Passion: Suite

He dreams.
He holds a hefty sword. With every swing it feels perfectly weighty, and there’s nothing quite like the sensation of the blade slicing deep into a chunk of flesh. The edge remains razor-sharp despite the blood and oil caked on it, and rivulets of hot gore follow the groove in the blade, staining his gloves again and again.
It’s neither good nor bad.
It feels somewhat pleasant, like the light stretch of a warm-up exercise.
But unless his quarry is truly worthy, it never amounts to more than the sheer delight of movement.
Thud. One.
Thud. Another.
He mutters to himself like a humming tune: where might he be…
Somewhere in this building. That formidable prey.
It doesn’t matter if it’s him or someone else who dies. Whoever led the situation to this point will do.
Then—
Ah.
He smiles.
He’s found him. On the stairs, shrouded in pitch-black darkness without a single light.
“My nose is as keen as ever, and my instincts have never failed me when it comes to a hunt,” he whispers.
In that instant, the prey bolts. From the shadows, leaving just a faint trace of movement—enough to follow.
He doesn’t speak. The frantic footsteps sound oddly unnatural. Maybe he’s injured.
No matter. He need only catch the Author in the dead end and slit his throat. Well, who knows—when he shot his gun last time, it exploded. Maybe the blade will snap instead. But even a broken edge can cut a man’s throat. He wonders what kind of miracle that damned luck will produce this time.
Will he escape death again? Will he survive yet again?
It doesn’t take long to catch up. He admires how the blade he wields just barely misses every feint. It isn’t luck—his reflexes are keeping him alive, at least for now.
Indeed, he rarely dies so easily.
A murderous thrill creeps through him.
It wouldn’t matter if he died or not, but if he had to choose, it’s better that this man die. No one should have an unbreakable bond with that bastard. Yes—but that’s the problem. If he kills this man with his own hands, the Author will undoubtedly curse him.

That thought dulls his blade.
Still, he’s curious how far that miraculous luck will go. He wants to test it.
At the dead end, he turns the blade and, without hesitation, plunges it toward the panting figure in the darkness.
But just as if timed perfectly, a gunshot rings out, the # Nоvеlight # acrid smell of gunpowder.
“Get away from him.”
Of course. He knew he’d come. The Author tracked him down. He didn’t care if he came or not, but it was better that he did.
He smiles. Either way is fine—this man or the Author. Whoever dies, it doesn’t matter.
The Author’s gun is no obstacle. What is a nuisance is the bustle of voices coming up from below. The slow worms are scuttling up late.
His body aches, and so does the Author’s.
He probably cut him deep in the gut, but he only clicks his tongue. This is a small price to pay for tonight’s brief entertainment. As he thinks to sheath his sword, the voices climbing up almost reach him.
Good. Tonight was quite enjoyable. If he never again sees these two—nor that bastard—before him, that will be enough.
He pays no mind to whatever they shout. He’s thinking about returning to Berlin. Yes, he’ll bring that bastard back from wherever he’s hiding in Frankfurt.
He flicks the congealed drops of blood from the blade. The thick, caramel-like gore gleams dark red in the beams of the flashlights rising from below.
A shaft of white light pierces the darkness and illuminates him.
He wipes the blade on his sleeve and shifts his vacant gaze. There stand his victims—those who almost became victims.
Before the gag that would have explained why the man couldn’t speak until the chase, he first notices the face smudged with blood and dust.
Their eyes meet. His hand stops wiping the blade.
…
He freezes, staring at that face. He blinks in disbelief at the person who should not be here.
“Tae…ui?” he almost says, but the word dies on his tongue. He nearly spoke a familiar name, but his mind goes blank.
That name’s owner shouldn’t be here.
He shouldn’t be here.
The person seated there is the one he just tried to kill with his own hand.
The man who stares without blinking finally blinks as blood-mixed sweat drips into his eye. Watching the eyelashes move, he realizes his eyes weren’t deceiving him.
Was that the man I tried to kill?
If only his hand had slipped, if only he’d struck the neck with more intent.
He might be looking at a corpse right now—his faithful blade slicing through the throat, leaving a body in the flashlight’s beam.
…
The man carefully moves the unconscious figure aside and slowly rises. His legs betray him, and he steadies himself on the stair rail before staggering toward him. He wipes his face with his forearm, and perhaps a cut stings him, because he clicks his tongue.
When the man comes close enough to speak, the hunter still stands frozen, unblinking. The man says:
“Ilrey. You need a hospital.”
“What…?”
His words don’t register. He only watches those living eyes and moving lips.
“You can see your insides.”
He follows the man’s nod without daring to look down. His belly, split open by the blade, reveals entrails writhing to spill out.
So what? He couldn’t care less about that.
You—
What were you thinking? Fleeing wordlessly, did you call my name in that mouth of yours? Did you scream for me to stop? Did you silently scream when the blade tore your flesh?
“Let’s go.”
“Where—”
He grabs the man’s shoulder as he turns away. The man glares up at him.
“To the hospital!”
“Ah…hospital…not needed.”
“I need it!”
The man insists with a pale face. Ilrey studies him for a moment, then obediently follows. As they descend the stairs, the man’s panicked cry of “Don’t walk! Your insides will fall out! We need a stretcher!” forces them to stop.
Ilrey doesn’t take his eyes off the man muttering that, but for everything except moving, he looks as dead as a corpse.
He survived. He lived. He didn’t kill him.
Relief floods him, but it chills his heart to ice. His frozen heart begins to beat again, slowly—thump, thump—just as the man rushes off to fetch a stretcher and returns.
“Ah…just looking at you gives me a heart attack. I won’t die a natural death with you around.”
The man glances down at his body, frowns, and mutters about bandages. When Ilrey says it’s fine, the man shoots him a fierce look. Only then does a faint sense of relief stir, and Ilrey quietly inhales deeply.
But then he realizes.
This could happen again at any time, regardless of his will.
His nature, the people around him, the cruelties tied to him—they can always replay the same scene.
That is the price of the life he has relentlessly built so far.