Chapter Text
Dunk had spent the last few nights in an unusual peace. Neither Fadel's heavy footsteps echoed in the corridors, nor did the whispers from the mirrors envelop his mind. Style's ghost even seemed to have vanished... as if everyone had left him to his own devices.
At first, this silence had felt like a reward. He could breathe. The room seemed wider, his bed softer, the ceiling farther away. But with time, this emptiness began to turn into a void rather than a relief. The mirrors no longer spoke to him. It was as if Style was mad at him...
But today, Dunk couldn't sleep; he tossed and turned in his bed. Sleep wouldn't even visit the edges of his mind. A deep restlessness stirred within...
As the silence began to consume him, something went wrong. A sudden creak from the downstairs floorboards sliced through the silence of the house like a knife. Immediately after, echoing sounds like doors being opened and closed quickly rose. A muffled dragging sound from the floor, followed by what sounded like suppressed groans... there was panic, hurry, and distress.
Dunk's heart suddenly raced. He hastily threw on a thick cardigan and started to walk down the corridor barefoot.
The sight took his breath away.
Two bodyguards were holding Joong by the arms, practically trying to keep him on his feet as they dragged him inside. Joong's head was bowed, his eyes half-closed, and there were dried bloodstains on the sides of his lips. His black shirt had turned almost burgundy with the blood that was seeping down from the right side of his abdomen. He seemed to be standing, but his consciousness was one step away from collapsing.
Dunk involuntarily lunged a few steps forward. His feet seemed to be moving independently of his will. His eyes were wide, and a slight paleness had spread across his face.
"Joong?! What happened to him?!"
His voice trembled with the worry that was knotted in his throat. The pounding of his heart hammered in his ears.
One of the bodyguards reflexively stepped between them. He stood in front of Dunk, blocking his path, but even in this movement, there was a professional measure.
"Please, sir. There's no need to panic. Everything is under control," he said, his voice calm but clear. Every word seemed memorized; as if these kinds of crises were just a routine procedure for them.
But Dunk seemed not to have heard what he said. His entire attention was locked on the blood seeping from Joong's body, his head on the verge of dropping, and his pale skin. His breathing quickened. "How can this be 'under control'? He's losing blood!" he yelled, his eyes filled not with tears, but with fear.
"This is serious! You have to take him to the hospital immediately!"
After a moment, his hands frantically reached for the phone. As he moved toward the landline in the living room, the sleeve of his cardigan slipped slightly, and his bare wrist was trembling. His fingers reached for the receiver.
"I'm calling an ambulance!"
At that moment, the bodyguard appeared behind him in a single step. He placed his hand on Dunk's wrist in a gentle yet firm way, stopping him. This movement was elegant but decisive. "Sir..." he said, his voice a little more serious this time, a little more cautionary. Then he took a step back, leaving an appropriate distance between them. "Please. There's really no need. This... is a familiar situation." His eyes shifted to the blood on the floor, then back to Dunk. "We've been through these kinds of... difficult nights with him before." In those words, there was a dark, suppressed reality spilling from the past, and it quietly stung Dunk's soul.
Dunk involuntarily stopped where he was. It was as if nothing would change even if he resisted for another moment. Because in that house, everything was already predetermined. His gaze fell on Joong once more. They were dragging him toward an unknown room in the back of the mansion. Something he couldn't identify knotted in Dunk's throat. He felt something slowly breaking inside him. This wasn't just panic; it was the very quiet, very belated feeling of caring for someone...
*******
Fadel's gaze was lost in the fire gently burning in the fireplace, filled with a deep longing. The flames twisted and rose like cheerful memories called from the past, crackling and dancing as if whispering a sad song, leaving golden reflections on the high and dark rafters of the ceiling. The warm orange of the fire softened Fadel's sharp facial features for a moment, as if trying to erase the merciless marks of time, but it wasn't powerful enough to cover the deep, unclosable emptiness in his eyes. His mind wasn't in this room, in this time. Maybe he was far away, or maybe years ago, stuck in a broken recording of a happy night that had once sown seeds of joy in his heart.
The melancholic crackling of the fire was touched by a sound that mingled with the gentle whisper of the wind. It was neither a full sound nor a trick of the mind. But it was deeply familiar. It was like that safe breath that had once warmed his soul, a refuge even in the darkest moments.
It was as if a very light, almost unnoticeable breeze had passed behind him. But with that familiar feeling, Fadel flinched and turned. He looked at the sad emptiness of the room. There was no one... only shadows, the misleading shapes created by the dancing flames...
Then, a very faint, almost inaudible sound coming from the kitchen completed that familiar note. It wasn't harsh, but like a soft melody... like the arrival of someone who didn't fully touch the ground, but rather glided. And then, that faint phantom began to become clearer.
