Margaret didn't answer right away. Her lips remained pressed firmly together—not for a lack of things to say, but because too many words were fighting to escape all at once.
She was silent, though not because she was offended by Adelia's accidental accusations. She knew her friend didn't mean to hurt her; Adelia's tone was far too honest to be a strike.
Nor was she shocked by the cold impact of Rachel's logic or their confession that they had known her identity all along. Somehow, she had expected this moment to arrive.
But this time, what kept her speechless was her own mind—a mind that was exhausting in its loudness.
"What should I tell them?"
Her hands, hidden in her lap beneath the table, were clenched into tight fists.
Her fingers pressed against one another with a force that was nearly painful, turning her knuckles a ghostly white. Occasionally, the grip would loosen only to tighten again, her fingers restlessly kneading the hem of her school skirt, tugging and releasing it in a frantic loop.
"There is no way I can tell them about the bouquet of roses, the black tote bag, and that scrap of white paper containing a message—a message that cruelly mirrored my own words, the very promise I once made to myself if I were ever to reunite with that little white dog. It was written in blood that had already dried. Even now, just the thought of it makes the hair on my neck stand on end, doesn't it?"
"But… what other excuse can I use to hide it?"
The grip on her skirt tightened. The fabric was now hopelessly wrinkled, stripped of its original neatness. Thin, jagged lines appeared on the surface, etched by the repeated strain of her subconscious clutching.
"Isn't it true that the longer a secret is buried—no matter how small or terrifying—as long as someone is close enough to know your habits and notice the slightest shift in your behavior… they will keep chasing you until they force the truth from your lips?"
Finally, she lifted her gaze, bit by bit, after spending far too many seconds staring at the bowl of meatballs—food she hadn't even touched.
As her eyes rose, they immediately locked with Adelia's sharp stare and Rachel's icy, unblinking gaze. They were waiting for her to speak. Waiting for an explanation. Waiting for her to unlock the door she had kept so tightly sealed.
She bit the inside of her lower lip, hard enough to feel a faint sting of pain, as her inner voice whispered once more,
"Should I tell them?"
"Who knows—maybe they could help me, or at least offer some insight into who might be capable of such a thing. But..."
A subtle twitch flickered at her temples—a vibration so faint it was nearly silent, yet enough to mark the violent war raging within her.
On one side, there was a powerful urge to bleed the truth. On the other, a jagged fear, a caution that made her want to seal it all away, hiding the truth from gazes that could pierce through any mask.
Rachel, with her keen and piercing eyes, caught that small movement without effort.
But it wasn't just the twitch that gave Margaret away—no, there was something else far more difficult to ignore. Rachel's eyes widened slightly when she inadvertently focused on Margaret's lips, which appeared noticeably swollen.
"Did the accident also cause your lips to swell like that, Margaret?"
Before she could stop herself, the sentence had already escaped her lips.
The words made Margaret bolt upright in her seat, her shoulders tensing like someone snapped out of a long dream—or a sudden, jarring realization.
Meanwhile, Adelia, whose instincts immediately drove her to stare at Margaret's lips, furrowed her brow. It wasn't a casual expression; she was visibly confused, a confusion etched into the fine lines suddenly appearing on her face.
"Wait… didn't the front of the car hit your torso, throwing you back instantly? But your face never hit the asphalt. You tumbled, then landed in a seated position—and the only documented injury was your right leg."
"In that case… what caused your lips to swell, Margaret?"
Adelia's tone sounded like someone piecing a puzzle together aloud. Her eyes, previously sharp with scrutiny, softened into a look of intense curiosity.
"Or was it a mosquito bite? Though that seems impossible. With your family background, even a mosquito would think twice before approaching. Besides, mosquitoes crave blood—not the scent of money."
"Or could it be the medication from that doctor with the glasses? A side effect causing swelling in other parts of the body?"
"If such a drug exists… wouldn't it be strange for the side effect to appear in a place completely unrelated to your injury?"
The possibilities spilled out before Adelia could fully realize what she was saying—as if some other force had taken over—her mind and lips moving faster than her filter.
