“If Jerome’s purpose isn’t me, I will forever be consumed as his tool.”Memories of the past, figures in recollection, occasional amusements perhaps, but never an object of purpose. I stared at Jerome’s blood-dried face. Jerome is my purpose. The boys on the top floor were my purpose. In my life, everyone else was merely a means. Countless people brushed past me over eight years—Teddy, Fay, Allen—they all knew what it meant not to be the end. And I want to be Jerome’s purpose. I want him to haul me from his memories and make me the sole object of his life.Keeping my eyes on Jerome, I trained the pistol on Anna. Aside from the top-floor boys, she was the only one who’d stood by Jerome from Bluebell until now. Eight years ago she’d helped him drag me to that terrible cabin. He’d been pleased when I killed that rat and sent his head flying. Would he feel the same now? I pulled the trigger. Anna couldn’t scream and collapsed to the floor.“No… no…”“…”“No, Anna! Anna! Anna!”Jerome screamed like a pig toward Anna’s fallen body. I stared unflinchingly into his bloodshot eyes.I want Jerome to take his revenge on me.He crawled like an insect over Anna’s corpse. I watched coldly as he wailed like a beast. Handcuffed behind his back, he couldn’t embrace her. Pressing his cheek to Anna’s blood-soaked face, he repeated his denials over and over.In that moment I claimed the top-floor boys’ attention. I watched Jerome writhe in pain. His arms twisted until crimson dripped through the bandages. He panted like a drowning man, between sobs spitting out:“No… no… please… Anna… no… sister…”Beyond his sobs lay Anna’s shattered skull on the floor. My face, once cold as I watched the boys’ atrocities, now glowed red with blood. There would ★ 𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 ★ be no second meeting. I tore my gaze from the corpse and stood. There was no time for leisure.I’d fired an unsuppressed shot; someone would call the police. I quickly gathered the strewn items. Aside from the guns and phones, there was little to salvage. I removed magazines from three or four pistols, flipped their safeties, and stuck them in my belt; the magazines went in my coat pocket. I pocketed the two cell phones, rechecked the apartment, grabbed Jerome’s coat from the entryway, and returned to the living room.Silence fell heavy as a mouse’s grave. Jerome remained statue-still, cheek against corpse. I crouched beside him, draped the coat over his shoulders, buttoning it to cover the bloody torso. His eyes stayed fixed on Anna beyond my shoulder.Supporting Jerome to his feet, I led him out. The hallway felt oppressively silent and dim—everyone must be hiding from the gunshot. No time to hesitate. I hoisted Jerome over my shoulder; he was heavy, but bearable. My greater fear was the approaching police. Carrying him, I hurried down the stairs and out to the street.I hailed a taxi immediately. I forced dazed Jerome into the back seat; he kept his head bowed, so the driver never saw his bloodied face. I gave the address of a motel near the station and flopped into the seat. A patrol car passed by just then. I glanced anxiously out the window. The building was old—no CCTV—and dusk was falling; we’d bought some time. I had to leave Rellium as soon as possible.My skin prickled and I turned: Jerome stared at me. His dazed look was gone; he smiled silently, the blood-drenched half of his face giving him a ghastly air. I met his gaze coldly. We sat in silent appraisal until we reached the motel.He still couldn’t walk properly. I helped him into the room and he sat on the bed’s edge just as one of the phones rang. I checked the screen—an unregistered number. Jerome watched me silently. I tapped accept and switched to speaker. A voice asked:“Agent, was there an incident at E01K?”We stared at the phone. I held it out to Jerome. He blinked, then replied softly:“Yes. One body to process.”For the first time I was unsettled. “One body to process”—he who’d squealed over Anna’s death moments ago had reduced her to a mere corpse.A few more words, then the call ended. No need to worry about police, apparently. “Agent,” he’d said. I glanced at Jerome, who watched me with a knowing smile—mocking, taunting. I drew the pistol from my belt and without hesitation smashed the butt into the back of his head. He collapsed, unconscious.I locked Jerome in the bathroom and left the motel alone. I dismantled all but one gun and tossed the parts into public trash cans. I kept the phones. Stopping at a pharmacy for first-aid supplies, I checked train schedules at the station—one departing near midnight. I bought two tickets and returned to the motel. Thirty minutes later, Jerome still lay unconscious on the bed.I removed his coat to reveal heavily blood-soaked bandages. I cut them away with scissors. Wiping the blood from his arm, I saw the wound.