Adrian was sitting behind the desk, his fingers interlaced, resting calmly on his knee—
one leg crossed over the other.
No.
He wasn't just sitting.
He looked comfortable.
His blond hair was artfully disheveled,
strands falling over his forehead as if they knew exactly where to belong.
His sky-blue eyes were lowered, peaceful—
far too peaceful.
In front of him…
Two cups of tea.
And small pieces of dessert.
The sight struck her like a slap.
How…?
How does the man who strangled me this morning drink tea like the world is fine?
How am I shaking while he looks… illuminated?
She froze where she stood.
Moonlight spilled in through the window, reflecting off his pale skin
until it hurt her eyes.
Her throat burned.
A lump formed.
She bowed quickly, tugged at her apron,
and wiped her eyes harshly—
as if scrubbing away the entire morning.
She turned her face aside.
Manufactured coldness.
Heavy silence.
She placed the medicine tray on the desk
quickly,
precisely,
without a single word.
Then—
she turned away at once.
Her steps were fast.
Escaping.
She headed toward the bookshelves of his study.
Taking the cloth and small duster,
she began wiping with excessive force.
Dust. Dust. Dust.
As if she were trying to scrub something out of herself—
not the books.
Inside her head, thoughts collided:
I'm suffocating, and he's sipping tea.
I count my breaths, and he counts sugar cubes.
I was on the verge of death… and he looks beautifully innocent.
She tightened her grip on the duster.
Dust rose.
Her eyes reddened.
Damn you.
Damn this manor.
And damn me for still standing here, dusting a murderer's books.
Adrian tilted his head toward her,
watching her with a calm smile—far too calm.
"Good evening."
Then gently:
"I thought you wouldn't come."
She turned to him automatically.
Her face blank.
Her voice even more so.
"I came to give you your medicine."
She paused, then added with cold precision:
"It's best if you sleep early. The Marchioness arrives tomorrow. You should be well-rested."
Before she could finish—
He was standing beside her.
She froze.
Her body locked like stone.
Her arm was still stretched toward the upper shelf.
He spoke softly, wearing the same smile:
"Don't rush."
She turned her head toward him mechanically,
as if her mind lagged half a second behind her body.
"…What?"
He gestured upward with his eyes, his tone gentle and steady:
"The top shelf."
"Leave it. I'll handle it later."
She stared at him warily,
stepping half a pace sideways—away from him—without realizing it.
"Are you alright?"
The question escaped before she could stop it.
He answered simply:
"I'm fine."
Then—
He reached out.
Took the books from her hands.
And for just one second…
his warm fingers brushed against hers.
She yanked her hand back instantly,
as if she'd touched a contaminant,
as if her skin had burned.
She shuddered.
He lowered his head at once.
His voice dropped.
"I'm sorry."
And there—
Elizabeth's mind collapsed.
Sorry?
He… apologized?
Everything from that morning—
the strangling,
the threat,
the terror,
the tears,
the coughing,
the escape—
stepped backward in her mind,
as if reality itself had rearranged the scene.
Am I… imagining things?
Did I exaggerate?
Is this a different person?
She looked at his hand.
Then at his face.
This is wrong.
This is very wrong.
Because the most dangerous thing a killer can do
is not to frighten you—
but to make you doubt
yourself.
Adrian placed his hands behind his back.
Elizabeth stiffened instantly.
Her gaze lowered slightly,
focused—
there.
He's holding a knife.
I swear he is.
The posture… the concealment… the excessive calm… this is Killer 101.
A chill crawled up her spine.
He lifted his head,
and the moonlight—pure, pale—washed over his face,
making him look calm… beautiful… deeply unsettling.
He smiled.
"I want us to come to an agreement."
She froze.
Then she straightened slowly,
as if trying to reclaim dignity that had been crushed minutes ago.
"…About what?"
He spoke calmly,
his gaze drifting around the room—over the shelves, the books, the desk.
"That we start from here."
He paused.
Then added, his voice losing some of its softness:
"Not because I'm innocent…"
"And not because you've forgotten."
