Polly was serious. She wasn't joking when she asked Erik to stay and sleep beside her. She was exhausted and needed to rest—she'd deal with the mess of the trainer later.
Of course, by "sleep," she meant just that. Nothing else.
She didn't harbor any inappropriate thoughts toward Erik. Even if she knew men in the 19th century didn't live long and were often married young, to her, he was still just a high school boy.If he'd lived in the modern world, he'd probably be a sophomore—maybe even in college, given how smart he was.
That thought alone eased her fear a little.
But Erik misunderstood her.
She hadn't even finished speaking before he stabbed his dagger into the pillow beside her head, his icy gaze locked on her from above.
He'd probably been mocked like this before. And he hated it.
From inside the white mask, his breathing turned heavier.
Polly could picture it vividly—hot, angry breath building behind the mask, beading up as condensation, finally dripping down.She swallowed, her throat tight, trying to appear calm, though she was close to peeing herself, just like the trainer.
If they ever grew close enough to have real conversations, she'd make him promise to stop waving that knife around so casually.
"…You misunderstood me," she said hoarsely. "I truly want you to stay. Just sleep beside me for a while."
The air froze.Erik's eyes were frigid, locked on her face. The longer he stared, the more her scalp tingled, and goosebumps crept up her arms.
That's when she realized—maybe he never trusted her to begin with. Maybe he never wanted to cooperate.
Sure, the kiss had rattled him. Maybe even scared him. But he quickly figured out it came with strings attached.
He might cave under a kiss, but not if it was manipulative.
Cold sweat prickled down Polly's back. She'd underestimated him. He might look hollow, like a wax figure stripped of a soul, but he was frighteningly intelligent. He could learn in seconds what others took months to grasp—of course, he could see through her.
The good news? He'd punished the trainer for hurting her—maybe in return for her sympathy, maybe as a way to vent whatever bloodlust burned inside him.
Whether Polly suffered the consequences of his actions didn't seem to factor into it.
Dozens of thoughts flew through her mind, none offering a way out.
Then she made up her mind.
If a kiss couldn't keep him here, maybe a hug could.
He was unpredictable, a living weapon. Touching someone like that was like playing Russian roulette.
But if she let him leave now, she'd be alone with the trainer—and that was no less dangerous.
Polly leaned forward and wrapped her arms tightly around him.
Time stopped.
Erik froze. His breath halted.
Polly's chest tightened painfully. She wasn't nearly as composed as she appeared. No one could predict what he'd do next. He could stab her in the back without blinking. Her knees nearly gave out.
But thankfully, she was right—he couldn't resist physical contact.
She felt his muscles stiffen, then slowly relax. He didn't push her away or kill her. He just… stood there, caught off guard.
He was thinner than she'd imagined. Just bone and tension, like a starved predator from the wild—lean, fast, and lethal.
The kind of person who could crush someone with one hand. Or, just maybe, melt under a hug.
Some strange emotion rose in Polly. Sympathy, maybe.
Then Erik moved.
Without pushing her away, he bent to retrieve the dagger and pressed it—blade first—against her back.
Her heart stopped.
But he didn't stab her. He merely wiped the blade against her back, sheathing it afterward in his boot.
Polly exhaled so hard it felt like her lungs collapsed.
He stayed.She was still alive."Thank you…"
She wasn't sure what she was thanking him for. Maybe just for not killing her.
If she had known her life would turn out like this, she would've trained as an animal handler. Or volunteered at a zoo.
"You lie down first," she said, brushing away involuntary tears. "I'll treat her wounds. She can't die yet—I still have questions."
Erik did not answer.
The trainer had passed out from blood loss. Polly sprinkled antiseptic powder over the wound, gave her a painkiller to prevent fever or shock, and lay back down.
She was afraid Erik would change his mind in the night and stab her. So she curled up against him, wrapping both arms around his.
Maybe he truly craved touch—because by morning, she was still unharmed.
The trainer had woken and was staring at them in disbelief.
Polly checked her gold pocket watch. It was five in the morning. The others wouldn't wake for a while.
The trainer's eyes widened at the sight of the watch.
Polly ignored her. She slipped quietly out of the sleeping bag. Despite her care, Erik opened his eyes—or maybe he'd never slept.
One night was enough to recover from that brush with death.
Even so, her legs trembled when she met his gaze. "Are you hungry?"
No answer.