“A stab track.”A knife cut from shoulder to just above elbow. The stitching looked messy—probably done by him. Worse, it was trampled and bleeding. He’d need sutures again, but not at a hospital. I unlocked his cuffed hand, rebuckled it to the bedpost, and wiped the blood from his face.Before treating the wound, I washed my hands in icy water. I shuddered and caught my reflection: I looked like a madman—short, ragged hair, hollow cheeks, bloodshot eyes, cracked lips. A vagrant, a lunatic, or a killer. I snapped out of it and returned to the room.I tested the wound’s edges and poured on disinfectant. Jerome groaned and opened his eyes. He peered at me, then I resumed with scissors, cutting the sutures. He tensed, blood spurted, and he hissed. Pulling out the last thread, I applied more disinfectant; he groaned again and buried his face.I waited until he caught his breath, then said:“If you’re awake, sit up. It’s easier to stitch that way.”He exhaled and sat, rubbing his face. Tension stiffened his upper body. I sat close, threaded a needle. Jerome peered down suspiciously through hooded lids.“Have you done this before?”“I’ve done clothes.”“On people?”“I’m not a doctor.”He shrugged. Taking a deep breath, he offered the arm. Grasping his bleeding arm, I stretched the skin and plunged the needle in. Each stitch reminded me of sewing insignia on a uniform. Jerome clenched his fist, eyes fixed on the carpet. When I finished suturing, applied ointment, covered with gauze, and bound him, he collapsed back on the bed.“Rest a moment. We’ll move soon.”I washed the blood from my hands. Jerome rolled his head to watch me.“Where are we going?”“You don’t need to know.”“Oh, Raymond. A lovers’ escape…”He murmured with a weak laugh. His shoulders shook, then he was quiet.Without anesthesia, I’d stitched living flesh, and I was exhausted. I settled in an armchair and examined Jerome’s phones. No email logged in, no apps, empty contacts, cleared call and text logs. One call history was the earlier “agent” call; the other phone was unused. There were no spy features. I shoved the phones back into my pocket and glanced at the bed. Jerome trembled intermittently. I touched his forehead—it was hot. He opened his eyes and looked at me. I fetched water and antipyretics. He swallowed the medicine and gripped my hand but said nothing.I drew the remaining pistol from my belt and tossed it aside, then crawled into bed beside him. Jerome immediately wrapped me in his arms. Legs intertwined, I buried my face in his chest. The smell of disinfectant lingered. Jerome stroked my hair—cold fingertips sliding from scalp to nape, back to my hair. He nuzzled my shoulder and pressed my cheek into his warmth.“I’m worried.”He murmured against my ear; his words muffled in my shoulder.“I’m worried about Anna.”“She’s dead. You don’t need to worry.”My slow reassurance sent strength through his arm.“But… Anna’s daughter?”My mind went blank. Jerome still had his face buried in my shoulder.“She must have heard her mother died. What will happen to her?”“…”“There was only you as a parent. How did you feel when your father died?”I released him and studied his face. He asked quietly:“Should I tell Anna’s daughter who killed her mother?”“…”“Will she seek revenge?”“…”“Shouldn’t you kill her before she kills you?”“…”“Why so quiet, Raymond?”He studied my silence, then asked softly:“Are you afraid?”I was terrified—my mind reeling. The strange excitement from Anna’s death still pulsed. Close to Jerome, the thrill grew. Trembling, I caressed his blood-warm cheek—the cheek that had pressed against Anna as he wailed.If Anna meant so much to you… her daughter must mean something too. If I kill her as I did Anna, will Jerome’s fury deepen? I brushed his smiling face, warmed by fever, from cheek to ear to nape, down his shoulder and wounded arm, finally clasping his hand—icy in mine.“I’m afraid I enjoyed killing Anna.”“…”“I’m afraid I’d enjoy killing her daughter too.”“…”“I’m afraid I’d do anything to please you.”“…”I stared at Jerome in silence, pressing my lips to the back of his hand.“Are you afraid, Jerome?”His cunning green eyes glimmered in the motel’s dim red light like a multifaceted jewel. He tilted his head and kissed me, breath hot on my lips. Jerome’s tongue traced my lips sensuously; I closed my eyes and welcomed him. Had we ever kissed so deeply?Lost in the unfamiliar thrill, I pressed my lips to his. They were firm yet soft, his warm tongue both playful and tender. The unfamiliarity made me slow; I opened my eyes. Jerome watched me with open eyes—as if he’d never closed them. He paused the kiss and simply gazed, lips brushing mine. I watched him blink slowly in rapture.“I’m afraid.”He whispered close enough for me to feel his breath.“I’m afraid our bond will break.”Jerome was impossible to predict—twisted and re-twisted. I crushed the lips that so sweetly met mine.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.