchard bit his split lip. The answer was perfect.

“Found abandoned at the marina in Anderton last night.”

Only last night.

After searching the entire riverbank for a week, they finally found the boat today. It was because the rat had finally kept his mouth shut.

He wasn’t protecting the woman who betrayed him. Every time he was beaten he still spat curses like “Fuck, Grace.”

It was pure hatred.

Hatred was mutual. The moment he learned she had vanished, he lost his mind and was about to kill the man.

He had thought she hid him somewhere in the village. When searches failed, he imagined she was dead.

He only learned the day he found the hidden entrance under the village hall that the explosion was her doing.

The bunker under the hall was designed for emergencies. Empty safes showed someone had cleared out money and weapons in a hurry. The traces of dynamite were clear.

During a desperate escape, one person had blown up the exit to stop their comrades.

It had to be her.

Her prediction had been perfect. Young fighters and a few old leaders had hidden in the bunker and been caught by the blast.

“This corridor leads to the river west of the village. Grace Riddle went that way.”

The men had revealed the exit’s destination before he even asked. Not confession—snitching.

Tracking dogs were easy, but the scent had vanished at the dock.

The river flowed to another country upstream and to the sea downstream. She could have fled overseas immediately.

Only dozens of cities and villages lay between them, and thousands by train.

She theoretically had nowhere to go.

They had to narrow the search. But without the boat model or fuel capacity, they couldn’t.

Only unreliable information from other prisoners.

“Mahogany….”

Every leisure boat at any dock used the latest mahogany. It was as useless as the testimony that the man had been driving.

Names were also remembered wrongly, confusing the search.

*When they started the revolution they were already brainless. But how stupid can they get…*

They had spent a full week looking for one boat.

Leon wanted to kill the rat immediately. But he needed information.

He restrained his impulse and spread the map. A red circle already marked Anderton downstream.

The moment he heard the boat was found, he borrowed a boat and rushed to the marina. Searching every inch and questioning everyone only produced the witness who said the boat was empty and docked since Christmas morning.

She had arrived on Christmas Eve. No one saw her.

The fuel tank was nearly empty. Why didn’t she fill it and sail away?

Was there somewhere nearby?

“Address of the headquarters near Anderton.”

Leon tossed the fountain pen in front of Blanchard. While Campbell handed him a cigar, the man stared at him and slowly shook his head.

“None.”

Leon’s patience burned down to the cigar.

He asked for every relative, friend, or hiding place of the woman except Jonathan Riddle Jr. The rat answered with the same useless words.

Leon decided to wait until the cigar was half gone.

“Hey, I’m giving you a chance. You saw it with your own eyes this morning.”

The execution was scheduled anyway. The rat would get a good show in the windowless cell.

“You’ll end up like this too.”

The memory made the rat close his eyes.

“My point is, if you cooperate and tell me where she is, I’ll spare your life.”

The rat sighed long. Was he calculating with his tiny brain? When he saw hesitation, Leon added generously.

“You may look like a lieutenant but I have that much influence. Think carefully.”

Yet the rat kept the cigar burning almost to the filter.

“If you don’t want to live, I can ask your comrades. They must know how Grace acts. Mentioning the Riddle name makes them talk.”

Everyone burned with revenge. Exactly as he planned.

And to traitors who had lost their way, Grace Riddle was the perfect opportunity to help the army without betraying her comrades.

The problem was they were not close to her.

When information ran out, they listed her crimes. It was obvious they wanted to drag her to hell too.

How much truth was there?

Forgery, infiltration, bomb terror, assassination—any way you listened it sounded like she had done the work of dozens of revolutionaries.

Their so-called “active cooperation” only made Leon angrier. He didn’t care what they stole from the palace. He only wanted the woman’s location.

After waiting, Blanchard finally opened his eyes.

“Then I’ll tell you the only place I know.”

Was this a final bid to raise his price? The rat picked up the fountain pen.

Leon’s face hardened as he watched the pen without even touching the cigar ash.

In the middle of the map the rat had scrawled a single word in huge letters.

Hell.

“Grace Riddle’s only destination is here.”

A short laugh burst from the clenched teeth.

“You’re mistaken…”

Leon moved the cigar to his left hand and reached with his right. The rat snatched the fountain pen instead of whatever Leon had grabbed.

“Ugh…”

“I am God here.”

The sharp tip of the pen dug into the back of the rat’s hand.

“Hell is right where you are now…”

The suppressed groan and scratching pen continued.

“I will send the entire world to hell, but I will not send Grace Riddle.”

The rat bit through his gag and endured while Leon wrote slowly.

What an asshole.

Didn’t that stubbornness belong to protecting the woman? He had already lost to him and was now playing a belated pride game.

Death row.

Leon had carved the words on the back of the rat’s hand with blood and ink.

He capped the pen and placed it on the folder. While Campbell gathered the photos and map, Leon took a long draw on the cigar. Only then did he ask again.

“Cooperate honestly. What’s the problem? Do you think my life is ending too?”

Blanchard glared with bloodshot eyes.

“Or do you still want to claim you love her?”

“No, I regret ever loving Grace.”

The moment the rat spat the arrogant words, Leon’s patience finally burned out.

Who the hell are you?

I loved Grace. Now I don’t. And I regret it.

The same words echoed in his empty head. The cigar burned his gums and filled his mouth with bitterness.

Arrogant rat, who the hell are you?

Leon placed the cigar on the table’s edge. He rolled up his sleeves neatly one by one. The cigar ash fell to the floor as he rolled up his sleeves. The color of the ash matched the rat’s face.

“Jimmy…”

He rolled his sleeves to the elbows, put on black leather gloves, and picked up the cigar. One long draw and the dying flame flared brighter than the blood on the back of the rat’s hand.

“Have you ever kissed that woman?”

With his eyes curved in mockery he asked. The rat’s gaze sharpened.

If he answered honestly, the tiny brain would know. He pulled his hand back from the table and took a defensive posture.

“…No.”

“Oh, who’s lying? She said she did.”

Of course the woman never said that.

The rat bit his split lip again, just like when Leon had lured him with the boat. Meaning he had kissed her.

With those lips—to her, no, to my woman.

Bang. The chair fell over as the rat stood.

