Whatever You Imagine Comes True

The chaos of the Relief Charity Exhibition had finally drawn to a triumphant close.

Then, a few days later, I found myself inside the painting, giving Camille a brief rundown of the newspaper article I'd read that morning.

"So anyway, they ran a huge spread about the exhibition, right on the front page. And the gist of it was…"

Perhaps because he hadn't been there in person, none of it seemed to land with him.

"Mm…"

He'd been distracted the whole time, but then something seemed to occur to him, and his eyes lit up.

"I want to see it for myself. Couldn't you draw it for me?"

"Draw the newspaper?"

"Yes."

I couldn't hide my bewilderment.

"Drawing all that tiny print would take quite a long time, though. It would honestly be faster just to tell you about it."

"Would it?"

At that, the corners of Camille's mouth curled upward. He brushed off his hands lightly, rose to his feet, and beckoned me over with a casual flick of his fingers.

"Ah — but this is a secret. Come with me for a moment."

And so, following him, I arrived in front of a stark white canvas.

A clear sky, a flower field in glorious bloom, and there in its center sat the canvas, alone. Camille stood before it, picking up our conversation exactly where he'd left off.

"Now, Aub. Go outside and draw a box-shaped thing."

"A box?"

"Yes. About… this big~"

Camille spread both arms wide, showing off the size he had in mind.

Reluctantly, I stepped outside the canvas, grabbed some brown paint without much thought, and sketched a small box onto the flower field.

'Good enough, isn't it?'

It was a truly dismal drawing — barely a brown rectangular prism — but I nodded vaguely through squinted eyes and went back inside. Camille was already waiting there for me, arms crossed, in front of the little wooden box.

"I suspect you may have painted that with zero sincerity, but… whatever. So. What do you think is inside it?"

"I didn't really think about anything when I drew it."

"Humor me. Imagine something."

"Hmm. This is a flower field, so… I suppose fertilizer, maybe?"

"Exactly. That's probably it, isn't it? Now, open it."

What on earth was he playing at?

At his gesture, I pretended to have no choice and approached, resting my hand on the lid of the box.

But when I lifted it, inside — astonishingly — was a bag of gardening fertilizer. Looking exactly as I'd imagined it, no less.

"How…"

I looked up at him, slack-jawed, and he smiled low and warm.

"Aub. Whatever you imagine becomes reality in here. That's the power I have."

"Is something like that… really possible?"

My voice was a tangle of doubt and hope. Camille nodded without a moment's hesitation.

"Of course. If you don't believe me, try it again."

I steadied my breathing and stood before the closed box once more.

And this time, I imagined it clearly: seeds.

When I opened the lid again, beside the fertilizer bag sat a small packet of white magnolia seeds — as if they'd been there all along.

"Impossible…"

Gulp. I swallowed without meaning to.

Everything I imagined simply appeared before my eyes. What could be more magical than this?

"But it's not omnipotent. Even my power has its limits."

Limits?

"Let's see… all right."

With that, Camille closed the box once more and turned to me.

"Imagine a living whale is inside this box. How about it?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Can you picture it? A whale actually being inside there?"

"No. The box is way too small to begin with."

A doll shaped like a whale, maybe. But a real whale? Not a chance.

I shook my head firmly.

"See?"

As if he'd expected exactly that answer, he flung the lid open with a flourish — and inside was, unbelievably, a plush, squishy whale doll.

"…!"

Camille tossed the doll into my arms and added his explanation.

"All I do is help turn your imagination into reality. So anything you believe — even subconsciously — to be absolutely impossible can't exist in this painting in the first place."

"Ah…"

"It's obvious, really. Because the true master of this painting isn't me — it's you, Aub."

No way.

Then does that mean…?

"The bungeoppang you whipped up — that was all…?"

"Correct. I had no idea what it even was, you know? But it was delicious. Sweet."

It felt like the moment you discover the famous secret sauce at a legendary restaurant was just something off a supermarket shelf.

'Give me back my sense of wonder!'

When I stood there too stunned to continue, Camille burst out laughing.

Beneath the cascading sunlight, his mischievous smile scattered into something fresh and bright.

I'd been staring at him, entranced, when a hand suddenly thrust itself in front of my face and jolted me back to my senses.

"Now then — about that newspaper?"

A short while later, seated in his chair, he let his gaze drift slowly down the newspaper article.

"Mm…"

A fine crease formed between Camille's brows as he read on. At the end of his gaze hung three vivid red circles.

"So these three?"

I nodded, as if I'd been waiting for the question.

Guile, Pagoda, and Densum.

The red rings drawn over those candid photographs — like shots from a stalker's camera — were unmistakably a kill list. They might as well have been a murderer's advance notice, the next targets circled in advance.

And that murderer was none other than me.

'Stop wavering, Aub. It's far too late to turn back now.'

I couldn't shake the surge of revulsion that rose in my throat. When I took a deep, deliberate breath, Camille studied my face with unexpected interest.

"I was worried you'd ask me to break our contract on the spot, you know…"

Then the corners of his eyes curved into a lovely arc.

"Seems you've already decided. Who dies first."

I didn't bother responding to the word dies. Instead, as if to change the subject, I pointed to one face in particular.

"Guile Pistachio. He's the one I suspect most."

"That's a delicious-sounding name. Your reasoning?"

I hesitated a moment before finally parting my lips.

"…There was a tip."

"A tip?"

Leaving Camille blinking and waiting for more, I cast my gaze somewhere far away.

The carriage ride home after the auction ended.

Romaine had said something strange to me.

"That young heir who kept staring at you — the man with the gray hair. Do you know who he was?"

"You mean the young Count of Pistachio? Yes. Why?"

What she said next might well become a crucial clue to what I was about to do.

"I think… I've seen him before. At the banquet."