Chapter Text
Once again, you stood at the window, easing the blinds apart with two fingers—just enough to steal another glance at the neighbor’s house, to reassure yourself that he had not gone anywhere while you were getting ready. It was irrational, you knew that. The fence surrounding his impressively large property was high and seamless, clearly designed to erase the outside world and protect whatever lay within. That, after all, was the point of building a house in the middle of nowhere.
The oven chimed.
You exhaled slowly, tore yourself away from the window, and carefully removed the cake. The kitchen filled with the dense, comforting scent of baked apples and cinnamon. You set it aside to cool, already picturing the careful placement of whipped cream later, then went to the bedroom. An ironed dress waited on its hanger. You sprayed perfume onto your neck and wrists, sat at the vanity, and began doing your makeup.
So much effort—for something as ordinary as introducing yourself to a new neighbor. And yet it mattered. It had to. By now, only the two of you lived on this dead-end street, and maintaining a semblance of goodwill with the people across the road felt necessary, especially when a vast forest cut you off from the rest of the town and everyone in it.
As you worked concealer into the most vulnerable places on your face, you wondered when exactly meeting someone new had begun to feel like a threat. Your thoughts drifted backward, retracing the path that had led you here.
There had been Strade. The captivity you escaped from. And Ren, left behind—unready for life beyond that house.
You had wandered along the main road for hours in the rain before strangers finally stopped, curiosity outweighing indifference. They took you to the nearest police station, wrapped you in a blanket, gave you water. Once you crossed the threshold and allowed yourself to believe you were safe, your body surrendered. You managed only to give your name before losing consciousness.
You woke in a hospital bed, tethered to IV lines, wrapped in clean bandages. They fed you, and only then did you give your first statement. You noticed the investigators’ looks as you spoke of Strade and what he had been doing in his basement, the way their attention sharpened into something suspicious. You could not give them what they wanted most—an address, a real name, anything solid enough to anchor him in the world.
But your condition spoke for you.
Whatever doubts they had, your body told its own story. You had been through hell, and your testimony fit neatly enough to make sense of it.
And yet you felt like a liar.
You spoke of the woman with the cesarean scar. Of Tom, the IT specialist. But for reasons you could not explain, you erased Ren completely—as if he had not been there at all, as if he had not taken part in what happened. You altered the final scene in the basement as well. You said you struck Strade with an axe, that he was still alive when you fled. You did not mention the second woman. You did not say you left her behind on purpose.
They would have kept pressing you, but your friend arrived—the one you had flown to Canada for in the first place. She shouted at the officers, accused them of interrogating you when you needed rest. There were tears, apologies, embraces, until a doctor intervened and sedated you. Not long after, your parents arrived. A week later, you went home.
The police stayed in contact. The investigation continued. Your testimony remained useful.
You thought returning would bring relief. That it would close the worst chapter of your life. That things would fall back into place.
They didn’t.
You could not simply resume your old life. You could not return to work, slip back into familiar routines. Everyone knew. They looked at you with pity sharpened by curiosity, treated you like something fragile—or avoided you altogether, embarrassed by your presence. You felt misaligned, misunderstood, because you were no longer who you had been, and therefore could no longer perform her role.
That disappointed them.
You did not behave the way they expected a victim to behave. No matter how carefully they tried to hide it, you saw it—in their eyes, in their voices, in the way their bodies reacted to you. The effort it took them to tolerate your existence made you nauseous.
You did not return to work. You did not return to your friends. You did not return to your apartment.
You stayed in your parents’ house, absorbing their anxiety and feeding them your own disorientation, spreading through them like rot. You felt like a parasite, slowly draining what was left of them. They had worried while you were gone. Now that you were back, they worried even more, because nothing was right. You did not act like their daughter. You did not look like her either. You had become a stranger who happened to share their blood.
Therapy was supposed to help. Medication was supposed to help.
You refused the medication. You wanted to stay alert, ready—you were not insane, only traumatized. As for therapy, you cycled through therapists one after another. None of them felt right. You trusted none of them. You lied to all of them, and they knew it, but they did not push.
You were certain they could not understand. Their rehearsed questions, nodding heads, and borrowed empathy felt like a waste of time. They had not been there. They thought they could imagine it.
They couldn’t imagine anything.