“Seize him.”

When the atmosphere shifted, Campbell grabbed the struggling rat from behind. Leon grabbed his chin and forced his mouth open.

“Ugh… eeugh!”

The cigar was smashed into the rat’s lips.

Even though he had expected the answer, Leon lost control. He was struggling in the trap he had set.

The burning smell filled the room. Campbell looked away.

The Major was growing more ruthless every day.

Once he would have extracted a nail only for serious matters. It grew back. He had that much restraint.

Now he had no scruples about permanently damaging prisoners.

Another change. Campbell fixed his gaze on Winston’s face. No joy, no pleasure. It was dangerous.

He only wanted to get rid of the woman and never find her again.

“Why is there no ashtray in your room? The guest service is incompetent.”

“Hah… ugh…”

Leon shoved the still-lit cigar into the rat’s mouth. When he pulled away, the rat spat out the crushed tobacco and vomited.

He grabbed the rat’s chin, the only uninjured part, and lifted him.

“Ugh…”

“James Blanchard Jr.”

When the bruised face was lifted to eye level, it paled instantly. The rat tried to pull away, but Campbell held both hands behind his back.

“Don’t ever mention that woman’s name in this stinking mouth again. One more time and I’ll cut out your tongue.”

He made a cutting gesture in front of the eyes.

“Vertically.”

The rat’s pupils jittered. Leon smiled coldly and released him.

Casually rolling down his sleeves and fixing his cuffs, he looked exactly like when he had arrived. The rat stared at him with fear.

Winston was about to leave when he stopped.

“Ah, it’s the last night of the year. I mustn’t forget to greet you. Unlike you, I know manners.”

He smiled with curved eyes and spoke kindly.

“Next year will be even more hopeful than this one. All that empty hope will be yours.”

As soon as they stepped into the corridor, the smile vanished from Leon’s face. Campbell’s voice came faintly from behind telling the duty soldier to summon the doctor.

Why keep a useless bastard alive?

He knew the reason but didn’t question it. The palace and military both praised the capture of Blanchard. To eliminate the remnants and solve the unsolved cases, the information he possessed was necessary. The longer he lived, the bigger the prize. It would benefit Leon and his family personally.

But in his eyes it was nothing now.

If the arrogant rat was killed and the woman returned, Leon would ignore all operational interests and kill him without hesitation.

“Hah…”

Leon sat alone in the living room of the suite and sighed deeply.

Even with the window closed and thick curtains drawn, noisy parties leaked in from outside. Even with the radio on, nothing changed. The cheerful songs and praise from the speakers were nothing but mockery.

Leon folded the letter he had read and dropped it with the others in the box on the coffee table. Next to it were letter envelopes, postcards, receipts, and fake IDs.

He had checked the woman’s boarding house items again and again last night, and the week before. The worry that he had missed something stupid kept returning.

Just like he had missed her.

He opened one of the diaries stacked on the opposite side and read carefully from the first page. To find where she might go, who she might rely on.

The only gain was that she had an aunt named Florence in the New World.

The woman was isolated. No human relationships outside the rebels except that aunt.

“Hah…”

It was wrong. He was looking in the completely wrong direction. The feeling that he was wasting time made Leon close the diary.

The problem was this fucking intuition never told him the right direction.

He should have stayed glued to her.

He replayed the day in his head endlessly. When he first stepped into the headquarters he had only felt joy, but now only regret remained.

He pressed both hands over his face. When he closed his eyes, the woman’s face floated.

The face that had laughed at him.

That fucking rat woman. She had slipped through the net like a rat. How many times?

But the resentment soon turned to worry.

The way she had hurried to Winsford station. The dazed look like she had lost her way on the platform. The haggard face at Chesterfield station. They passed before him one by one, vivid as if happening right now. If it were happening right now he could have chosen differently.

In this cold winter, alone and with a messed-up mind, where was she wandering?

She should be here.

When he looked up, the bedroom door stood open. The bed she should have shared with him was empty, sheets wrinkle-free. Champagne had never been poured.

He closed his eyes again and sighed like a moan, then stood. He picked up his officer jacket and coat and stepped out of the suite.

It was past midnight.

Even though it was New Year’s Eve, the square of the ghost village was quiet. Leon parked his car in the corner and walked straight to the shabby three-story building.

The soldiers at the desk saluted. Leon gave a wordless nod and climbed to the third floor.

He inserted the key into the only door with a “Do Not Enter” sign. Creak. With a gloomy groan the door opened. The scene was unchanged from yesterday.

Narrow boarding house. Single bed with only a mattress. Wardrobe, desk, scattered items.

He stepped inside and closed the door. Even the single lamp on the desk made the room bright. Standing between desk and bed felt cramped. The room had not been ventilated for long and smelled of damp mold.

The interrogation room was far more comfortable and spacious than the woman’s room. It was still unbelievable.

She had complained about using the owner’s bathroom without permission or being picky about cherry pie. He had guessed she lived a middle-class life at least.

She had been a member of the royal family that led the revolution. As a bastard she shouldn’t have been treated that way. Before she was abandoned she had been the head of state’s fiancée. She should have been treated like a princess.

“What kind of palace is this?”

He couldn’t imagine living in a rundown boarding house with mold in the countryside.

This didn’t make sense.

When he first saw the room and read her diary, a strong unease had gripped him.

By directly seeing her traces he had estimated her life, which was far from being the “princess of the revolution” or the “next queen of the Blanchard dynasty.”

“Poor treatment even for a fallen royal family. That stupid woman… endured all this.”

It was sad to see the cunning woman who had mocked him many times here. Leon sighed and looked around the narrow room again.

Only his footprints were on the dusty floor. She hadn’t come to look for her luggage at the village hall where she was last seen.

She had left everything behind. No regrets.

He could understand that feeling. The people she trusted had hidden the truth about her parents and brother. It must have shocked her. Her past must have felt like a lie.

But he couldn’t shake the feeling that her actions had been more extreme than expected.

Had she heard more from her brother than he knew?

He wanted to sit Jonathan Riddle Jr. at the interrogation table right now, but he couldn’t yet. He was laying the trap and waiting.

Leon searched the room again without meaning to.

