Bailonz Street 13

Liam Moore wondered why he was so satisfied. Despite priding himself on knowing everything, he couldn’t understand why his whole body tensed at the touch of a forehead on his shoulder or the sound of small breaths.

The atmosphere was stifling. Or perhaps it felt like something inside him was collapsing. It was ticklish. Probably because of her hair.

“I had a nightmare.” He couldn’t understand why a small whisper made him laugh.

A man who prided himself on knowing everything felt like an idiot at this moment. Perhaps even the damn madman Plurititas might give up on wanting his head.

The woman’s face, as she lifted her head, looked sulky, like a child whose candy had been taken away. Since he immediately laughed at her words, she probably thought he was mocking her. When she glared, Liam quickly apologized with a guilty laugh, “Sorry for laughing.”

Should he soothe her until the anger on her face dissipated? Maybe if he coaxed her gently, her anger would subside, he thought.

Of course, he was someone with many secrets. So it was natural to have at least one hidden thought. For example,

“Sorry. But your expression just now was really cute.”

＊ ＊ ＊

Nothing significant happened until dinner ended.

The guests murmured for a while about the deceased, then soon smiled warmly. Christine Besson, with the tender care of James Stranden, seemed to gradually recover from the shock.

Of course, no one can accept the sudden death of a family member overnight. Even if they appear better on the surface, inside they must be a mess. My psychological knowledge could read at least that much.

Someone once said that women (though it was just me and the lady) have a way of connecting. It was true. After dinner, during a light tea time, we comforted the sorrow of the new bride.

Christine Besson was a fragile person, delicate and invoking a protective instinct. As she tearfully recounted how wonderful her brother was, her pitiful appearance seemed like a scene from a movie, something from another world.

We patted the back of her hand, offering comfort that her brother, despite the accident, would surely have looked forward to the wedding.

Liam Moore wasn’t a heavy drinker. But there are moments when the fiery warmth of alcohol is desperately needed. As Stranden forcibly dragged him along, perhaps to shake off the shadow of death with drinks, I waved at their tear-jerking friendship.

Of course, Liam’s face was ashen, resisting like an animal dragged to the slaughterhouse, trying desperately to escape. Knowing there was no one to help him…

“I hate alcohol!”

“Haha, you’re just like when you were young!”

“I said no! Are you listening?”

“Everyone’s waiting downstairs, Liam!”

Though he reached out to me desperately, I turned my head slightly. His shocked expression, as if he couldn’t believe I’d betray him, was truly pitiful… but that’s that and this is this. Business is business, Liam Moore.

I didn’t want to be dragged to a drinking party outside of work hours, and Liam, with his sharp intellect, realized I had no intention of helping him.

“Have fun,” I mouthed. His gray eyes widened. He finally resigned to his fate…

Not long after Liam was dragged off to his bachelor party, the women’s tea time ended. I returned to the guest room, relieved to shed the layers of clothing and changed into comfortable pajamas, warming myself by the fireplace. Sleepiness crept in like a full cat.

How much time had passed since dinner? I was pondering the dream. I’m not sure if it was a dream because it was so vivid, like it had just happened.

Had I really been asleep?

But if it was reality, Liam wouldn’t have missed anything suspicious. I don’t know why. It just seemed like he would. I had faith that if something happened, Liam Moore would definitely know. Maybe that was the trust between us.

The ghostly woman in my dream said she would return at night, and as the customary time of night approached, I began to anxiously check my pocket watch every ten minutes.

Without the earlier commotion, I heard two small knocks. Approaching the door, a cool draft slowly seeped in through the crack below. Considering the previous visit as a dream, I couldn’t hide my surprise as I opened the door.

It was clearly not a dream!

If I considered it reality, the one who promised to visit me at this hour was none other than Amelia Jokins. Liam was probably downstairs, getting drunk with his friends. And my guess was correct.

Dark eyes, difficult to describe, looked at me. The woman’s face was indifferent, filled with a certainty as if the world’s troubles bypassed her. News of steam trains, London’s murderer, royal marriages, and policies seemed to have no impact on her.

Amelia Jokins, the mistress of Stranden Manor, smiled casually. Her childlike smile broke down some of my defenses.

“Hello, may I come in?” Amelia Jokins asked.

I remembered Liam Moore’s warning not to let anyone in. But whether I allowed it or not, she was going to enter.

I distinctly remembered her dry fingers touching some barrier. For some reason, this room clearly had such a barrier. It sounds crazy, but it’s true. A respawn zone in a system, maybe? In a respawn zone, health is restored, and invincibility is maintained….

I let myself go with the flow of the game. It felt like enlightenment. Giving up on thinking about what was happening, reacting consistently with “Well, that could happen,” brought peace to my mind. Inner peace… inner peace….

“Come in. Would you like some tea?” I asked, stepping back to make space for her as I pulled the doorknob.

“It’s fine. A gatecrasher shouldn’t also ask for tea.”

As she stepped in, I closed and locked the door again. Amelia had already taken a seat as if it were her own room (which, technically, it was). When I sat across from her, our conversation began.

“So, why have you come to see me?”

Amelia, looking down at her fingers, spoke slowly.

“I want to stop this wedding.”

“Because of bigamy?”

I asked cautiously. Amelia smiled.

“Let’s just say my husband wasn’t a good person.”

“…Does he use opium?”

“No.”

“Then smuggling? Or a cult fanatic? Murder? An international fugitive? …A slave trader?!”

I’m sorry, madam. My experiences have been quite harsh.

Amelia chuckled more with each added crime, and I eventually shrugged, leaning back into my chair.

“Murder, then. He must have killed someone, right?”

Amelia seemed puzzled by how I guessed.

It’s simple. I was reading her reactions by suggesting something very stupid and observing her expression.

Using one’s field of vision, Liam Moore once explained it as a psychological technique. He mentioned observing people’s unconscious reactions when they think no one is watching. Those spontaneous smiles, for example, are in the realm of the unconscious and easy to pick up for those who can’t control it.

Honestly, I don’t know much about this. I don’t have the eloquence to explain it convincingly, so I stayed silent. Amelia, seeing my confident expression, gave up questioning and began to tell her story.

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