Amateurs.
The last one suggested you write everything down. That, at least, did not sound entirely useless.
So you sat at your computer and began to write—and once you started, you could not stop. You barely ate. You barely slept. Words spilled into digital files, forming a single, controlled current of thought: a flawless testimony that had little to do with what truly happened, but everything to do with the version of you it created—one that was no longer helpless, no longer ridiculous.
When you finished, you emptied your parents’ refrigerator and then slept for days, waking only to use the bathroom.
Your friend came to see you—the only person you still allowed close. She was worried. Your parents kept her informed, burdened her with their fear, and you sensed that they blamed her, at least in part. Perhaps she blamed herself as well. She forced you to pull yourself together, and while you showered and cleaned your room, she read your confession.
Halfway through, tears in her eyes, she said it was good. She said you should send it out.
So you did.
Several publishers replied. You chose the offer that suited you best. Soon your confession appeared in bookstores, carried by the growing hunger for true crime. What followed exceeded even your most guarded expectations.
Within weeks, the book became a bestseller in its category. It topped rankings related to reportage, true crime, and literary debuts. Sales were strong not only in Canada and your home country, but internationally as well, translated into multiple languages.
With the first advance, you paid for laser scar removal. The one on your face mattered most—the line running from the corner of your mouth across your cheek, the half-joker, as your captor had once called it. You also committed to rehabilitation for your burned hand and your mutilated foot; the loss of your little toe had left you limping.
Meanwhile, your popularity continued to grow.
You were invited onto podcasts, YouTube channels, television programs. Eventually, a miniseries was produced—a docudrama of sorts—where you sat in a comfortable studio chair and told your story once again, while hired actors reenacted selected scenes. You became the face of the Me Too movement, a symbol embraced by radical feminists. You even brushed against politics, delivering a handful of fiery speeches at left-wing rallies.
You became a celebrity.
Your face, your name—instantly recognizable. Complete strangers approached you on the street, clapped you on the back, congratulated you.
The backlash came soon after.
There were people who doubted your story. The first time you encountered it, you were stunned by the sheer volume of hatred spilling toward you online. Once again, you were accused of not behaving the way a victim of violence and rape was supposed to behave. When you asked how such a person should behave, no one could give you an answer.
Just not like you.
You noticed your words being twisted, sentences attributed to you that you had never spoken. You lost control over your own image. Once again, you felt as though you no longer belonged to yourself. You had become public property—something people wanted to tear pieces from for their own use.
It terrified you.
So you disappeared.
One moment you were everywhere. The next, you vanished completely, withdrawing from public life altogether.
You needed air.
You needed rest.
You stopped speaking as yourself, yet you discovered that the need to speak had not disappeared. Under a pseudonym, with your face hidden, you began recording podcasts. Over time, you gathered a small but devoted group of listeners willing to support your work, and you decided that this was how you wanted to make a living.
On the surface, things stabilized. You were financially secure, you had imposed a structure on your days, and you had even managed to reclaim a fragile sense of psychological balance. One afternoon, while cautiously browsing the internet, a fragment of a news report caught your attention for reasons you could not immediately name. It was a local piece about a fire that had destroyed a property in the Canadian suburbs. As you studied the photographs more closely, the layout of the land, the skeletal remains of the house, cold sweat bloomed across your skin. With trembling hands, you dialed the number of the investigators assigned to your case. When a familiar, bored voice answered, you forced out the words that the burned house had belonged to Strade.
You were asked to come in for a conversation.
On the appointed day, you went to the police station, where detectives from Canada had made the effort to speak with you in person. You disliked them immediately. They frightened you. The way they looked at you. You were certain they had noticed how famous you had once become, how you had built a career out of your trauma. The questioning began innocently enough. How had you learned about the fire? From the internet. And you recognized the area right away? Yes. How convenient.
You had the distinct impression that they knew far more than they were willing to say, and eventually they laid their cards on the table. They slid photographs across the table toward you. A scorched freezer. You recognized it instantly. And inside it, a body. Strade’s. A massive cavity torn through his chest. Heat flooded your face. Seeing your reaction, they pressed harder, firing questions meant to dismantle your account piece by piece. What saved you, most likely, was the fact that you were telling the truth. You had no idea how the body had ended up in the freezer, or how that wound had been inflicted.