Style appeared. The ghost of a memory... as if he had glided through the mists of time. Style's ghostly appearance was not just a memory; it was a reality Fadel was still trying to keep alive in his mind. This wasn't just mourning a love; it was a man who had lost the meaning of life at some point, suspended in emptiness...
Style was wearing that soft, cream-colored sweater he loved so much, with comfortable, baggy house pants underneath. He walked past him with a steaming, fragrant mug of coffee in his hand, as if it were any other day. He sat in his own comfortable armchair directly across from the fireplace. Right across from Fadel... He tucked one foot under him and stretched the other toward the fireplace, as if he were cold. He placed the white ceramic mug on his knees, and the steam gently hit his face. This was a memory made flesh and bone. It was as if Fadel's mind was stuck on a broken record.
"It's cold in here," he said then, his voice as light as a whisper, as if sharing a secret only Fadel could hear. "But this silence is beautiful." He fixed his eyes on Fadel's. That familiar, deep gaze... "I can stay here forever. Always with you. I'm not going anywhere." His words were like the echo of those happy nights. But this was both a promise and a lie: because Fadel knew he was no longer there. But what Fadel still believed, perhaps, was only this.
Something inside Fadel broke with an indescribable pain, as if his heart was splitting into a thousand pieces, but his facial muscles were rigid. He was trying not to show the slightest sign of emotion. He held his breath. Because the slightest movement would break this fragile moment. If he made a sound, that familiar breath would disappear. Everything would fall apart, and the elegant and delicate veil of the past would be torn. That veil, which had tried to protect him from the merciless winds of time, was now like a transparent piece of tulle that was gradually fading away. Style's ghost was trembling like the dancing flames of the fire, as if it would turn to ash and disappear into the void of eternity at any moment.
"I'm sorry..." a broken sound escaped his mouth, almost too quiet to be heard.
Just then, the phone on the table vibrated. Along with the melody, Style dissolved into the notes. He was gone now... Fadel sighed and simply turned his head. It was not a sudden and frantic movement; it was a calm one. When he saw the name on the screen, there was not the slightest change in his face. Not a single eyebrow movement, not a single facial expression...
It was as if he had known this call was coming.
He touched the screen with his finger and brought the receiver to his ear.
He didn't start talking. He didn't feel the need to. The other side completed the silence.
"Sir. The job is done." The voice from the other end was clear, a familiar tone. Every word was carefully chosen, under control. But Fadel remained silent. His silence was the kind that forced the person on the other end to speak. He waited. After a few seconds of silence, the voice continued, this time more cautiously.
"But... we have a small problem. Mr. Joong... is injured."
"Is he okay?" he asked a single, short, and sharp question, devoid of any unnecessary words. His voice was as expressionless as the other objects in the room.
"It's a small stab wound. Not very serious." The voice on the other end was trying to downplay the situation as much as possible.
"How did it happen?"
The voice on the other end took a short breath. He was prepared for this question, but he still had to choose his words carefully. "It seems there was someone who had infiltrated the delivery point beforehand. The information was correct, but they didn't account for not being alone inside. He thought the area was clear... but someone was hiding. He was attacked a few minutes after he entered. It's not in a vital area....In the abdominal cavity, it's not deep but he lost some blood."
Fadel didn't even raise an eyebrow. "Joong is a careful person," he said. This was not a question; it was more of a reminder of a fact. It was also an implication: This was not the kind of mistake he would make.
"He seemed a little distracted..." This was the bodyguard's own assessment. It was as if he couldn't reconcile it either.
"Okay. Provide the necessary intervention." Fadel's command was short, clear, and undisputed. The matter was closed along with the phone call.
His eyes returned to the armchair where Style had sat years ago, where he had laughed and told him cheerful things, but which now stood in a bitter emptiness.
...and Fadel, at that moment, realized that the emptiness of that armchair was a void he could never fill for the rest of his life...
*****
Dunk, tossing and turning in his bed, couldn't get any sleep all night. His mind was filled with Joong's injured state and his own harsh words. His conscience was like a stone weighing down his chest. As the hours went by, his feet seemed to move on their own, trying to pull him down the corridor, toward the guest room where Joong was staying.
In the early hours of the morning, he couldn't bear it anymore. He quietly got out of his bed and tiptoed out of the room. He hesitated for a moment when he got to Joong's door. What if he disturbed him? What if he didn't want to see him? But the unbearable worry and guilt inside him were more powerful. He slowly pushed the door open and slipped inside.
