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The glass he was holding slipped away from his grip, falling and shattering on the floor. The liquid of supposedly expensive wine splattered with the broken glass, soaking into the carpet on the floor.

Despite the mess around him, the man remained expressionless. He nonchalantly gazed at the shard of broken glass. Picking up one, his eyes bore on the shard as though it carried a sign of misfortune.

Perhaps, it did.

He felt his wavelength blocked by some sort of power. Or—maybe not even a power. After all, sneaking into the young boy’s mind was difficult enough. Simple humans would not be able to break into the mind of the creature. Goddess put quite a lot of effort in the making of the boy’s system—not so much of his physique, though.

He closed his eyes shut, trying to penetrate into the boy’s mind—and he failed. He did not think too much of it. After all, it drained too much of his power to do so. Yet, he could still do it. Meaning that sooner or later, he could detect him again.

And even if he could not, aide would come to him.

Well, it was a matter of time before his goal was fulfilled.

He clenched his fist, while the glass shard was in his grip. Blood dripped out from the wound caused by the sharp glass—and he was jubilant. A tinge of pain was enough to wake him up, pulling his will back into his eager self.

While he was immersing himself in his thought, the door to his room was knocked. The man turned around, fixating his gaze at the guest he had not welcomed yet.

As he saw the figure behind the door, his mouth twitched into a smirk. He stepped forward to the figure, recognizing the face of his uninvited guest.

“Well, well, what a surprise, indeed,” he greeted, bowing and taking one of the guest’s hands as a sign of respect. “Whatever business does a person of such a high caliber like yourself require with a low outcast like myself?”

“Surely, the same goal we are aiming for, no?” the guest answered bemusedly, as the man took and kissed the back of her hand out of respect.

The man snickered. “And what could that be, I wonder?”

The guest, her eyes cold as ice, said matter-of-factly, “To rid of the Chosen One.”

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Dark-Hair rolled on his bed out of boredom, eyes treading to the broken white ceiling. Oblivious to whatever happened outside of his cage, he decided to close his eyes. Better be asleep than rotting in boredom, he thought.

However, rather than clearing his mind and letting himself sleep in peace, his mind began to wander.

What series of event had let him to being held captive here; he decided to write down the timeline in his mind. First, he could not remember where he was from. Second, he was in a madman’s house—which, strangely, Dark-Hair could not remember the face of—and was ordered to kill the Chosen One. Third, he flew afar, somehow finding his way to the ambiguous target. But—what was he ‘chosen’ for? Why—when the madman told him the Chosen One—did he instantly recognize who it was? They had never met even once.

Perhaps, it was a knowledge buried deep in his head.

Fourth, the target’s window was open, as though inviting him in. Fifth, he decided to do the most inconvenient way to murder someone. A veteran serial killer would bang their head to the table if they ever saw what Dark-Hair attempted to do.

Yet, he knew he did not want to murder the young master. He recalled a clash in his mind—as if two separate minds were speaking in his head. It caused a pang so painful that he thought he was going insane.

Dark-Hair came to murder prepared. He had a knife ready to slit the poor young master’s throat, but the time he saw the window wide open to welcome him, he threw his knife away—he knew he could not kill him at whatever cost.

As the result, he was being held captive in a room so gloomy unlike the rest of the wealthy’s lair. Unfair, for him—the rest of the house was bright and vibrant and glowing and golden; and all he got was this tiny little gloom of a room, one that looked like it had not been occupied for at least a decade.

To be fair, he should have been grateful. He endangered the heir of an important family—one that bore of so much power. Had it been of another nobility, he would have been burned at a stake at that rate.

But—maybe he would be, after all. It seemed that the guy in question wanted to squeeze him dry and left him to rot in this small room.

He replayed that night in his mind; how he sneaked in, how he attacked him, how he woke up, and how a girl came to his rescue.

That girl—he had a strange feeling about her. She was bad news—and it was not simply because she interfered with his murder attempt, but—something was off about her. He could not pinpoint exactly what was off, but he knew. He just knew. He was so sure. He tried really hard to recall who exactly was that girl, but, instead, a sudden pang hit his head. His ear rang for a split second—which caught him by surprise. It was as though something was forcing itself into his mind, messing with the way his brain worked.

Though, somehow, as a knock came onto his door, the pain in his head diminished.

Dark-Hair darted his attention towards the door—which was opened by the young master, as he had expected.

Seeing the strange young master was not in his top priority of things he wanted right now, but when his pain went away with the boy stepping into the room, he thought that his companionship was not bad.

“Good morning,” the strange boy greeted with an impeccable smile. “How was your sleep?”

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