He opened the album in the desk drawer. There weren’t many photos. All except the one at Abington Beach station where she smiled brightly were faces he didn’t recognize. Every time he met the rat, something rose to his throat.

Knock.

He closed the album and put it back, then started on the next drawer. Five identity photos fell from a can of candy in the top compartment. He stared at them, then put them all in his wallet.

The hands searching the room became frenzied. He was looking for something but didn’t know what.

No, he knew. It just wasn’t here.

He didn’t know what else to do to find the woman. He had done everything possible. There was nothing left. He couldn’t bear the fact, so he repeated the meaningless search.

Then he opened the old travel trunk under the bed.

Time stopped.

Or perhaps time had reversed.

Leon carefully lifted the straw hat surrounded by random items, as if excavating a relic.

Why this?

Why was the straw hat he had given her still kept?

“I really… liked you.”

Was that why? No, impossible.

Winston recalled the time after graduating academy and returning to the estate. A vague old memory surfaced.

“What should I do with this?”

A maid was sorting his childhood things in the warehouse when she asked for the dolphin doll. A item he had never seen before.

It had only been a trigger for unpleasant memories. Instead of throwing it away, she said to put it back in the warehouse.

Why did we do that when we could forget completely?

Whoosh. Bang.

Holding the straw hat, he looked down. Fireworks exploded outside. Colorful fireworks dyed the black sky.

The champagne, kiss, party, and another day symbolized by fireworks surfaced in Leon’s mind. The night of his engagement when he had reached this turning point.

Bang.

The woman’s face turned pale with fear when she mistook the explosion for gunfire. And the man who had laughed at her.

His face reflected in the window behind the vision was distorted without a trace of laughter. Leon closed his eyes tightly.

When he had decided to walk that path, he believed that if she gave birth to his child and he unbrainwashed her, everything would be as he wanted. How foolish he had been two seasons ago.

“Next year will be even more hopeful than this one. All that empty hope will be yours.”

Who was he speaking to?

Bang.

When everyone was wishing for good fortune, Leon had wished for happiness instead of the tragic fate. The sound of a bullet striking him. And this time let the woman laugh at him.

In front of him.

Clack-clack.

While Leon listened to the train wheels on the tracks, another sound mixed in. He opened his eyes.

As the sun set, thick raindrops hit the window. He stared at the rain sliding down the glass in diagonal lines and gave a hollow laugh.

How tedious.

As the familiar cityscape appeared against the gray-red sky, the train slowed.

He had returned to Winsford. Exactly one month since the woman disappeared. Without her.

Leon scribbled on the napkin with the fountain pen.

One month.

31 days.

744 hours.

44,640 minutes.

2,678,400 seconds.

He knew the calculation added only pain, yet he couldn’t stop.

2,678,401 seconds. 2,678,402 seconds. 2,678,403 seconds…

“Hah…”

The sound of the fountain pen on the table echoed in the empty first-class car with the sigh.

He had considered every possibility but never predicted she would return alone. All those plans were meant to prevent her return alone.

He couldn’t wait endlessly at the empty spot either. He knew that. Still, he had endured in the north using the prisoner interrogation as an excuse until the decoration ceremony was days away, then left.

The palace’s schedule was at least half a year long. Yet only a month after announcing decoration in the New Year’s speech, the palace sent notice of the ceremony.

They were clearly using him to soften negative public opinion in the palace.

At the end of last year, rumors spread in financial circles that the owner of the joint company that had won the rights to the Briar Diamond mine was the king. It eventually reached the tabloids.

Of course Leon had planted the rumor knowing the woman would be beside him at this time.

The public opinion against the palace’s secret investments was naturally bad. If he directly denied it, the underground rumors would become fact, so the palace used “anonymous palace sources” to dismiss it as nonsense and manipulated opinion behind the scenes.

Then, conveniently, he arrested the rebels and drew everyone’s attention at once.

The king didn’t know he was the one who had thrown him into the water and now saved him.

Anyway, he had stayed in the capital for a week because of that ridiculous show. He didn’t remember the decoration ceremony, the palace, or the king’s gaze.

In the crowded hall where the boring banquet was held, he had only been lost in dull and ridiculous thoughts.

The radio broadcast—did she hear it from somewhere? Would she see his photo in the newspaper?

And the impulse to look for the face he never saw in the crowd.

Knock.

A sudden knock on the door of the next compartment rattled the wall. The voice that had been droning for hours stopped abruptly. Then someone knocked on the door of this room.

“Your Highness.”

The soldier guarding the door opened it and revealed Pierce, his personal aide.

“We will arrive at Winsford Central Station soon. For safety, disembarkation will be after all passengers have left…”

Leon waved away Pierce’s unnecessary chatter and turned toward the window. When the aide stepped out and closed the door, the train slowed and gray platforms appeared.

Soldiers from headquarters lined up to escort. When the train stopped, six or seven ran toward the car. While soldiers guarded the door of the Winston carriage, passengers boarded and alighted, filling the platform.

After about ten minutes the whistle blew and doors of other compartments slammed shut. Only then did the soldier outside knock politely. The count stepped out.

Elizabeth had pursed her lips as she prepared to follow her brother. It was her habit when displeased.

Leon, who had boarded alone in the next compartment for work, was already standing on the platform.

*That boy can’t even hold his mother’s hand like a gentleman… anyway, soldiers.*

The scene of the eldest son, now a count, stepping down from the train hand in hand with his mother, captured by photographers on the platform and published in tomorrow’s newspaper. Elizabeth, who had secretly hoped for such a coincidence, felt quite sad.

Her thoughtless son stood alone under the camera flashes. But what was he doing? Leon’s gaze was not on the cameras but on some random place.

Missing.

Leon couldn’t tear his eyes from those three words. Missing posters for the Blanchard remnants were posted beside the missing person notice on the platform pillar.

Late twenties. Teal eyes. Small mole under the left eye. Slim build. Pregnant woman due in May.

Missing woman posters lined every pillar. Scattering them across the kingdom was appropriate.

On the streets private posters were posted, but at border checkpoints and ports the army had issued wanted posters in its name on the day she disappeared. She might head to her aunt overseas.

Perhaps soon.