Silence.
His face went still.
His eyes lowered.
"But because what happened…"
"…was one of my episodes."
Her eyebrow twitched upward.
And here—
Elizabeth's mind called an emergency meeting.
— Episodes.
— Sick.
— Headaches.
— Coughing.
— Loss of control.
— Apologizes.
— Looks remorseful.
— Didn't kill her.
Ah.
So he's not a serial killer…
He's a serial killer with a medical excuse.
Back to reality.
She crossed her arms.
Her expression flattened—*painfully flat.*
"Episodes?"
He answered quietly:
"Sometimes…"
"I lose control."
He looked at his hands,
as if they were enemies.
"And when that happens…"
"I break whatever comes close."
Then he lifted his gaze to her and added simply:
"I'm sorry."
Silence.
Inside Elizabeth's head:
You're apologizing?
Lovely.
Should I applaud?
Or pin a medal on you— "Best Gentle Servant-Strangler"?
Then her imagination—ever reckless—ran wild.
She pictured him kneeling.
Clutching her fingertips.
Kissing them like a loyal dog.
Begging: Forgive me, Elizabeth. I won't do it again.
The image was ridiculous.
Undignified.
Disturbingly satisfying.
She shivered.
No.
That's stupid.
She lifted her head,
stared at him coldly:
Episodes or not…
He's still a killer.
But—
and that but was the most dangerous thing of all—
a very small part of her
whispered:
If he's lying…
Then he's a frighteningly good actor.
Elizabeth scoffed sharply,
unable to stop herself.
"Damn you…"
It slipped out before she could think.
He heard her.
Adrian froze.
His eyes widened slightly—silent shock.
He turned his head toward her, slowly.
She crossed her arms again,
her only armor.
"Is this a new method now?"
she said sharply.
"Justifying murder?"
He laughed softly.
Not mockery.
A tired laugh.
"No."
Then he added, with an honesty that was disturbingly sincere:
"Justification doesn't work on you."
He stepped back,
then quietly pulled the second chair,
sliding it a little closer to the table.
"Sit."
His voice was cautious, gentle.
"Don't worry…"
He gestured toward the small tray.
"I prepared tea and some sweets."
He glanced at her briefly—evaluating, not cruel.
"You look exhausted today… and you're thin."
*…*
Her mind screamed:
Is he— is he insulting me?!
She lifted her chin in immediate defiance.
"No."
She turned away coldly,
returned to the shelves,
grabbed the cloth and began cleaning with forced aggression.
"Not interested."
He didn't comment.
He picked up his teacup,
took a slow sip.
As she worked,
the room fell silent
except for fabric brushing against wood.
Then—
he spoke suddenly, as if discussing the weather:
"Do you like reading?"
She stopped.
Her hand rested against the shelf she was about to clean.
Still.
Her breathing evened out.
"…Not really."
Before she could add more—
"Don't touch that shelf."
She lifted her head.
Looked at him—finally.
"Why?"
He was leaning against the table,
his hand propping his cheek,
a strange posture of laziness that didn't fit the scene.
He replied calmly:
"Books about virtue."
"About forgiveness."
"About angels."
She paused for a second.
Then—
she resumed cleaning without a word.
The room sank into a long silence,
heavy… but not hostile.
After a moment,
she spoke without looking at him:
"Strange…"
Her hand stopped this time.
"You don't seem like someone who hates angels."
He smiled.
A small, sideways smile.
He slipped a piece of candy into his mouth,
spoke while chewing slowly:
"It's not hatred."
He lifted his gaze to her.
"It's more a matter of…"
He paused,
swallowed,
then continued in a calm, ambiguous tone:
"They're always looking from above."
Elizabeth's eyes narrowed.
…From above?
He spoke quietly,
as if explaining a very old idea:
"Too pure."
"Merciful without paying the price."
"They forgive… but they never bleed."
He returned to his tea.
"And that…"
he said with a faint smile, its meaning unclear,
"is difficult to respect."
A cold shiver slid down her spine.