Even in Death, He Clings
"…"
Characters were given one week to decide between a Hoe-Bing-Hwan—regression, possession, or reincarnation—or dissolution. Those who chose the Hoe-Bing-Hwan were granted ample time to settle their story, which meant they could remain in Wicheon for up to three months.
Which was why this tenant was now proposing a verbal contract, announcing that he would choose the Hoe-Bing-Hwan and stay at the motel for a week.
His purpose was obvious. He wanted to see Elisha.
And the motel could not turn away a character who wished for a Hoe-Bing-Hwan. There was a rule that any customer seeking the service had to be accepted first, and only afterward, once counseling was complete, could they choose whether to sign the contract or simply go back.
"Laws really are only as good as the way you use them."
Sohee's face stiffened on the spot. Because she knew Ija wasn't actually here because he wanted a Hoe-Bing-Hwan at all.
Dylan Brown let out a long, lazy yawn and stretched his arms.
"Well, no help for it. I suppose I'll do things by the book for once."
"…"
"You should've been grateful when someone put something in your hands. Besides, a week's more than enough time to see each other, isn't it?"
Tch-tch-tch.
He slapped a hand on his protruding belly and burst into laughter, thoroughly entertained. Sohee drew a deep, slow breath before continuing in a level voice.
"…Please wait a moment, sir."
"Take all the time you like."
She turned and headed for the front desk. By the rules, she needed to retrieve his Life Record and begin the counseling session. But lost in thought as she moved, she abruptly stopped in her tracks.
"Why wait a whole week?"
Dylan raised his head at the voice he'd been waiting for, and there on the staircase leading down from the second floor stood Elisha.
"No sense wasting time here. Shall we go to my room?"
"You should've come running the moment you heard your father had arrived. Tch, always so slow, even here… Oh-ho, this is exactly the same."
In Elisha's room, Dylan Brown wandered from corner to corner, pawing at her belongings. Tap, tap. The sound of his cane against the floor was so familiar that it made her feel as though her whole body were turning to ice.
She sat rigidly upright in her chair, fighting for composure.
"What did you want to see me about?"
"It's less a matter of what… You are going back, aren't you?"
He ran a hand along her wooden dresser, then finally came to the point.
"That's why I came."
"My thinking is, possession would suit you perfectly."
Dylan, who had been glancing around the room, settled into the chair across from Elisha. And she, frozen stiff as a statue until that moment, felt a laugh slip out of her before she could stop it.
"What's so funny?"
"How strange. Father, we think exactly alike."
"Hahahaha! That's right! I knew you'd choose possession!"
Only now did Dylan sigh in deep satisfaction.
"I heard some rumors on my way here. Apparently the motel's new manager is quite capable."
"Is she?"
The moment Elisha answered with a smile playing at her lips, Dylan slipped into a delusion.
The room's layout and colors, identical to the story; its familiar, particular smell; and above all, Elisha herself—forever compliant, forever smiling gently at whatever came her way—made him feel as if he were still living as the man of power from the pages of that novel.
As if he hadn't died in a prison cell, ravaged by his own consequences.
It was simply that he felt his honor ought to be restored, that was all. If Elisha went back and did well, she wouldn't let him die the way she had. After all, wasn't he the stepfather who had raised this child to the very height of power?
Drunk on that swell of feeling all over again, he pressed on.
"Ahh, I don't care for how tightly you run things, mind you—but honestly, that's what raises the odds of success, isn't it? Better that than flattering everyone, failing, and squandering your regression karma for nothing."
"…I suppose."
"And I've had a brilliant idea. You go back through possession—straight into the real saint's body."
Dylan poured the words out, giddy with excitement.
"Go back and take everything! The money that saint has, the honor, the love—every last bit of it."
"…"
"And then, do your old father one little favor."
When Elisha said nothing, he hastily added:
"No, no—not save me, exactly. Just let me die an aristocrat, honorably. That's all I ask."
"Father."
"Yes?"
"You do know how I died, don't you?"
Dylan froze for an instant—then shot to his feet and shouted.
"That damned woman! If it weren't for the real saint, you'd never have suffered like this!"
"…"
"Come to think of it, at the start, your holy power was every bit the real saint's equal! In your prime, no one could say your healing fell short—not one soul!"
