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Dark-Hair rolled his eyes, not letting an answer escaped his lips. He responded with a curt shrug instead. The young master, however, did not seem to mind his sour attitude at all. Instead, he closed the door behind them, proceeding to step into the room. He pulled the same stool as yesterday and sat down at the same spot; just a few inches away from the Dark-Hair’s bed.

The boy smiled—too cheerful for someone who was close to death once. Dark-Hair found that smile annoying. He thought, how could someone be so positive? Dark-Hair averted his eyes away, landing his gaze to the window that—although closed—was not blocked by any curtain. Sometimes, Dark-Hair imagined that if he could break the chain, he would break the window to run away.

The boy seemed to think there was something necessary to look at, as he followed Dark-Hair’s gaze outside. Though, as much as the nature was beautiful, there was essentially nothing important. So, he redirected his attention back to the boy who refused to meet his eyes. “What’s your name?”

Still full on ignoring the young master, Dark-Hair kept his eyes treaded to the tree outside his room.

Though, stubborn as he was, the boy asked another question. “Where were you from?”

Dark-Hair crossed his legs on the bed, leaning his back to the wall.

“How old are you?” the young master insisted.

Dark-Hair remained unbothered. He was keen on not letting the young master gained any information out of him. If the reason these nobles kept him alive was to harvest whatever knowledge he had before feeding him to the wolves, then he bet he would not say a word.

Much to Dark-Hair’s surprise, the young master seemed to give up easily. After only a few unanswered questions, he stopped—staring with his eyebrows furrowed at the captive silently. Dark-Hair took that as a sign of defeat—and that soon enough the young master would give up and leave him alone. Maybe, he would order to behead Dark-Hair—but at least, he still would not gain a single information.

“I know why you don’t want to talk!” the young master exclaimed, too cheerful to give up. His face—beaming up in excitement—was not of someone who noticed his conversation partner was not up for a friendly conversation. “You’re nervous because I never introduced myself, right?”

Dark-Hair wished to bang his head on a table.

Oblivious to the blatant disappointment in Dark-Hair’s expression, the young master began his introduction like a 6-year-old on his first day of elementary school. “My name is Elliot,” he introduced himself, leaning in a little closer as excitement overflowed his innocent eyes. “We’re in the mansion of Alskar. The one stopping you from killing me was Charlotte, one of the maids here who was coincidentally also my childhood friend. Alskar is one of the Praesidio, or known as Four Heaven Families—well, you must have heard our names, right? I have a sister named Victoria. She’s loud and annoying. You wouldn’t want to meet her, I can guarantee. But, well, I admit she can be reliable at unexpected moment.” The boy—whose name was introduced as Elliot—kept talking about himself; from his history to his trivia—“I like the smell of rain,” he told the captive, as if the knowledge was in any way useful.

Either from boredom or from the calmness of the young master’s voice, Dark-Hair was lulled. He got drowsy, as though Elliot had sung him a lullaby. It was not until he noticed Elliot was staring at him that he realized the heir of Alskar had stopped talking.

Elliot was staring at the boy with enthusiasm in his face; hopefulness gleamed in his eyes. How childish was he—Dark-Hair thought. Childish, and without a care to the world. “Well?” Elliot concluded. “Introduce yourself?”

Like hell I will, Dark-Hair scoffed. He would not, and would ever not, speak to this odd boy. Let alone introducing himself like some kindergarteners—well, not that he was ever in kindergarten.

So, Dark-Hair ignored him. Toes circling on the sheet; eyes treading down. Elliot waited for an answer like he would not give up—which ultimately irritated Dark-Hair. Though, he was just as stubborn. He remained silent, not wanting to fall into the obvious trap.

Dark-Hair exhaled the breath he did not realize he was holding. He thought, if this boy would not give up that time, he would still give up one day. There was no way the boy would continue wasting his time on some hostage that would not spill a single piece of information, right?

So, holding onto the idea, he kept silent. Elliot, too, kept silent, waiting for Dark-Hair with his eyes piercing through the Dark-Hair—which was a bit intimidating, to say the least.

Minute by minute passed, yet Elliot did not seem tired of waiting. But, when it finally looked like Elliot was about to say something, the door opened and in came a girl who Dark-Hair noticed as the one attacking him that night—Charlotte, if he remembered correctly. She glared coolly at Dark-Hair, before landing her gaze to the young master.

“Elliot, it’s already afternoon,” she told Elliot. “Don’t you need to go meet the other Praesidio heads?”

Elliot groaned at the reminder. He stretched his arms. “No, I don’t want to go,” he whined, yet he stood up. Before leaving the room, he looked at Dark-Hair, saying, “See you tomorrow,” and then proceeded to leave the room.

The maid stayed behind, leaning on the door frame with her arms crossed and eyes trailing the young master’s steps. As the boy was out of sight, the maid darted her eyes gleaming in hatred towards Dark-Hair. She scrunched her eyebrows deep, emphasizing her disgust to the Dark-Hair.

Somehow, Dark-Hair felt nauseous meeting her gaze.

“I won’t let you near Elliot, you filthy creature,” Charlotte hissed, straightening her back to appear bigger than she actually was. “And do not play innocent, dirty thing. I know exactly what you were.”

And with that, she stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her with every ounce of anger she had.

Dark-Hair—left confused—could only shook his head. He leaned to the wall, treading his eyes to the outside world again. “Even if you said that, I can’t understand,” he muttered to himself. Watching the leaves falling outside, he forced his mind to think hard. Charlotte seemed familiar—but he could not make out where he ever saw her. Everything in his system tried to alert him of her.

In the end, he gave up. He dropped himself onto the bed, closing his eyes as he let his guard down and drowned himself in a restless sleep of empty dream.

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