Based on the leader’s testimony he had estimated the amount she took from the safe. Alone without relatives or supporters, she wouldn’t last more than a few months. And in late spring she would need a large sum.

Therefore he had issued wanted posters to pawnshops, jewelers, and even receivers.

Not for the woman, but for the ring.

The woman who failed to flee overseas was selling the ring to pay for childbirth costs. With her belly so large she couldn’t go far, he narrowed the net around the area and searched hospitals and birthing centers.

He fixed his gaze on the teal eyes in the poster instead of the name or photo.

You won’t escape for months. Stop wasting your life. Be a little reasonable and come back.

He had even thought maybe she hid because she feared his punishment. Should he have written something kind on the poster?

Normally a laugh would have come out, but Leon’s face was hard.

A month had passed. Her belly would be larger. Her body would be thinner. He vaguely remembered from a book when weight loss began to make her feel heavy.

And he had already felt the quickening.

Strange stares began. Leon pulled his eyes from the text-only poster and walked into the station. But his thoughts remained stuck on that useless paper.

The poster had only description—no name, no photo. It was an unavoidable choice because if the remnants knew she was fleeing, she would be in danger.

He knew it wouldn’t draw much public interest, yet he had distributed the poster as a missing person instead of a criminal solely for her safety. If they knew she was a rebel in flight, the foolish people who would burn with unnecessary justice might hurt her.

The most eye-catching part was the reward. He had set it at two years’ salary for a middle-class man, but not a single reliable tip had come in.

Surrounded by aides and soldiers, Leon walked toward the station lobby when he suddenly closed his eyes.

Alive?

He knew she wouldn’t kill herself. She had an unusual attachment to life. Just looking at how she had fled with money and weapons showed she had no intention of ending her life.

Then why was there no trace she was still alive?

The obsession to find her had become the desperation to at least find a trace. As time passed, his wish grew more desperate.

The moment he entered the lobby, camera shutters and cheers exploded like fireworks.

“Your Excellency the Count, please look this way!”

“Don’t move! Back up!”

Citizens and reporters swarmed the station lobby like ants. Security pushed back the crowds so the Winston family could pass.

Even though he had become a clown, Leon didn’t hurry. He stopped from time to time under the camera flashes until his vision burned black and stared at the cameras.

The same thought he had repeated since that day whenever he stood in front of a camera.

This photo—she will see it in the newspaper.

Should I laugh? Shouldn’t I? What expression should I make when she returns?

Should I look pitiful? Should I shed tears? Should I write something like “I’m coming back” and hold it up?

He still hadn’t found the answer. Now he didn’t know the woman at all.

A white limousine waited in the square in front of the station. Two months earlier he had ordered a new car and had it painted a noticeable color—his mother’s idea born of vanity.

The car decorated with ribbons and flags made it look like he was holding a parade.

*Useless stunt.*

Riding the ridiculous limousine through the streets of Winsford was torture. In the evening the crowd heading to the theaters turned to look. The carriage ahead stopped at the curb, and as Leon’s car passed, the driver lifted his hat in respect.

Leon snatched the cane from Jerome. He knocked it against the window between the driver and rear seats, where the chauffeur had been honking to show off. The man turned.

“Enough.”

The car fell silent immediately. Leon tossed the cane to his brother and closed his eyes.

“Why are you making that face? Soldiers are soldiers…”

There was one more reason the ride was tedious. Even if he took the train to avoid his mother, he had to ride the car with her.

“Act like a general.”

Leon’s forehead furrowed. General meant he had won a battle and returned. He had lost. Miserably. So a grand welcome felt only like mockery.

“To become a general you still have far to go.”

“Oh my. Don’t say such ominous things, Jerome. Just imagining you wearing a military uniform until your brother hears the general title is terrifying.”

Elizabeth called out to the silent Leon beside her.

“Leon, you’ve received your title and avenged your father. That’s enough. Quit the army.”

“You said you wouldn’t bring up that story anymore.”

“It’s for your own good.”

Elizabeth added in a pout.

“It’s the rule that you leave when the clapping stops.”

Leon gritted his teeth at the words.

Who didn’t know? He had wanted to do exactly that.

While he quietly endured anger and self-hatred, Elizabeth began her exaggerated boasting.

“While staying in the capital there was so much to worry about. I’m tired. Palace visits and parties every day…”

“Think of it as spending the next while holed up in the countryside recovering.”

“Jerome, I want that too. But when I return to Halewood the pile of invitations will greet me. Annoying.”

So the Winston “grandmother” had spent the entire month in the capital coordinating the decoration ceremony and showing off her contribution.

Contribution? Coordinating a formal event wasn’t difficult. Jerome, who had watched his mother hustle royal insiders every day, and Leon far away, knew it.

It wasn’t for the already decided title. It was to add the title to his late father’s name. Purely to receive the title of “Winston grandmother,” the mourning title given to the widow of the late count, instead of “Winston wife.”

Then why did the Aldrich Duchess seem jealous that she would someday hear the unheard title of countess? After the decoration announcement Elizabeth kept repeating the words.

“Honestly, I feel sorry. Leon, you rushed your engagement too much. Honestly, you said you would support your title and I accepted the duke’s offer even though I would lose…”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes displeased.

“I don’t know what the duke did. Your title is something you earned yourself, Leon.”

A trap always waited at the end of every correct statement.

“Of course I raised and nurtured you. Remember that.”

Even while driving out of the city into the suburbs, the duchess’s mockery continued.

“These days it’s too late to say this, but the duchess doesn’t seem very pleased either. She hasn’t tried to get close to the man she will marry. Leon, has the duchess ever called you? As far as I know, no. How is there not even a warm side…”

Jerome finally interrupted.

“That’s for my brother to handle. In fact, I don’t think there’s a bride suitable for our family’s status as grand as her.”

Elizabeth glared at her younger son with a pout and shot back.

“Why are you on the duchess’s side instead of your loving brother?”

Jerome loved the duchess, not me. Leon, listening quietly, gave a cold laugh.

“Our family’s status has changed now. No. We’ve restored the original status. Ah, no matter how I think, you rushed too much. We could have found a better match. Even with the duchess, we could have arranged it with much better conditions.”

The brothers stared out the window without replying to the endless words.

