I had only just woken up, but my head was already a mess.

My eyes caught a scrap of notebook paper on the kitchen table. In the neat, familiar alphabet I knew so well, it said he'd borrowed my key to lock the door and left it in the mailbox.

"Early start today, huh..."

I mumbled this to the slightly creased slip of paper, then opened the trash can lid with a yawn. After a moment's hesitation, I closed the lid and placed the memo on my work desk instead.

Mornings after days when I couldn't sort through my emotions and information before sleeping were always like this. Various words kept surfacing one after another, scrambling my brain and weighing it down.

Thinking I should do something manageable even in my scattered state, I launched my email software, but before long I gave up on the task of merely projecting the message screen onto my eyeballs. I picked up my half-finished coffee and French press, sank into the sofa, and gazed blankly up at the small chandelier.

Drink spiking?

I sighed at the words that immediately surfaced.

I'd seen the term in dramas and news programs. I could vaguely recall prevention tips—don't leave your drink unattended when you leave your seat, refuse drinks offered by strangers. But I'd never once been wary of it in my entire life, and of course I'd never bothered to empty my glass before getting up.

Honestly, I still couldn't fully believe that my memory loss was someone's deliberate doing. But after a night's sleep, I was finally beginning to recognize that something had been off. It was an awful feeling. I shouldn't be at fault, yet somehow my mind kept mocking my own stupidity.

Gulping down coffee with poor manners, I checked my schedule while sunk into the sofa. Just as I thought—forcing one day off wouldn't inconvenience anyone. Okay, Lucas. Today's a day off. If I put in some overtime somewhere down the line, I could manage the chair design Kirk had commissioned.

Having convinced myself of this, I promptly shut down the desktop and grabbed my cleaning supplies with enthusiasm. I dusted the chandelier, shelves, and desk in order, then wiped everything down with alcohol and a citrus fragrance that vanished almost as soon as I smelled it. I cleaned out the grime and dust from every corner, polished the faucets and doorknobs with a metal-specific cloth, and even mopped the floor.

—It was all done in less than thirty minutes. Damn, this is what I get for never neglecting my cleaning.

With no other choice, I started peering into shelves and storage, carefully examining my belongings. It was Grandma, of course, who had suggested I "keep only things I truly love in my room" during that period when I couldn't bring myself to like who I was no matter how hard I tried. I noticed my hands had stopped moving and gave my head a light shake. Forcing down the pain squeezing my chest, I focused on the contents of the shelf before me.

When even that task was complete, I finally gave up, changed into a shirt and jeans, grabbed the old magazine I'd scored as my prize, and left the apartment. I planned to check on a café I'd designed the interior for while picking up groceries.

As I was about to cross the entrance hall, self-conscious about the cowlick at the back of my head, Megan—unusually—called out to me.

"Good morning, Luke. Lovely hairstyle."

"...Thanks."

I thanked her sullenly, and Megan emerged from behind the reception desk with a perfect smile affixed to her face, moving with unhurried elegance into the entrance hall.

As I cowered, wondering if I'd done something wrong, Megan sighed theatrically.

"Mail is usually delivered at a set time, isn't it?"

I blinked at this sudden topic that was too abrupt to even call a change of subject.

"Um, yeah...?"

"You know how the mailbox starts rattling at the same time every day? So I've completely memorized the delivery schedule."

Smile still perfectly in place, Megan walked elegantly toward me.

Then, dragging me toward the mailboxes behind the entrance, she continued.

"Luke. I believe a letter was placed directly into your mailbox by the sender—not by the mail carrier."

"Huh? What? What do you mean?"

"Forgive me if I'm overstepping as a concierge. But I have a bad feeling about this. I think you should check it immediately. If you want to know the date and time it was deposited, come ask me. Understood?"

She said all this rapidly in one breath, then immediately turned on her heel back toward reception.

I watched her perfectly straight back with wide eyes, then nervously peered into my mailbox. Seeing the unstamped letter sitting there, I finally understood what she meant.

On the spotless, pale blue envelope—simple and commonplace—there was no address, no sender's name. Only my name was written on it. Thanks to Megan, that ordinary envelope looked terrifyingly ominous.

After a moment's hesitation, I pinched the envelope between my fingers and returned to my dust-free office. The instant I unfolded the letter inside, I let out a shriek.

