I was engrossed in the files when the ink on the paper began to warp in a bizarre fashion. The bold black lines regarding "sudden cardiac arrest" faded away, replaced by entirely different information. I rubbed my eyes, unable to believe what I was seeing.
Instead of mysterious deaths, the records now showed that those wardens had resigned for family reasons or transferred to remote locations. Even Mike's perfect scores were replaced with "above average" marks—just enough to be unremarkable. Every trace of a cold-blooded killer seemed to evaporate before my very eyes.
"What are you looking for so intently, Hime?"
Mike's voice rang out right by my ear, making me flinch and nearly drop the folder. He stood there, holding a small bag of pastries, his face wearing that same playful expression and a radiant smile as if he'd never known the meaning of killing intent. Mike gently took the file from my hand, shut it, and set it aside.
"These old papers aren't interesting at all. I heard you missed lunch, so I bought these for you. Don't worry about people who aren't here anymore; they aren't worth your thoughts."
I stared deep into Mike's eyes, searching for a flicker of deceit, but he was too skilled. Mike knew what I had seen, and he had used his genius to distort reality in an instant. He didn't want me afraid; he didn't want me viewing him as a monster. To Mike, keeping me happy and oblivious to his brutality was his ultimate form of love.
"Hime, look at me. Haven't I always been right here by your side? Don't listen to those old men's nonsensical rumors. They're just jealous because I get to be close to you."
He held a small piece of pastry to my lips, his gaze filled with tenderness laced with an invisible pressure. He was using this sweetness to bury the brutal truth I had just uncovered.
I silently took the pastry from Mike. The subtle sweetness of the cream and the tang of wild strawberries spread across my tongue—it was exactly my favorite kind from that tiny bakery hidden in an alley I'd only visited once. He didn't just know what I liked; he seemed to hold my every minor habit in the palm of his hand.
"Is it good? I knew you'd love it. Seeing you enjoy it like this... it feels like all my exhaustion just melts away."
Mike rested his chin on his hand, watching me. His pitch-black eyes were devoid of killing intent now, replaced by a feverish, absolute infatuation. He stared without blinking, not for a single second, as if I were the only treasure in existence.
"Hime, as long as you stay by my side, you'll only eat the finest things and see the most beautiful sights. I'll clear away all the 'trash' that bothers you, okay?"
I felt a slight shiver at the word "clear" coming from his lips. While he maintained that tender smile for me, deep within his mind, a brutal plan was taking shape. He thought of Simon—the bastard who dared to touch my neck and make me bleed. To Mike, Simon was no longer a threat; he was a "defective product" that needed immediate disposal. He wouldn't let that man survive the week, but of course, he'd do it cleanly so not a single drop of blood would ever stain my world.
"Eat more, I bought plenty. Don't worry about a thing... just leave everything to me..^^~"
I looked at the strawberry pastry in my hand; although it was delicious, the feeling of being scrutinized in every corner of my mind made me uneasy. I set the cake down, wiped my lips, and looked straight into his eyes, my voice cold:
"Thanks for the cake, but stop wasting your time tracking my preferences. I can take care of myself, and I don't need anyone 'clearing' anything for me. Don't interfere with my work or my life, Mike."
The smile on Mike's lips faltered, a shadow flickering across his pitch-black eyes. He wanted me completely dependent, a flower blooming only within the glass cage he constructed. My independence was a cold splash of water against his possessive ego. He was annoyed—frustrated that he couldn't break me yet. But of course, he couldn't stay mad at me. It only made me more "interesting," fueling his desire to clip my wings.
"You're always so stubborn..." Mike sighed, his voice carrying a hint of faux-pout, though his hand under the table clenched until his knuckles turned white. "Fine, have it your way. I won't disturb my 'Queen' anymore."
But the second I turned my back, Mike's eyes instantly bled into a haunting, deep crimson. He wasn't angry at me, so all that frustration would be unleashed on someone else. Simon.
That night, Simon was hiding in a suburban villa, his hand still bandaged and his mouth spewing curses. He had no idea a shadow had been standing right behind him for God knows how long. Mike appeared, silent as the grave, holding a gleaming surgical scalpel. He wasn't in a hurry to kill; instead, he looked at Simon with utter loathing.
"Because of you, Hime is upset with me. How do you think you should die to atone for that, you pathetic rat?"
A chilling smile slowly spread across Mike's lips. Without waiting for Simon to react, the surgical scalpel glided with a light but decisive stroke. Simon didn't even have time to scream; his vocal cords were severed. He thrashed in vain, his eyes wide, filled with utter horror and excruciating pain, staring at Mike.
"Don't worry, I won't let you die that quickly."
Mike whispered, his voice haunting and terrifyingly gentle. He knelt, observing his "work" like a painter before a canvas. The sharp blade began to move, each cut deliberate, meticulous, and perfectly precise. Mike intended to turn Simon into a warning, an artistic message to anyone who dared to trouble his Hime.
Fresh blood gushed, staining the marble floor crimson. Mike remained spotless, moving like a dancer in a deathly ballet. From the incisions on the skin, he began to "separate" each muscle fiber, "carving" intricate patterns onto the ribs. The dry crack of breaking bones mingled with Simon's choked whimpers, creating a horrifying symphony.
Simon's eyes dimmed, but still tried to fix Mike with a final flicker of hatred. Mike only smiled, a twisted grin devoid of any humanity. He completed his "masterpiece"—a gruesome creation that no one could ever replicate.
"See? Much more beautiful than Jung Jimyung. This is the final warning, Simon. Don't die too quickly; you still have to be a 'gift' for my Hime."
Mike stood up, pulling out his phone to photograph his "masterpiece." He would send it to other ill-intentioned individuals, and of course, he would keep a careful copy for himself—proof of his insane love and absolute protection for Hime.