“The duke has sense. He seems to realize the situation has changed. Last year he wanted to postpone the wedding, but now he’s boldly suggesting a date. I flatly refused. Was that right?”

When the duke’s name came up, Leon gritted his teeth again. The toast the duke had made at the celebration party after the decoration ceremony suddenly surfaced.

“The Winston count, who has finally washed away all past stains, is sincerely wished a clean new beginning like last night’s snow.”

The duke knew the woman had disappeared. Not only had he shown no joy at her disappearance but he had treated her and the child as dirty stains.

Leon wanted to draw his gun and turn the place into a beehive. But that wasn’t his place.

Wait and see. One day. When the woman returns.

“Your Highness, congratulations.”

As the car stopped in front of the main estate, the butler opened the door with a bright face.

“Everyone has been waiting. Please come inside.”

The butler gestured toward the brightly open main entrance. The first-floor hall was carpeted up to the stairs with no space to step.

The estate employees in identical uniforms waited to welcome their master, but Leon pushed Jerome’s back instead.

“Where is the luggage?”

He asked the maid captain standing beside the butler. Mrs. Belmore nodded with both hands respectfully folded.

“It has been prepared as instructed.”

The woman’s luggage from the boarding house in Blackburn had been moved to the estate by Mrs. Belmore. The Riddles’ items in the basement warehouse had also been moved to the annex. They were evidence subject to military seizure, but in the field his word was law.

Leon turned immediately after hearing the answer he wanted. Perhaps because of his mood, the annex, which he hadn’t seen in a long time, felt like a mausoleum where coffins were placed. The feeling he had never felt when looking at it before.

Now he passed through the iron gate no one guarded and opened the building’s front door. Creak. The sound of the door opening and footsteps climbing the stairs had been this hollow even a month ago.

Leon hurried up the third floor and turned his head. He had to search the woman’s items again. In a new place with new eyes, new things might appear.

First he wanted to wash away the fatigue and discomfort of the journey. Following habit, he opened his room and sucked in a breath.

“Leon, are you happy?”

The cunning question the woman had thrown at him the last time he left this place now echoed as a hallucination in his brain.

He gritted his teeth.

Hallucinations had started appearing. The woman sat on the bed with one hand on her belly and her lips gently curved in a smile. Just like that morning.

Behind that tender smile she had been laughing at him.

He hadn’t gone mad enough to reach out and grab the welcome. Leon walked past the hallucination and entered the bedroom.

The first thing his eyes caught in the empty bedroom were the items she had left.

Her slippers neatly lined at the foot of the bed she slept on, half-finished knitted wool hat, ring box, crystal bowl with chocolates, and the penthouse catalog.

“Fuck…”

After sight and sound, smell came next.

The woman’s familiar scent mixed with the citrus of the perfume he had bought her and poured into his room. At that moment his chest tightened as if something had blocked the air.

He fled from his room to the bathroom like escaping a fire. Even in the bathroom he ignored the woman’s traces that rushed in again and stripped, stepping into the shower stall.

The water poured like rain, but his heart pounded thunderously. He fought the impulse to look back.

If he looked back, the woman would be there. The woman bathing alone in his tub with foam.

Actually, the moment he opened the bedroom door he had foolishly hoped. When the door opened, maybe the woman would be there.

No, he had thought that the moment he opened the annex door. She was definitely somewhere in this annex.

At some point the annex had become a space where the woman existed. A space without the woman didn’t exist.

He fought the impulse to search the entire annex—from the basement interrogation room to the attic maid room.

He had to confirm it was gone. Why did he have to confirm it so desperately?

He was despairing like a clerk.

Crazy bastard. Idiot. Even if he didn’t believe in the hallucination, he was mad, wasn’t he?

When he forced a smile and stepped out of the shower stall.

The woman appeared in the mirror and their eyes met. While he dried his wet hair, the woman staring blankly in thought snatched the towel from his hand.

No, he hadn’t been holding a towel.

Clang.

Large and small mirror fragments shattered into the white sink, followed by red blood drops splattering the porcelain.

Leon gripped the edge of the sink with both hands and stared at the splashed blood and shards while breathing roughly. No matter how deep he breathed, his breathing wouldn’t settle.

He was truly going mad. And he had to accept reality before going completely insane.

I was wrong.

I had to admit from the beginning that I was completely wrong. Every time I got entangled with Grace Riddle, things never went according to plan. It wasn’t because she was cunning but because I was arrogant.

First, that foolish maid couldn’t be a spy.

Second, I could tame her.

Third, my child could be the leash that held her.

Fourth, the woman who had been abandoned by her comrades would return to me.

Fifth, if this fucking world swept away the sediment of hatred they had deposited between us, we could correct the broken relationship.

And sixth, seventh, endless arrogance led to countless misjudgments.

I had become blinded by my greed and boasted that I knew her well. So when I finally dropped the greed, would I finally see the woman?

No, that wouldn’t happen. Even if I dropped all other greed, I would never drop the greed for her.

Because of the greed that still blinded me, all the calculations and guesses to find the woman were wrong. I had already sensed that I wouldn’t stop this foolish act until the day she returned.

“Hah…”

He suddenly laughed.

The day she returns? Returns? Crazy.

Now I have to admit that too.

She won’t return. She abandoned me.

She didn’t disappear. She abandoned me.

Like someone who had been forced to drink deadly poison, Leon’s head was full of Blanchard’s mocking laughter.

“No, I regret ever loving Grace.”

Loving her. Stopping the act of loving her. Regretting the act of having loved her. And even bragging her name at will.

Leon couldn’t do any of it easily, yet the rat did all of it without hesitation. As if he had the right to do it in front of him.

Arrogant rat, who the hell are you?

But even then Leon knew. Both of them had been abandoned, but he would never say the words “I regret loving Grace” for the rest of his life.

In the end, the only one who was nothing was him.

He had shown her only the truth. And he was the one who had unbrainwashed her. Yet the woman had treated him worse than a traitor.

Even after promising to give him everything he had and swearing an eternal future, she left. No, he had been abandoned.

After completing all the tasks on his shoulders and trying to leave behind the cruel mockery and humiliation and betrayal she had given him over the years, she had abandoned him.

Yes, you still are like that.

She still abandons me so easily. But I can’t even abandon a broken mirror.