They questioned you for hours before finally relenting. Then they revealed that neighbors had testified that, while you were becoming a minor celebrity, the house had been occupied by a red-haired young man who claimed to be Strade’s nephew. They even showed you a sketch. It did not look like Ren—but it had to be him. Your face turned to stone as you denied ever having seen him, or even having heard his name. When they finally dismissed you, you were utterly drained.
You returned home desperate for sleep, but instead you turned on your computer and began searching for places cut off from the world, somewhere you could vanish for a while. Many options tempted you, yet to your own surprise you chose a sleepy town in Canada, surrounded by forests and mountains. You had once sworn you would never set foot in that country again, and now you understood how foolish such vows were. You booked the nearest available flight, and the next day, to the poorly concealed relief of your parents, you left for the unknown.
The town had once thrived as a tourist destination, but after a series of disappearances and deaths involving people who wandered into the surrounding forests and mountains, it had gained a grim reputation and slowly withered. The young had fled in search of better lives in larger cities, leaving their parents and grandparents behind.
You were welcomed warmly. Everyone did their best to make you feel at home. Strangers smiled at you on the street, wished you a good day. You sampled local dishes, drank beer brewed in the town’s own brewery. For the first time in a long while, you felt settled. Out of curiosity, you visited the local bookstore. They did not carry your book. The relief was immediate.
You mostly stayed within the town, but there was a quiet comfort in knowing that, if you ever chose to, you could disappear into the dense forest and vanish forever, just like the others before you. You had a choice, and that alone felt miraculous. You did not take it. Instead, on the last day of your stay, out of idle amusement, you bought a lottery ticket. You won a considerable sum of money. Once the shock subsided, you clung to the next thought and acted on it without hesitation.
You bought a plot of land.
The cheapest one lay beyond a strip of forest separating it from the town, accessible only by driving an hour east along a single road. It had once belonged to a holiday resort that had gone bankrupt. The main building had been demolished, the land divided into smaller parcels. It was perfect.
Far enough away, yet close enough to live on your own terms while still remaining part of a community.
You finalized the paperwork quickly and decided on a small modular house, which took only a few months to assemble. You bought a used car, built a greenhouse where you grew your own vegetables and fruit, and aimed for as much self-sufficiency as possible. A year later, you began raising rabbits. In time, they provided a modest additional income.
You lived quietly, slowly, at a pace that finally felt like your own. If someone had asked then whether you were happy, you would have said yes.
As the round anniversary of the events that had irreversibly altered your life approached, you recorded a long podcast with listener participation, centered on forgiveness—toward oneself and toward others. You revealed your identity, which drew in many new subscribers. The conversation stretched on, raw and emotional. Listeners shared their stories, one after another, and by the end you arrived at a simple conclusion: forgiving oneself was far harder than forgiving someone else.
You were proud of what you had created. You felt it might be a breakthrough.
The real breakthrough, however, was still ahead.
One morning, you were ripped from sleep by what felt like an earthquake—a violent, unbearable noise. Half-conscious, tangled in the sheets, you fell out of bed and landed on your cat, who hissed in outrage. You threw on a robe and rushed outside barefoot. Construction had begun across the street. Heavy machinery roared, workers shouted over one another. You dragged your hands down your face and intercepted a man holding rolled-up blueprints, assuming he was in charge. You fired questions at him, and he replied with amused detachment that it seemed you were about to have a neighbor.
Shaken, you returned home, pulled yourself together, and went into town to ask around. No one knew much—if anything, you were the first to start spreading rumors. Eventually, the mayor’s secretary let something slip. All remaining plots had been purchased by a single investor, supposedly an artist from the United States seeking inspiration. Your knees nearly buckled. That was all she knew, except that he was said to be… eccentric.
You returned home just as the crew began tearing out old tree stumps with excavators and massive metal claws, tossing them aside while men with chainsaws reduced them to fragments. The work continued until ten that night.
You went to bed with a headache. At six in the morning, it began again. Your complaints led nowhere. The men were working within the law, obeying noise regulations. Your discomfort was irrelevant. You were advised to use earplugs.