Spittle flew as Dylan ranted. The real saint was the reason Elisha had died, and after that, he recited at length what sort of life he himself had lived, how he had come to die in disgrace.
By the end he was so overcome with his own injustice that tears welled in his eyes.
"So it has to be you, Elisha. You go back. And then I, Dylan Brown, will not end my story in such wretched misery."
At the strange thrill and expectation brimming in his voice, Elisha's fingertips trembled faintly.
How. How could he still be exactly the same, even after death? She clasped her hands tightly together and looked at him.
"And if there were a better way?"
"Better how? Out with it, then."
"You could regress, Father."
"…What?"
"Go back, and find a way to change your ending."
"Ridiculous!"
He scowled the way he always had at her in life. But he couldn't bring himself to admit just why it was impossible—couldn't bare his own heart.
Burn every scrap of his extinction karma to enter the story and change his ending into an honorable one? It wasn't worth that price. If someone else did it for him, of course, that would be splendid.
Dylan cleared his throat a couple of times and conjured up a convenient excuse.
"I have some rather large grudge against that saint, you see. Obviously I'm meant to dissolve."
"…"
"Besides, for my next work, I'd like a more impressive appearance. Cedric's, say."
"…!"
Elisha barely held back the look of a person crumbling. Her breath came out trembling.
How—how could Cedric come out of his mouth, of all people? Him, who had used her to the very end under the pretense of loving her.
Choking on her revulsion, she bit down on her tongue. The taste of blood flooded her mouth.
And Dylan noticed that Elisha was shaken enough now.
"Since it's come up—do you know how grandly that Cedric fellow married the real saint…"
"I don't want to hear it."
"Go back. Become the real saint. Then the place at Cedric's side is yours."
Dylan seized both of Elisha's arms in a rough grip.
"You can do it. You must do it! How do you think I raised you to that position? You were nothing but an errand girl at the convent, and I made you a noble saint!"
By deceiving, by killing, by burying secrets, by committing every filthy act there was.
Elisha's breath caught in her throat.
Every time those thick hands seized her frail arms and shook them, the ghosts of the past flickered to life. The habits carved into her body, the obedience, the fear—they were subjugating her heart all over again.
"So when you go back, you will serve me—serve me devotedly, you understand? Am I clear?"
The instant she met those eyes, burning with all the fervor of his persuasion, she burst out laughing. The laughter swelled and swelled until it echoed strangely through the room.
Dylan's blue eyes, which had gleamed with cunning light, were black and utterly hollow. Only then could Elisha face reality.
This was Wicheon. They were dead. And no one here could hurt her ever again.
"E-Elisha?"
Flustered, Dylan released her shoulders. Watching him stagger back a step, she wiped the tears clinging to the corners of her eyes.
"Father. Say something that makes sense."
"…What?"
"If I've gambled my life on possessing the real saint's body—do you truly think I'd keep you at my side?"
Keep you at my side? That was the polite phrasing. What she meant was: you think I'd let a walking obstacle like you go on living? The more atrocities a man had committed, the greater a threat he was to have near her.
Yet Dylan's expression remained perfectly composed, as though he couldn't imagine why she was even asking.
"Isn't that obvious?"
"…I beg your pardon?"
This time it was Dylan who snorted, and he gave Elisha's shoulders an affectionate pat.
"Do I not know my own daughter? You can't even bring yourself to kill an ant."
He leaned his face close to the ear of the woman frozen like a statue. When that unpleasant, hot breath drew near, it felt as though insects were crawling over her entire body.
"That's exactly why the real saint got the better of you and left you in this state."
"…"
"Go back and settle it properly this time. I trust you'll understand what's expected."
With a groan, Dylan straightened his back and stood up tall. He'd said what he came to say; there was no need to linger here any longer.
"Ugh, this wretched starting profile. Do I really have to limp around even after I'm dead?"
He thumped his cane against the floor in irritation.
"Father."
"What is it?"
The moment the words left his mouth, a streak of blue light swept across Dylan's knee. His eyes flew wide with something like rapture, and he whirled toward Elisha.
"Don't tell me—!"
"Yes. The holy power that withered away in the story—it's come back. Which is what I wanted to talk to you about…"