Wasn’t the one who shattered it my heart, not my hand?

Leon lifted his head and stared at the shattered mirror and regretted it. Just one mirror. Not one she had loved, not one she cherished. Just something he occasionally reflected her in. He had broken it for a ridiculous reason and blamed himself.

He had wanted to leave everything exactly as it was, the way it had been with her. Only when he broke the mirror did he realize it.

He had been a fool to have such a foolish thought.

Everything she had touched had become an eternal treasure for him. And on top of that, he had gathered the items she had discarded and brought them inside. Whatever he did, it was only foolish acts.

The cracked face in the mirror gave a self-mocking laugh. The intermittent laughs gradually faded and finally disappeared.

He was no different. Leon Winston was only one of the random things she had discarded in the past.

His distorted face was wrapped in a hand stained with blood. A tear of crimson ran down his cheek.

The reason the annex had felt like a mausoleum wasn’t his mood. This annex was the grave where Grace Riddle had left her past.

Leon Winston would rot in this coffin along with the past Grace Riddle had left behind.

The weekday café was quite quiet an hour or so before tea time.

“So last night…”

The waiters gathered at the counter with the radio on discussing gossip. When the door opened, they all turned toward the entrance.

“Welcome.”

One of the men who had been giving each other strange looks stepped forward. What was strange was that at this hour on a weekday he was the kind of customer who rarely came.

He looked like a middle-aged man from the working class, but he had taken only one table, not even a bar stool. For a lone male customer it was unusual.

“Coffee.”

“Yes, one coffee. Right away.”

He received the ordinary order and turned back to the counter when the door opened again.

“Welcome.”

This time it was the usual customer at this time on a weekday.

A young woman in a cloche hat of red-wine color decorated with a black ribbon and a black cape with fur trim at the hem stood at the entrance, looked around, and sat.

She looked wealthy at a glance. This café near the boutique district was usually full of housewives having a break with one cup of tea or friends gossiping in the afternoon.

“Do you have company?”

The waiter approached and asked. She shook her head and removed the gloves matching her hat color. The thin gold ring on her left ring finger sparkled. The waiter added the honorific and pointed politely inside.

“Madam, please sit wherever it’s convenient.”

Of all the many seats, she chose the one right behind the middle-aged man who had arrived first. Only when she sat did the waiter realize the bulge in the front of her cape wasn’t an illusion.

“Is it all right?”

“Yes, it’s fine.”

The pregnant woman would surely be uncomfortable, yet she sat with her back to the stranger who was only a handspan away. She didn’t remove her sunglasses and flipped through the menu on the table.

She couldn’t see her eyes well through the sunglasses, but the bright red lipstick looked garish and ill-fitting, yet somehow it suited her. She must be beautiful.

“Hmm…”

She tucked the black hair that reached the middle of her neck behind her ear and seemed to hesitate for a moment, then ordered.

“Cream tea.”

“Yes, one cream tea. Right away.”

As the waiter walked away, Grace sighed and stroked her belly.

“Yeah, I’m hungry too. Just hold on a little.”

It was what she said to the baby kicking her legs the whole way from the train station.

After six months the baby’s movements were much clearer and more active. Whether it was her will or something else, it kicked constantly. Thanks to it she didn’t know how many times she had woken up at night.

Seeing her full of energy all day, was it a boy?

She honestly didn’t care about the gender. She only wanted to get rid of the heavy, bothersome thing quickly.

*Will the royal new baby be a prince or princess…*

Jealous.

Grace sighed deeply at the radio news that the queen’s third childbirth was only six weeks away. She would have to stay like this at least until May.

Waiting for tea and scones had become boring. She opened the handbag on the seat beside her and took out one of the neatly folded newspapers and spread it on the table.

Again?

The moment she turned the first page she frowned. Because her eyes met his.

Irritation surged. She had barely escaped and now saw him every day.

She had expected articles to flood after the raid. But even though it was the end of the year and things should have calmed, the surprise decoration announcement, the promotion, and the decoration ceremony a few days ago had kept him in the spotlight for a full month, filling airwaves and print.

Front page, political page, economic page, society page, columns, analysis articles, 4-panel comics, and even the entertainment page.

He was a big star now, really.

But after the decoration ceremony the next day the articles had started to slow. Now the story of “Leon Winston returns to Winsford” was on the third page with the headline “Hero’s Return.”

*He did it. Title, promotion, revenge. Your father must be proud.*

Grace smiled leisurely at the man. The corners of both lips trembled.

In the photo Leon Winston still looked like a swan, aloof and perfect like a god. She had expected him to collapse miserably when she disappeared, but why?

No. The fact that he was still chasing her showed the face behind the mask was still unknown.

Grace stretched the corners of her mouth back into a smile. This time with upturned eyes.

“Hi, darling. How have you been without me?”

Should she call him and tease him?

She wasn’t a child, really. Grace gave a small sigh and gathered a handful of newspapers and flipped them all at once. When she reached the lifestyle ads she read each one.

The word Grace was looking for in all those ads was only one.

Butcher.

The word the Blanchard Revolutionary Army secretly used to refer to themselves. They compared themselves to butchers catching royal pigs.

After the Blackburn raid the ads for butchers or butchers looking for jobs increased. When the ad had meaningless numbers instead of a real phone number or wrote a rough location for a slaughterhouse that didn’t exist, it meant the self-proclaimed remnants were using code.

Those who had barely escaped the headquarters or mansions across the kingdom gathered to prepare new hiding places and recruit other remnants.

They hadn’t installed phone lines yet, and they didn’t know when they would move to the new hideout, so when an ad for a butcher looking for a slaughterhouse appeared, people who had already found a hideout nearby posted job ads to let them know the contact time and place.

And last week in this very ad there was such code.

Wednesday afternoon 2 o’clock, Dunwich Café Dalia.

Grace had come to Dunwich city in the central region several days ago to find the café. She had asked taxi drivers and even gone through the city phone directory without success.

The middle-aged man sitting behind her didn’t belong in this downtown café. Although it was their first meeting, the scent of “comrade” already wafted from him.

Grace listened to the noise from behind and sighed quietly.