Your life was forced into submission to their schedule. You woke with the first roar of engines and went to bed when the last worker left. Sleep-deprived and irritable, you struggled to focus. Recording podcasts became impossible, and by evening you were too exhausted to form coherent thoughts. Your rabbits suffered as well. Stressed, they stopped breeding, required sedatives. Two died suddenly, their hearts likely giving out.
Every day you sat at the kitchen window with a mug of lemon balm tea, watching the construction site. Then, one day, they erected a massive stone wall, stealing even that small illusion of control. It drove you to the brink. You considered using a drone, but you owned none, money was tight, and it would have looked suspicious. Unhinged. You clenched your teeth and waited. This couldn’t last forever.
They worked in shifts, progress relentless. When the structure was complete, interior work began. The heavy machinery vanished, replaced by cement mixers, grinders, drills. Fine dust hung perpetually in the air, coating your laundry, your windows, your car. It crept through vents and cracks, settled on furniture. You wiped white residue away every day. You and your cat developed constant runny noses.
Still, it ended eventually. Nearly a year later, trucks loaded with furniture and equipment began arriving at the house across the street.
You should have felt relief.
You didn’t.
Because it meant that soon you would have to face the neighbor you knew almost nothing about. You found yourself watching more often, peering through the blinds, until one day a black SUV with tinted windows rolled onto the property. That evening, light bloomed behind the windows of the house across the street.
You snapped out of your thoughts so abruptly that your eyeliner came out crooked.
“Fuck,” you muttered, reaching for a cotton swab to minimize the damage. When the result was acceptable, you nodded to yourself and, after slipping into your dress, gave yourself one last, thorough look in the mirror. You looked nice. Normal. Like someone kind. Like someone about to greet a neighbor who had subjected you to a year of torment and near-starvation. You had cursed him so many times, wished for everything to collapse, for the ground to open and swallow the construction whole. You smiled faintly to yourself as you decorated the cake with neat rosettes of whipped cream.
You were not entirely right in the head.
As you were leaving, your cat—naturally—attempted an escape, so you nudged him back with your foot.
“No, Mr. Whiskers. You know perfectly well you’re an indoor cat, and that’s where you’re staying.”
The cat muttered something indignant and withdrew with dignity into the living room. You closed the door behind you, crossed the street with practiced composure, stopped at the gate, adjusted your hair, smoothed the hem of your dress, and rang the doorbell.
A metallic click answered you as the lock slid back. You pushed the gate open and stepped onto the property for the first time. You had expected the owner to be waiting somewhere to greet you, so you allowed yourself only a discreet glance around as you followed the gravel path, winding like a snake through carefully arranged flowerbeds and fancifully trimmed shrubs. Everything looked deliberate, curated, which meant the owner was either an avid gardener or had paid someone handsomely to pretend to be one.
You cursed softly under your breath as your heels sank into the gravel. You were afraid you would lose a heel tip, and whatever grace you had imagined yourself possessing dissolved entirely. When you finally reached the front door, no one was waiting there either. Mildly irritated now, you lifted the knocker and struck it.
“Hello, good afternoon, neighbor. I came to introduce myself,” you called out cheerfully as footsteps approached from the other side. You summoned a well-trained smile when the lock clicked and the door opened.
The sight of your neighbor wiped all sound from your throat.
The cake slipped from your hands.
Ren reacted instantly, catching it just before it hit the threshold.
“That would have been a shame,” he murmured with quiet satisfaction as he straightened, but then his eyes met yours and the smile froze on his lips.
You stared at him, wide-eyed, your gaze growing glassier by the second. You barely blinked. Then, without warning, you threw yourself around his neck, nearly knocking the baking tray from his grasp.
“Oh, Ren,” you gasped, burying your face against his neck.
For a moment he didn’t know how to react. Your response had clearly caught him off guard. His hand came to rest on your back, uncertain at first, then pressing you just slightly closer.
“Yes,” he whispered, discreetly breathing in the scent of your hair. “It’s me.”
Relief came first.
Your neighbor was Ren. You didn’t have to pretend. You didn’t have to explain yourself or brace for judgment. You shared a history, and only he could truly understand you. Not your friends. Not your parents. Not even therapists. Only him—because he had survived the same hell.
And that was precisely the problem.