The room was still dark, only the first pale light of dawn filtering through the window faintly illuminated Joong's bed. Joong was lying on his back, his face pale and calm. He must have heard Dunk's footsteps because he slowly opened his eyes. Upon seeing Dunk, he tried to sit up slightly. Noticing the pained expression on his face, Dunk quickly approached him and gently touched his shoulder, trying to get him to lie down again. "No, don't get up," he whispered with worry. "You should rest."
A deep silence filled the room. For a while, they just looked at each other. Finally, as if to break that silence, Dunk asked with a slight tremor in his voice: "Are you okay?" Then, contrary to his harsh attitude from the day before, he added sincerely: "I was worried about you."
A complex expression appeared on Joong's face. Both surprise and a slight softening could be sensed in his eyes. Dunk's worried words had touched a place deep in his heart. While the pain of rejection and disappointment was still fresh, Dunk's unexpected concern had lit a small spark of hope inside him. But still, the events of the previous night and Dunk's decisive attitude remained fresh in his mind. So, he could only give a short answer, his voice still tired and bitter: "I'm okay..."
Dunk didn't know what to say to Joong's short and bitter answer. The worry inside him still hadn't subsided, but he was also hesitant to bother Joong any further. It was strange for him to be standing here now after his rejection. For a moment, he silently looked at Joong, then sighed slightly. "Then..." he murmured, averting his eyes from Joong's face. "I'll leave you alone to rest." His voice was like a farewell, with a bitterness and something left unfinished inside it. He turned around and slowly headed toward the door.
As Dunk reached for the doorknob, Joong's tired but clear voice was heard: "If you're going to leave, then why did you come?"
Dunk's steps came to a halt. His shoulders tightened slightly. This question was like an arrow that had hit his heart. He didn't know what to answer. It was as if his decisive rejection last night had pointed to a cliff, and now he was caught between turning back and jumping off that cliff. He still had his eyes fixed on the door, not daring to turn to Joong. Joong's question mercilessly brought the complex emotions within him to the surface. Was it worry that had brought him here? Or was it regret?
Dunk, struggling with the words knotted in his throat, knew Joong was waiting for him in his bed. He was waiting... for an answer, an explanation, or maybe just a confession.
"If you don't have the courage to leave completely," Joong said with the broken voice from his injury. "Then find a reason to stay..."
He guessed this was something he had to find first. So he quietly left the room.
*****
Fadel rose from his armchair with heavy steps, as if carrying an invisible burden, and walked toward the top of the wooden staircase leading to the hunting lodge's cellar. Each step’s faint creak further emphasized the room's silence.
When he reached the dark mouth of the cellar, he paused for a moment, then slowly and quietly began to descend the worn-out stairs. The groaning sounds of the old wood on each step mingled with muffled cries coming from below: "Help! My God, someone help me! I'm begging you!"
Ignoring these desperate pleas, Fadel continued to descend with heavy, determined steps, his hands casually in his pockets. As the "tock, tock" of his footsteps on the stairs grew louder, the groaning and pleading from below increased proportionally. When he reached the last step, he was met with a terrifying sight.
On the cold, damp concrete floor, a man sat chained to the wall. His body was covered in bruises and dried bloodstains. His hair was matted together, his face was swollen and unrecognizable. Upon seeing Fadel, his eyes widened in terror, and he began to scream frantically: "You! Why are you keeping me here? I just followed your orders! You got what you wanted! Dunk is dead! Why am I here? What do you want from me?" The man's voice trembled with panic and fear, and he was out of breath.
In the dim light, Fadel looked like a menacing silhouette. There was not the slightest sign of emotion on his face; only an icy coldness could be read. He approached the man with calm steps and spoke with a sharp expression: "You made a mistake."
The man panicked even more. "A mistake? What mistake? You told me to follow the car!" The man thought for a few seconds, considering the possibilities of making a mistake, but there were none.
"You told me to crash into the car! And I did what you wanted! I don't understand!"
Fadel ignored the man's desperate struggles and turned to the side. There, various torture instruments were hanging on the wall. Rusty irons, sharp knives, toothed pliers, and many other terrifying tools... As Fadel walked toward these tools, he carefully put on the black, leather gloves he took out of his pocket. As his fingers got used to the softness of the gloves, his eyes wandered among the tools. As if an artist were choosing his brushes, he carefully and thoughtfully selected a torture instrument. In his hand, he held a thin, long iron rod that shimmered. He weighed the tool, feeling the cold metal between his fingers, and then he slowly, with determined steps, approached the desperate man.
He stood directly in front of him, the shadows making his facial features even harsher.
"You killed the wrong person," Fadel said.
"Who?! What are you talking about?" the man yelled, with a mix of pain and fear.
Fadel said with a mocking expression, "Apparently..." and then, as his gaze evolved into a darker emotion, he continued... "yourself."