The pyramid was already broken, but underneath people still deceived and were deceived. Maybe the escaped leaders were trying to rebuild the pyramid. The more she knew, the more it was true to her mother’s words.

No fanatical group.

While her eyes continued scanning the newspaper, she stopped. She found another suspicious ad for butchers. Grace took a pencil and notepad from her handbag.

*Butcher… 10 a.m. …*

At the bottom of the ad were several phone numbers. This was a code where each number had a letter assigned. She had memorized the decryption table from years of tedious use, so she quickly decoded it.

“Phew…”

The moment she decoded the location, a sigh escaped her mouth.

*Really… do I have to go there this time?*

It was a distance that required taking a train for more than four hours.

*Please gather in one place, please?*

While she grumbled internally, the waiter brought the cream tea set on a tray. Grace quickly put the newspaper and notepad back in her handbag.

“Your cream tea is here. Let me know if anything is missing.”

“Thank you.”

The waiter kindly poured and left. The tea was exactly the right red color. When he added milk from the creamer, white clouds swirled in the red teacup.

*They use good tea leaves.*

She added plenty of sugar and stirred the milk tea, then picked up the scone on the plate. The rich smell was wonderful. She split the warm scone in half, spread strawberry jam on one side, and the baby kicking inside her started to dance again because she had only eaten sweet things.

*Got it. Wait.*

When she put clotted cream thickly on the strawberry jam and bit into the scone.

“Welcome.”

A sound of the door opening came from behind. She turned her head slightly and saw, as expected, the young man in the clothes that didn’t suit this place standing at the entrance looking around.

*He’s here.*

As the waiter approached, the young man shook his head and walked this way. Grace turned again and took another bite of the scone. Behind her a short conversation about whether she was a butcher looking for a job, and the sound of chairs scraping.

The two kept their voices low and chatted as the caution loosened, voices loud enough for Grace to hear.

*A pregnant woman with a scone in her mouth is neither suspicious nor scary.*

Grace was spreading jam and cream on the remaining half of the scone when the conversation reached the contact purpose.

“Our side includes me, so three.”

“It’s narrow but I can handle three. Where are the other two?”

“About an hour by train from here…”

The two planned to bring the rest and meet again nearby at night to finish the contact. Grace quickly finished her tea, took four gold coins from her wallet, and placed them on the table.

She left before the two. Outside she stood behind the corner two buildings away and watched the café entrance. After a while the young man came out first and walked the opposite way and disappeared.

After about two minutes the middle-aged man finally appeared outside the café. As the man walked toward her, Grace opened her bag and quickly took something out.

As the man rounded the corner and passed her, Grace turned her back and pretended to fix her makeup.

*Makeup is bothersome, really.*

The mirror in the compact showed the lipstick smeared in places on her lips. Grace quickly filled the empty space and glanced at the end of the alley. The man walked somewhere without noticing he had a tail.

Grace followed at a comfortable distance. The shops grew sparse and clotheslines across the buildings began to cross above her head. As expected, the man headed toward the nearby poor district.

“Huff…”

She sighed and stopped. Following further was dangerous. The expensive clothes were effective for avoiding Winston’s pursuit, but tailing him in a poor district was reckless.

Grace turned her eyes to the children huddled in one corner of the alley.

“Kids.”

The children playing and drawing on the ground with a piece of chalk looked up.

“You saw the man who just passed?”

“Yeah.”

The oldest-looking boy answered.

“Do you know where he lives?”

“Over there at the corner. He comes and goes all the time.”

The boy pointed at the corner where the man had disappeared. He didn’t know more.

“Follow him and see where he goes. Don’t get too close or speak.”

She took out a silver coin and held it up. The boy stood up sharply, shook his hands, and ran toward the corner.

The boy returned soon after and reported excitedly.

“There’s a blue building at the end of the alley. He went in. But I couldn’t see how many floors.”

That was enough. The army would search like rats anyway.

Grace gave the coin to the sparkling-eyed boy and, to the children watching enviously, took a chocolate from her bag and gave one to each.

“Don’t tell anyone I asked.”

She turned away from the nodding children and came out to the bustling street. She entered a phone booth at the first bank she saw. It was the end of the month so the bank was crowded and no woman’s appearance would be remembered calling at this hour.

“Connect me to 5214 Berkshire West in Winsford.”

Grace gave the familiar number and added a name in its place.

“Bridget Davis.”

Soon the other side’s voice came.

*First Special Task Force. How may I help you?*

It was the usual military tone full of discipline.

“Hello. I called the number in the missing poster. Is this the place that receives rebel tips?”

Grace asked as if she didn’t know.

*Yes, it is.*

“So I think someone I know might be a rebel.”

After that she told the man’s appearance and the hideout location and the contact time and place that night.

She had safely completed her purpose in coming to Dunwich and left immediately. It was only a matter of time before the sharp-witted commander of the First Special Task Force identified the tipster’s identity.

She immediately took the luggage the concierge had been holding in the hotel and loaded it into a taxi toward the train station. Then she bought a ticket for the next destination. The train was scheduled to arrive in thirty minutes.

To wait outside was cold, so she entered the waiting room of the platform. While looking at the few empty seats, Grace sat on a bench in front of a pillar.

“Here it is.”

“Thank you.”

The luggage man who had carried her bag from the taxi placed it neatly at her feet. She gave him a gold coin. The man bowed politely and left outside.

Her only luggage was one suitcase the size of a torso. If she had been alone, she could have carried it easily.

“Hah…”

Grace pulled her toes up and stretched her calf, staring at the pillar in front of her.

Late twenties. Teal eyes. Small mole under the left eye. Slim build. Pregnant woman due in May.

A poster for her was on the pillar.

Grace pushed the sunglasses resting on the bridge of her nose up and looked around. The old ladies chatting and the middle-aged man sorting documents as if going on a business trip paid her no attention.

“Ugh… what kind of story is this.”

A young woman sitting next to her in the opposite seat flipped through the poster, tilted her head, and asked the pregnant woman beside her if she knew the story. She looked like she had no idea.

It was because she was wearing expensive clothes and glamorous makeup. If she looked poor, she would be suspected of being the woman in the poster. But a wealthy woman’s missing appearance was usually far from what people recalled.