The relief gave way almost immediately to tension and uncertainty. The shift was so abrupt your body didn’t know how to respond, and helplessly, you began to cry. You tried to be discreet, to stop yourself before he noticed, but your shoulders shook violently, your breath hitching with every sob, the damp patch on his shoulder spreading.
The beastkin stroked your back with patient, awkward motions, completely at a loss. One second you had been smiling, the next you were unraveling in his arms. Embarrassed, his tail flicked once.
“There now. Shh. I’m here,” he murmured. “You’re safe.”
The words sent a jolt through you, like an electric shock.
You pulled away abruptly, scrubbing at your face. Black streaks smeared your fingers—your makeup was beyond saving.
“Oh God. My God,” you muttered, biting your lip and shooting him a sharp, frightened look that sent a shiver down his spine. You were tense, coiled, ready to bolt at the slightest provocation. And that was the last thing he wanted.
He collected himself and offered you a careful, warm smile.
“Hey. I’m… really glad to see you too,” he said softly. “Why don’t you come in? Coffee—or tea, actually, tea might be better. I’ll cut the cake. We can sit down and talk. Calmly.”
You hesitated, then nodded.
Ren exhaled in relief and stepped aside. You brushed past him, your shoulder grazing his, and the moment you crossed the threshold you kicked your shoes off. He led you into the living room, seated you on a leather sofa, then disappeared into the kitchen to prepare the tea.
You tried to steady your trembling hands and not think about what a colossal mistake you had just made by entering his house. What were your options, really? Run back to your small cottage across the street? How would that protect you? The image of the three little pigs came unbidden to your mind. You were the one with the house of sticks. And the wolf was already at the door.
You shook your head and forced yourself to look around.
The interior was spacious and elegant, but not cozy. The walls were lined with unsettling paintings—anatomical studies rendered in a distinctly personal style. A hand attached to a forearm, skin stripped away to reveal tendons and muscle. A skull half-covered in flesh. A torso severed from the rest of the body. All unmistakably the work of the same artist.
The worst one hung above the fireplace.
Your bust, translated onto canvas with bold, confident strokes—the same photograph used on your book cover. Except here, every scar was visible. Even the ones you had removed.
You nearly stood up to run.
Then Ren returned with a tray holding a teapot, two cups, plates, neatly sliced cake, and a sugar bowl.
“Is everything alright?” he asked, sitting beside you.
He poured the tea and slid a sugar cube toward you. You shook your head.
“That painting is… intimidating,” you managed, reaching for your cup simply to keep your hands busy.
“Yes,” Ren admitted. “I painted it while under the influence of… strong emotions.”
“You painted it?” you asked, unable to hide your surprise.
He smiled faintly.
“I was genuinely offended by how much they photoshopped you in that photo,” he said, leaning closer, studying your face. “But I see now you really did get rid of those scars.”
Heat rushed to your cheeks. Clearly pleased with himself, he leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. He sipped his tea slowly, watching you. You were stiff, trembling, the porcelain cup tapping lightly against its saucer with every nervous twitch.
Your pulse quickened. You wet your lips.
Ren’s ears twitched. He knew you were about to speak.
“Are you angry with me?” you whispered, avoiding his gaze.
He sighed, reached for a piece of cake, and tasted it.
“This is really good,” he said reflexively, then noticed your expression. He swallowed, set the plate aside, wiped his mouth, and met your eyes directly. His pupils dilated slightly. “At first? Yes. I was furious. Hurt. I wanted to do things I would have regretted,” he admitted quietly. “But time brought clarity. I realized you didn’t have a choice. I never really gave you one.”
He shifted closer until your knees almost touched, resisting the urge to take your hands.
“I lived in constant fear, wondering when the police would come for me. It was torture. And then your book came out. I read it in one night. That’s when I understood—you hadn’t told anyone about me. You erased me.”
Your hand shook, tea spilling onto the saucer.
“I still don’t understand why,” he added softly.
You set the cup down before it slipped from your grasp.
“I… honestly don’t know,” you said, ashamed by how small the reason sounded. “The first time the police questioned me, I was in shock. I didn’t mention you. After that I stuck to the same version, afraid that changing it would raise suspicion.”
Disappointment flickered across his face, but he nodded.
“I understand. And I appreciate your honesty.”
The silence that followed weighed far more heavily on you than on him.