"What is this? What is this? What is this—scary!!"

I flung the letter away and leaped back.

It was, how should I put it, a letter pouring out every ounce of feeling toward me. Feeling meaning, to put it bluntly, probably murderous intent. Thoughtfully, words impossible to misinterpret like "kill" and "I want you dead" were scrawled throughout. And perhaps because the writer's feelings toward me ran too deep, the pen had punctured holes in the paper in places.

"Scary scary scary, Grandma..."

Completely terrified, I fled into the back bedroom. I locked the door with a click and finally took a deep breath.

Two large windows. Heavy royal blue curtains with gold thread, and all the furniture was ornate antique. The polar opposite of my bright, unique office—a solemn, traditional interior. My quiet, harmonious sanctuary.

Clutching a cushion from the bed, I sank down weakly.

"What even was that..."

Even to my own ears, my voice sounded as limp as a cold french fry.

I'd decided to just stay holed up in my room—but I couldn't stand the thought of that mass of malice existing in my office, so I immediately got back up.

As I reached for the door, I suddenly noticed the mati, an evil-eye charm, hanging by my bedside. It was one of many evil-eye charms my Greek grandmother had given me as a child.

I grabbed it impulsively and opened the door. The next instant, a zombie rising from the letter would attack me—!

...Of course nothing of the sort happened. The seven scattered pages just fluttered in the breeze, trembling with small movements.

Clutching the mati, I crept past the shadows of the seven pages. Not that it mattered, but wasn't seven pages a bit much? Hadn't the writer gotten bored while writing, or cooled down from their heated feelings toward me?

I fetched a small box from the study, just the right size for letters, and carefully pinched the pages by the very tips of my fingernails to place them inside. Then I tossed the mati in on top and hurriedly closed the lid.

"There. Sealed."

I felt a tingling sensation in my fingertips. I remembered vaguely that my sense of touch was particularly acute among my five senses. After tying up the box thoroughly and tossing it into the back of the study, I washed my hands frantically. I boiled water on the stove, warmed the pot and cup, and brewed tea with my special reserve leaves. I also put a few Noosa chocolates with dried strawberries on a small plate, loaded the tea set onto a tray, and went out to the balcony.

Basking in the abundant sunlight, I tossed chocolate into my mouth and savored it with my tea. Finally feeling somewhat settled, I clutched my head with a heavy sigh.

"...No way."

What Brian had said yesterday suddenly felt real. I'd had plenty of experience in my life having my heart slashed by malice from faceless strangers, but this letter gave me a more immediate sense of danger. Much as I hated to admit it, Brian had been right. His words about "protecting me" that had seemed excessive and embarrassing yesterday now felt suddenly reassuring.

I should contact Brian, I thought as I returned to my desk—and my hand paused at the two notes sitting there. One was the memo Brian had left this morning. The other was Qasim's contact information.

—I'm protecting you.

—Would you help me?

Both voices played simultaneously, and I shook my head frantically. Stop it. All I want is to work in this perfect room and live peacefully. Sometimes drinking with friends—in this beautiful, harmonious world.

To continue this perfect life, I didn't need to know why someone was targeting me. Much less why Alan had left this world—that had nothing to do with the rest of my life.

What had been happening in Alan's life—

I picked up my phone and entered the number. I counted the rings in my ear. One, two, three.

"Hello?"

"It's Lucas. Is now a good time?"

"Yes, of course."

Qasim on the other end answered with surprise in his voice.

"There's something I want to confirm. Why do you want to know about Alan? Is it for Alan's sake?"

"Why...?" He paused, as if the question had caught him off guard. "As I explained yesterday—I don't want to pile up any more regrets. if you're asking whether it's for Alan's sake, I don't think so. No matter how I try to justify it, this is for my own satisfaction."

At Qasim's utterly clear voice, I ran my fingers roughly through my hair.

"—Fine. I'll help you."

"Mr. Potter...!"

"But I'm only lending a hand for my own purposes. And never call me by my family name again. Okay?"

He was speechless for a moment, then answered with an exhale.

"Of course, Luke. Thank you so much."

"Yeah. I'll be in touch."

I said this briefly and ended the call. In the silent room, only the indescribable hum of the air conditioner stimulated my eardrums.

As I reflexively switched off the air conditioner, I shuddered at the premonition that I had just made an irreversible—and troublesome—decision.