She had grown used to his silence. "I want to ask the trainer some questions—about you. Do you mind? If you don't want me to, I won't."
Still no response. But no objection either.
Good enough.
Polly relaxed slightly. She couldn't keep guessing what he was thinking. She needed more information.
She moved toward the pile of dirty clothes and dug out the emergency kit, avoiding the trainer's stare. Inside was a chocolate-flavored energy bar. Hopefully, it suited his taste.
She broke it in half and handed him a piece. "It's sweet. Helps with stamina. Let's share, okay?"
She ate her half first.
Erik stared at his for a long time before accepting it.He lowered his head, sniffing it closely.
After nearly a minute, he pushed up one corner of his mask, just enough to reveal a sliver of his jaw, and bit down.
It was the first time Polly had seen his real face—just his chin and lips.His jaw was sharp and elegant, lips pale, almost blending into his skin.If that chin was anything to go by, he was—without a doubt—handsome.
Polly said nothing.
It was still early. She decided to try and build a little more trust before interrogating the trainer.
Sitting down, she gently reached for his wrist. Erik glanced down at her hand but didn't pull away.
Polly let out a subtle breath."I'll tell you a secret."
No response.
"When I woke up here, I'd forgotten a lot. I don't even remember who I am, or why I tried to frame you with the gold watch. All I have are a diary and this strange bag… The diary warns me to stay away from you, says you're dangerous. But I don't know why—I just feel like I can trust you."
"Maybe you'll kill me someday," she said softly, "but I won't blame you. It's my choice. I chose to approach you to be your friend. Because I can tell—you're not a bad person."
She held out her injured hand, palm up. The bruises had turned an angry shade of purple-red.
"You saw me get hurt, and your first instinct was to avenge me… You didn't even know if I had some hidden motive when I approached you, and still you acted. If that's what a bad person looks like, I don't know what a good person is anymore."
She looked up at him."I don't know what you've been through, and I won't judge your past. I just want to understand you better. Be your friend. Is that okay?"
A long silence followed.
Erik looked at her hand, deep in thought.
Finally, a voice—clear, low, and startlingly beautiful—broke the silence:"…Why?"
Polly's head snapped up.
He spoke.
She was so stunned she didn't even register the tone, just that it was the cleanest, most beautiful voice she'd ever heard.
It took her a while to find her voice again. "Because… you make me feel safe."
It was the truth.
Even if he might kill her at any moment, his presence gave her a twisted sense of security.
Maybe because he was the only one in this world she truly understood.
She even knew his fate—how he'd one day live in the catacombs beneath Paris and fall in love with a ballerina named Christine.
A sudden scoff broke her thoughts.
Polly turned.The trainer had spat out the rag and was sneering at them both.
She didn't scream or thrash this time, likely out of fear of Erik. But her chin was raised high, her eyes burning with hatred and fear.
Polly picked up the iron poker. "Without our permission, don't make a sound. I don't mind teaching you a lesson."
The trainer glared, humiliated. After a long pause, she gave a small nod.
Polly set the poker aside. "You look like you have something to say. Go ahead."
The trainer let out a raspy laugh. "You think you've found yourself a friend now, someone to protect you. But have you ever wondered why he never speaks? Why he has no friends?"
Polly didn't bite. "Maybe he's just… shy?"
The trainer gave her a look usually reserved for idiots. "He speaks over a dozen languages. We found him in Persia. Locals say he was already a master of trap doors and hidden mechanisms before he was fourteen. But no one dared talk to him. You know why?"
Polly vaguely remembered something like that from the original novel. But she'd skimmed it too quickly to recall the details.
The trainer took her silence as fear. She sneered again.
"Because he's a freak. A monster. The locals called him 'the Living Dead.' He could appear behind anyone at any time—no one wanted to be near him, even though he was a genius."
"But our manager didn't care. He thought Erik could make the circus rich," the trainer wheezed. "And he did, for a while. But the weirdness didn't stop. First Mike's watch got stolen, then a weird bag fell out of the sky and couldn't be cut with a knife… Now my hand's ruined."
She hissed between breaths like a venomous snake.
"If this doesn't prove he's cursed, a bringer of bad luck, then what will? Look at my hand. If he can stab me today, what makes you think he won't stab you tomorrow?"
All three events… were tied to Polly.
Superstition ruins lives, Polly thought grimly—and stuffed the rag back into the trainer's mouth.