“But look at you,” you said timidly, forcing a smile. “You did pretty well. I was told an eccentric artist from the States would be moving in.”
He snorted.
“Eccentric? Who told you that?”
“Sorry. I don’t reveal my sources.”
“Fair enough.” He relaxed, reaching for another piece of cake. “I developed my talents, found a loyal audience, moved to LA. Started a business. Investments. You could say I’ve been successful.”
“You sound like an adult,” you remarked dryly. “And I am genuinely happy for you. That’s what I always wanted.”
“And you?” he asked. “For a while you were everywhere. I was afraid you’d start popping out of my fridge. Then you vanished.”
You frowned.
“Some things became too much. I felt lost. Life in the spotlight wasn’t my fairy tale.”
You took a bite of your cake. It was excellent. That helped.
“So,” he said lightly, setting the porcelain down, “what do you do now?”
Your body tensed despite you. The question was simple, harmless—but heavy. You swallowed.
“I record podcasts. And… I keep rabbits,” you said finally. “I breed them. On a small scale. I sell them locally.”
You rushed on before he could comment, explaining the routine, the early mornings, the enclosures you had built yourself, the careful selection of feed, the daily checks. You spoke of quiet. Of regularity. Of things that stayed where you put them.
Ren listened without comment. He did not nod, did not frown, did not interrupt. When you finished, there was a brief pause, just long enough for unease to slip beneath your skin.
“You know what happens to them after you sell them,” he said. It was not a question.
Your jaw tightened. You looked at him sharply, heat flaring in your chest.
“That’s not fair,” you snapped. “You don’t get to say that like it’s some kind of accusation.”
“I’m not accusing you,” he replied calmly. “I’m stating a fact.”
“That’s rich, coming from you,” you shot back, your pulse quickening. “You of all people should understand doing what you have to do in order to survive.”
“I do understand,” Ren said, his voice still even, still controlled, and that somehow made it worse. “That doesn’t make it untrue.”
You opened your mouth to argue, then stopped. Your fingers curled against the fabric of your dress. He was watching you closely now, ears angled slightly toward you, pupils dark.
“Giving them comfort before the end doesn’t change the end,” he continued quietly.
The words landed with surgical precision, like a blade sliding exactly where it was meant to. Anger flared first, sharp and immediate, followed by something heavier that pressed against your ribs and made it harder to breathe.
“You think I don’t know that?” you said, your voice trembling despite your effort to steady it. “You think I don’t think about it?”
“I think you do,” he said. “That’s why it works.”
You pushed yourself back against the sofa, sitting straighter, as though distance alone might protect you.
“They’re not suffering with me,” you insisted. “They’re fed. They’re warm. They’re not afraid.”
Ren did not answer right away. He shifted closer, close enough for you to become acutely aware of his presence, of the heat radiating from him, of the faint scent of tea and paint and something unmistakably animal beneath it.
“But while they’re with me,” you went on, quieter now, the fight draining out of your voice, “they’re safe. That has to count for something.”
His gaze softened, though the tension in his shoulders remained.
“That’s what we always tell ourselves,” he said at last.
For a moment neither of you spoke. The silence no longer felt merely awkward; it had thickened, grown heavier, as though something unseen had settled between you. Ren leaned back slightly, his fingers loosely circling the handle of his cup, his gaze drifting toward one of the paintings across the room.
“You know,” he said after a while, almost thoughtfully, “there’s something efficient about what you’re doing.”
You looked at him, confused.
“Efficient?”
“Yes.” He tilted his head, as if weighing the word. “You take care of what’s yours, you make sure they’re well, and then you let go. You don’t follow what happens afterward. You don’t need to.”
Your shoulders tensed.
“I don’t do it because it’s easy,” you said quickly. “I do it because it’s the only way I know how to live now.”
“I know,” he replied, a faint smile touching his lips, though it never quite reached his eyes. “I’m not judging you. On the contrary.”
He studied you again, this time with a different kind of interest, sharper, more inward.
“It’s sustainable,” he added. “You’ve built something that runs without consuming you entirely.”
The remark unsettled you, though you could not quite say why.
“You make it sound like a strategy,” you said.
Ren exhaled softly, a sound that might almost have been a quiet laugh.
