Chapter 4

Either way, this was my chance.

While he was distracted by the mirror, I needed to fetch a doctor.

Keeping as quiet as possible, I crouched down and crept toward the door.

Careful.

Slowly.

At last, I reached the doorknob without being noticed.

I turned it gently.

It moved without a sound.

Relieved, I pulled on the door—

“Hmm?”

Why wasn’t it opening?

I pulled harder.

Nothing.

It didn’t even rattle.

As I struggled in confusion, a shadow fell over me.

Don’t tell me…

Prominent knuckles.

Veins standing out across the back of a large, pale hand.

A powerful arm stretched over my crouching head and pressed against the door, holding it shut.

Following that pillar-like arm upward, I slowly turned my head.

My eyes met a pair of chestnut-brown ones.

When did he get here?!

I nearly jumped out of my skin.

Unable even to scream, I immediately snapped my head forward and stared straight ahead.

Panic set in.

The only thing on my mind was escaping.

As I desperately tugged at the doorknob again, warm body heat drew closer behind me.

“Wife.”

His voice was lower and softer than usual.

The sound brushed against my ear.

Goosebumps spread across the back of my neck.

My shoulders instinctively tensed.

At the same time, I felt an equally strong instinct telling me not to let him notice I was scared.

Okay.

Don’t panic.

Act natural.

“W-what is it?”

The answer that came out sounded like a frightened goat.

My voice trembled right along with the rest of me.

A snort of amusement sounded from behind.

This man is laughing at me!

I bit my lip in wounded pride.

Then a large body closed in behind me.

As though embracing me, Shite reached around my shoulders.

One by one, his fingers slowly peeled mine away from the doorknob.

“I’d like us to talk a little longer.”

His voice was gentler than before.

The sudden change in attitude only made me more nervous.

“W-what about?”

“I wanted to apologize for being rude and rough with you earlier.”

“If that’s all, it’s fine. You were probably confused because you hit your head. So let’s call a doctor and—”

I tried to grab the doorknob again.

Shite caught my shoulder and turned me around.

“Before that, I’d like to discuss something more fundamental.”

“Fundamental?”

A perfect smile appeared on his face.

“Yes. It seems I’ve developed amnesia.”

* * *

In the end, I found myself sitting across from Shite.

At some point, he’d removed the bloodstained coat.

It lay discarded on the floor.

The clothing underneath was surprisingly clean.

There were bloodstains scattered across his shirt, but he didn’t appear seriously injured.

If the blood is only on the coat, that means most of it isn’t his.

Did he get covered in someone else’s blood?

…

That possibility was somehow even more terrifying.

Suppressing the urge to tremble, I chose a seat closest to the door.

If he attacked me again, I’d run.

Unlike me, Shite looked perfectly relaxed.

He sat comfortably and casually examined the room.

For someone claiming to have lost all his memories, he seemed absurdly calm.

Blood still trickled from the wound on his forehead.

The injury bothered me.

He, on the other hand, seemed unconcerned.

If I treat him, maybe he won’t try anything…

Carefully, I stood up.

Immediately, Shite’s gaze followed me.

As though asking where I thought I was going.

Instead of answering, I walked over to the wardrobe.

Inside, I spotted a suspicious black mask.

I pretended not to notice and took out a clean handkerchief.

After searching the room and locating some ointment as well, I returned and sat beside him on the sofa.

“Let me look at that wound.”

After a brief pause, Shite obediently swept back his hair.

The injury looked painful even at a glance.

I frowned unconsciously as I carefully examined it.

Pressing gently around the edges, I checked for damage.

Shite only twitched slightly.

Fortunately, it didn’t seem to be a fracture.

“Are you dizzy? Nauseous? Do you have a severe headache?”

“Are you a doctor?”

The caution and intimidation had vanished from his demeanor.

Naturally, some of my tension faded too.

“I’m not a doctor, but I know a little. So? How do you feel?”

“Did you receive emergency treatment training?”

I wasn’t asking that.

Why did he keep answering completely different questions?

My patience began to wear thin.

Keeping a smile fixed on my face, I gritted my teeth and repeated myself.

Slowly.

Clearly.

“Do. You. Have. Any. Of. The. Symptoms. I. Mentioned?”

Only then did Shite touch his head and think about it.

“My head hurts, and the wound stings somewhat. But I’m not dizzy, nor do I feel nauseous.”

After stopping the bleeding and applying ointment, I quickly finished treating him.

Shite let out a small sound of admiration.

“You seem experienced. So, are you a doctor?”

The conversation had somehow circled back.

The man who used to shrink away from me like a startled snail whenever we crossed paths was now effortlessly leading discussions.

“Like I said, I’m not a doctor. But when I was an undergraduate, I audited many medical lectures. I thought the knowledge might be useful someday, so I practiced a lot. By the way, what happened to your clothes?”

Shite instinctively opened his mouth to answer.

Then closed it again without making a sound.

Tch. Almost had him.

While I was regretting the missed opportunity, he gave me a look that clearly said:

Nice try.

Then he suddenly smiled.

“I don’t remember.”

“You looked like you were about to answer.”

“Impossible. You imagined it, Wife.”

His reply was careless.

He wasn’t even looking at me anymore.

Instead, he was idly playing with the medicine I’d brought.

Then he picked up the ointment with his right hand and opened the lid.

I was about to press him again when a long, pale hand suddenly reached toward me.

Instinctively, I leaned back.

Not fast enough.

Cold, rough fingertips brushed lightly across my lower lip.

Something sticky remained.

Not metaphorically.

Literally.

My lip.

Frowning, I reached toward my mouth.

Shite caught my hand and lowered it.

“You were injured too. I applied some ointment, so it’d be best not to touch it.”

“…”

“More importantly, suddenly remembering nothing is rather confusing. Where exactly am I?”

He asked this with a face that looked completely unconfused.

Once again, something felt wrong.

Shite was absolutely not the sort of person who casually touched another person’s face.

And his timing had been too perfect.

He had clearly used the gesture to throw me off balance, change the atmosphere, and avoid a difficult question.

Can amnesia suddenly grant someone social skills they never had before?

Of course not.

It was confusing.

He hadn’t recognized me.

That part felt genuine.

Yet…

“From what point do you not remember?”

“Everything. Though you called my name so desperately that I at least know I’m called Shite.”

“What else?”

Shite gave a casual shrug.

Even that tiny gesture felt completely unlike him.

I think I heard about cases like this during theology lectures…

Stories about demonic possession.

About another person’s soul entering a body.

About dark magic driving someone mad.

Exorcisms.

Curses.

Things like that.

Of course, I’d never believed in such baseless superstitions.

Yet for some reason, my eyes kept drifting toward his right index finger.

The fingertip was glistening.

A trace of the ointment he’d applied to my lip still reflected the light.

He opened the ointment with his right hand.

He blocked the door with his right hand.

He grabbed me with his right hand too.

Objectively, there was nothing strange about that.

People had two hands for a reason.

To use them.

And yet—

“Excuse me.”

“Yes, Wife?”

“Who are you?”

Because my husband, Shite Hunniswald—

was completely left-handed.