*Is she looking for me? Now she’s wasting money nationwide?*

Sitting in front of the poster seeking her was a kind of mockery. Anyway, he probably wouldn’t know.

Grace suddenly gave a bitter laugh.

He didn’t even call her name in the poster seeking her.

*What would calling my name do?*

Grace shook off the useless thought and added another useless one.

The phone number at the bottom was one she hadn’t seen before. Had he opened it exclusively? Sometimes she felt the impulse to call. She was curious who would answer. The estate? No, impossible. The headquarters? No. No matter how much she couldn’t tell the difference between military and civilian…

Her gaze rose to the large reward written at the bottom.

*Oh my, look at the amount. Does he want me that badly?*

Grace took one of the newspapers from her bag and spread it. Then she looked straight at the “perfect” man in the photo and curved her eyes.

Your heart is burning black right now, isn’t it?

Leon stared at his reflection in the window with rain streaming down.

Another medal had been added. The face he hated, saying the medal smelled of blood, floated before him. He closed his eyes and turned his head. It was a hallucination that had stuck to his head. Closing his eyes and turning his head made no sense. Meaningless.

“Ah, Major Winston.”

When the voice calling him made him turn, Commander Davenport was entering the command office.

“You were waiting.”

Of course. The commander who had called him had to be waiting. Leon followed the commander into the office. The commander offered him a seat behind the desk, then suddenly furrowed his brows.

“Winston, how did your hand get like that?”

He was asking about the bandage on his right hand. Leon sat in the chair in front of the desk without answering. The commander’s serious expression was enough answer, so the commander took a thick caramel-colored cigar from the box and offered it. Leon accepted without refusal.

“It must have been the first day you came to work after the operation.”

The haze that had obscured his vision thinned, and the commander spoke again.

“How was it? Do you like your private office?”

Leon exhaled long white smoke and nodded perfunctorily.

“It’s not bad.”

From this year Leon was not the deputy chief of domestic intelligence at the western command but the commander of the First Special Task Force.

To completely uproot the Blanchard Revolutionary Army’s remnants, a special unit with command authority beyond its jurisdiction and troops was needed. The Great Uprising Operation Unit created by the army headquarters with the king and congress’s approval was the First Special Task Force.

Of course the one who made the demand was Leon. Using the excuse of clearing remnants, he had been smashing the country and chasing the woman. Only among the high officials did only Commander Davenport know he had personally demanded the special unit.

“Hey, I feel sorry for the kid too.”

The commander who had been watching Leon’s face suddenly spoke nonsense.

“I was once like you. After the incident I was running around trying to recover and my son’s mother disappeared and I wandered for a while. But if she hadn’t left and I had known everything, a bigger tragedy would have happened.”

He lowered his voice and continued, whether comforting or gloating.

“Love cools and wounds heal. Both the kid and you have to walk your own paths now. You are a promising person. You can’t lose everything you have because of one thing.”

“Commander.”

Leon crushed the cigar in the ashtray and broke the silence.

“Do you really think that? That you feel sorry she disappeared.”

It wasn’t only about her disappearance. Leon had erased every record and testimony of Grace Riddle as the investigation progressed.

The rats who were desperate not to let the woman’s crimes be known had been told to shut their mouths before asking and had immediately closed their mouths.

He had also erased every record from the woman’s personal life to her identity.

After taking complete command of the rebel suppression, the first order he issued was to transfer all rebel-related materials and records scattered across the kingdom to the First Special Task Force. There he removed all content related to “Little Riddle” so it would look like Angela Riddle had never had a daughter.

In addition, the birth certificate found in the woman’s luggage had her identity changed to that of a long-dead person and a death report filed so she no longer existed.

It was what the commander wanted too. He had been uneasy because records and testimonies might contain his story mixed in.

“If the evidence of misconduct disappears, I would rather be relieved.”

At the commander’s sarcasm the commander’s brows furrowed displeased.

“True, it’s not that you’re not happy she disappeared.”

If all evidence had been neatly destroyed it would have been good, but the biggest evidence and witness to the misconduct was the woman roaming somewhere outside the world. For the commander living with a time bomb that might explode at any moment, losing the fuse was like losing a trigger.

“Major Winston.”

The commander composed his expression and changed the topic.

“You probably know why I called you today is for another reason.”

Of course. Leon remembered the conditions of this transaction. He placed the folder of documents he had leaned against the chair leg on the commander’s desk.

The commander opened the folder and examined the contents carefully. Even after getting what he wanted, Leon’s expression didn’t brighten. Of course not. The folder contained records and evidence of the late king’s assassination operation, some of which were directly or indirectly related to the commander.

“I hope there are no copies.”

Leon shook his head meaning none. No copies. Of course, there were others.

The moment the purpose was fulfilled he returned to the headquarters of the First Special Task Force one floor below. The atmosphere in the office was different from thirty minutes ago. Soldiers were hurrying around and several officers were passionately talking on the phone.

“Major, you’re here.”

One captain who had been the first to notice Leon among the officers gathered around the map saluted.

“What’s the matter?”

“A tip came in just now.”

Before the captain could answer, Campbell, who hadn’t missed the subtle change in his complexion, added quickly.

“Tip about a remnant hideout.”

“Operation proceeds as planned. Good work.”

Leon lost interest immediately and headed to his office inside the headquarters. While passing the aide’s room in front, his eyes fell on Campbell’s desk. Of the two phones, one received only the woman’s tips. The other rang almost constantly even though the woman’s phone rarely rang.

It was the moment he felt a craving for a cigar again.

“Neil, was the tipster a woman again?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, this feels good. The tip must be accurate. Another honor member will be born.”

When he heard the conversation coming from behind, Leon, who had opened the office door, stopped.

Woman. Tip. Accurate tip. Again, a woman.

A strange instinct activated.

“What do you mean?”

He stepped back into the office and asked in detail.

“Ah, it’s nothing. But lately the myth has spread in the office that if the tipster is a young woman, the raid is a guaranteed success.”

“Because the tip is accurate?”

“Yes, Major.”

The eyes that had been dead for a month regained their vitality.

“Bring the tip receipt record. Now!”

“Ugh…”

Grace stepped into the hotel room, threw her shoes and hat on the floor, and collapsed onto the bed.