“Everything is a strategy,” he answered. “Some of us just learn that too late.”
You frowned, folding your arms defensively across your chest.
“I don’t think about it that way,” you said. “I just wanted something simple. Something that wouldn’t take pieces out of me.”
His eyes flickered at that, just for a second.
“That,” he said quietly, “is the part I find interesting.”
You met his gaze again, and for a brief moment there was something unsettling in it, not hunger, not excitement, but calculation tempered by fatigue, like someone who had been doing things the hard way for far too long.
“It’s funny,” he went on lightly, as though changing the subject, “I’ve been thinking lately that I might need to restructure a few things. Find a different model.”
“A model?” you echoed.
“Yes.” He shrugged. “Something less hands-on.”
A prickle ran up your spine.
“You’re being vague,” you said.
Ren smiled, slow and careful.
“I tend to be.”
He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, his voice lowering.
“Let’s just say that talking to you reminded me that there are ways to profit without being present for every outcome.”
The words were innocuous enough, almost banal, yet something in the way he said them made your stomach tighten. You forced a small smile in return, unaware of how close to the truth his words hovered, and how far they missed it at the same time.
He leaned back, the moment passing as quickly as it had come, the faint smile returning to his face.
The tea had gone completely cold.
You rubbed your temples, as though a headache were already forming.
“Why did you move here?” you finally asked, voicing the question that had been pressing at your lips ever since you realized he did not seem to hold any resentment toward you after all.
Ren straightened and ran his fingers through his hair.
“It was after your live recording,” he said. “I was there, typing in the chat. You replied to me a few times.”
He paused.
“That’s when it hit me that I still missed you. I believe there’s an unbreakable bond between us. We went through something together, and experiences like that tie people in strange ways. I was never able to recreate it with anyone else. I tried, believe me.”
You nodded slowly. You understood exactly what he meant.
“I decided I would come see you. I found your address online. It wasn’t difficult. The surrounding plots were for sale, and the price was attractive enough that I couldn’t pass it up. I bought everything. Real estate always pays off.” He shrugged lightly. “Once I owned the land, it only made sense to build a house and move in.”
“Your methods are a little extreme,” you said carefully.
“Maybe,” he replied. “But effective. You’re here.”
You drew a deep breath and forced your fingers to stop worrying the hem of your dress.
“What do you want from me, Ren?”
He smiled, something sad and restrained.
“Only as much as you’re willing to give,” he said softly. “Nothing more.”
Silence settled between you.
“All right,” you said at last. “That, I can agree to.”
“Good,” he answered. “I’m glad.”
You looked away, unable to bear his gaze any longer. You felt exposed, drained, and the visit was beginning to wear on you.
Dusk was falling. The sky had turned a muted orange, and the last light filtered through the panoramic windows.
“I should go,” you said apologetically as you rose. “I need to feed the rabbits.”
Ren stood as well, brushing crumbs from his shirt.
“Of course. Thank you for coming. Drop by whenever you like.”
He walked you to the door, holding it open as you slipped your shoes back on.
“Thank you for the cake,” he added. “I’ll bring the baking tray back once it’s empty.”
“Then… see you around, neighbor,” you said, giving him a brief, light hug before hurrying away.
You hoped he had not heard the breath of relief you let out when he allowed you to leave. A small part of you had been afraid he would not. After stepping through the gate, you turned once more, waved quickly, and crossed the road at a near jog.
Ren stood in the doorway, returning your wave with a smile that never reached his eyes. Only once you disappeared into your small house did he retreat inside.
He went straight to the kitchen, where a concealed button was hidden beneath the counter. He pressed it, and a door camouflaged behind the pantry slid open. Moments later, two of his most trusted men emerged from the basement, both dressed in military uniforms. One was large and bald, powerfully built. The other was shorter and lean, with long blond hair braided down his back.
“Change of plans,” Ren said coldly. “For now, I want you to enter her house and install cameras and listening devices everywhere.”
He paused.
“And this time, no mistakes, Kangaroo. This is a matter of the highest importance.”
The blond man stiffened, color rising to his cheeks. After a moment, the other spoke.
“Of course, sir.”
They disappeared, and Ren poured himself a glass of rum, mixing it with a generous amount of Pepsi.
“The chase can begin,” he murmured, taking a long sip.