Margaret nearly laughed at Adelia's joke—the corners of her lips had even begun to twitch upward—but in the very next second, her throat constricted, and she swallowed hard.
A shadow suddenly crept in, sweeping through her mind like a bolt of lightning in a clear sky—the image of Frankestein's face far too close, his demanding movements, his breath that seemed to steal the very air from the room, until Margaret's chest felt as though it were being crushed by the thinning atmosphere.
That shadow refused to leave. It lingered, spiraling, tightening its grip. Even in the classroom hours earlier, her thoughts had been scattered; the chalkboard had blurred, and the teacher's voice had morphed into a distant, hollow hum.
Yet, what continued to echo wasn't merely the way Frankestein had held her, conquering her with a rhythm that left her reeling—it was the whisper that followed. Faint, heavy, and pressed against her ear while her body was still paralyzed by the sheer shock of it all.
"From this moment on, you belong to me, Margaret. No one is allowed to touch you… except for me."
"Do you understand, Margaret?"
Margaret still remembered it with terrifying clarity—the way Frankestein's voice had been crafted to sound so artificial, yet smooth and soothing.
Somewhere in the haze, while her mind was still drifting—caught between consciousness and a trance, between shock and a total inability to react—Frankestein had kissed her hand again. A smile had spread across his face as he pressed her hand—the one he had just kissed—against his own cheek.
But the most disorienting part was that by the time her senses had fully returned, she was already at school.
Frankestein stood before her with an expression that was nearly—no, completely—sinless.
With movements so natural they seemed like the most ordinary thing in the world, he leaned in and pressed a brief kiss to her cheek. Then, without giving her a single second to protest or even ask a question, another kiss landed on her forehead.
His fingers brushed through the crown of her head, gently ruffling her hair, as his words flowed like a command etched into her soul.
"Don't go home alone, okay?"
"Let me know when your last class is over. And don't you dare take the bus by yourself—your leg hasn't fully recovered yet. Understood, my sweet?"
She let out a soft breath.
It wasn't a long or conspicuous sigh—certainly not loud enough to draw attention from anyone around her. She disguised the movement so carefully it looked like a regular breath. Only she could feel the weight behind it.
Her inner voice whispered again as she lowered her head, staring blankly at the meatballs in front of her.
"Right now, I don't even know what to think about first…"
"On one hand, I'm consumed by a mix of curiosity and dread—who is the person behind those gifts? And what is the meaning of that message written in dried blood? It's a message that clearly echoes my own words… the promise I made to that little white puppy."
"Was someone listening to me whisper back then? No. That's impossible. Because I am certain—absolutely certain—there was no one else there… except for me."
"But on the other hand, I feel like I should be shocked—yet for some reason, I can't be."
"The incident in the car earlier has left the part of my brain responsible for shock completely numb."
"I didn't even truly process anything Frankestein Oppa said. Throughout the entire ride, I remained utterly silent."
"One thing is certain. That was my first kiss. And the person who took it was… the person I like."
She let out another sigh. This time, she didn't bother to hide it.
Adelia and Rachel noticed instantly. Their brows shot up in unison, they exchanged a quick, knowing glance, and then gave a slight shrug—a silent gesture of genuine confusion. Before them, Margaret seemed to dim, like a lantern whose flame was growing weary after keeping watch for far too long.
"Is it truly that heavy to tell us, Margaret?"
The softness in Adelia's voice forced Margaret to look up once more.
"Do you really find it that difficult to share what you're feeling right now?"
This time, it was the flatness of Rachel's voice—cutting through the air like a sudden slap—that made Margaret turn to her instantly.
"We are your friends. You know that, don't you? You know what it means to have friends."
"You can tell us anything—no matter how ugly the truth coming from your lips might be, we will still listen."
"However, if you truly don't want to speak, we won't force you. It's just… we will only worry more. And you can't carry everything by yourself forever, Margaret."
Even though her tone remained flat, there was an unmistakable sincerity behind every syllable—a raw, unmanufactured honesty, as pure and effortless as a mountain spring flowing without obstruction.