Chapter 240

Anna, if she could speak to just one person before dying—excluding her family—would choose Jackson without hesitation. In life, meeting someone who sincerely listens to your words and understands you down to the bottom of your being is never an easy thing.

Even though Anna knew Jackson could get caught up in something strange if she involved him, she let slip a fragment of the truth.

“I got a message asking for help. That was all, and then contact was cut off. That’s why I’m looking.”

“How did you receive it? A call? A text message?”

Anna thought it was a strange question. Asking what medium the message came through didn’t seem like the kind of thing one would normally ask when first hearing about a case. The awkwardness of it made her suddenly not want to tell the truth this time. Following Jackson off the escalator, she answered with an air of isn’t it obvious?

“By phone, of course. But... where are we going right now?”

She lied with a casual tone, and then asked Jackson, who walked three or four steps ahead with the air of a man who had a clear destination. As soon as he reached the first floor, he strode past a café and a small open library without hesitation.

“My office is on the first floor. We can talk a bit more there. We’ll be able to find someone who can help.”

“No, it’s fine. It might be nothing. Maybe I just overreacted.”

“If Anna insists on saying that, then I suppose there’s no helping it. Still, we could at least have a cup of tea together, couldn’t we? Or perhaps you could join a new group session. Being with people will surely bring positive energy.”

Positive energy, is it? Anna had never once wished to gain “positive energy” through group therapy.

“I know well how hard Lewis’s case has been on you. But even just opening your heart again and sharing emotions with people like before—surely something will begin to change.”

“No, Jackson.”

Anna cut him off, her voice stiff, as though refusing further concern.

“I’ve graduated from therapy groups. I don’t want to put my wounds on display anymore.”

At her sharp words, Jackson stopped walking and turned back.

“Expressing a wound is the first step in distancing yourself from sorrow. When you put it into words, the past becomes an experience. But if you clutch it alone, you’ll remain forever °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° trapped in the state of unfinished shock.”

Anna did not avert her eyes from the man’s consuming gaze. At last she broke the silence, speaking with biting sarcasm.

“Try telling that to parents who’ve lost a child. Tell them their child’s death was nothing more than an unlucky experience.”

To Anna, Those Who Overcame Grief was nothing more than a show where she displayed her wounds cheaply, and strangers displayed theirs for free. Empathy was no comfort at all. The only thing that could heal her wounds was the wounds of others. She didn’t want to overcome grief in such a cowardly way.

But she immediately realized she had gone too far. Jackson too was a father who had lost a child long ago. She moved quickly, about to acknowledge her mistake—then froze in place.

Her eyes had met those of a man reviewing documents in the first-floor café. At first, her heart lurched—she thought Lewis had returned. But it was only her mistake. He wasn’t Lewis. Just another man, tall and blond-haired like Lewis. And yet, even the brief moment of eye contact with someone who reminded her of Lewis was unbearably painful.

“I... just remembered I have an appointment. I need to go.”

She spoke stiffly, without looking at Jackson, then quickly turned her body and crossed the wide lobby.

As Jackson silently watched Anna’s retreating figure, someone approached him. It was the blond man who had been looking through documents in the café. The man, well over two meters tall, stood like a shadow behind Jackson, his gaze fixed sharply on Anna as she disappeared through the entrance.

“Should I bring her back?”

“No. Leave it. And there’s no need to look at her like prey.”

Jackson smiled benignly.

“Don’t touch her. She’s more fun to watch.”

After making a round through the Yoon Siron memory accounts on Twiver, Siron’s mood sank lower than ever. Among the accounts he followed, not a single post that day expressed curiosity about his whereabouts or pined over his past works. In fact, had it only been today? Most of the accounts had been dormant for years.

What made it harder to bear was this: actors who, back in the day, had only the briefest appearances or negligible presence in the dramas and films he had starred in—were now leads, elevated to the ranks of Hallyu stars, shooting commercials for every brand imaginable, dazzling on the world stage.

On his laptop screen, a male actor of his own generation was being replayed at a production announcement, discoursing to reporters on the philosophy of method acting. Watching with lifeless eyes, Siron lifted his head and looked at the bright blue sky outside the window.

The world was so clear, so beautiful, and yet his heart was like a frozen warehouse. An actor nobody remembered was no different from a rice cake shoved into the very bottom shelf of a freezer long ago and forgotten.

Never to be thawed for the rest of my life, slowly drying up, and in the end, tossed into the trash.

Sinking into gloom, Siron began clearing out the followers on his locked Twiver account. Until he acted again, he would never search his own name online. After unfollowing all the Yoon Siron fan accounts, he felt a bit lighter, and moved on to browse other followers’ accounts.

A new post had appeared on 3547’s Twiver.

Back in New York thanks to my brother’s help. Following his advice, I’m about to be admitted to a psychiatric hospital. This time, it feels less like a place to fear and more like a place where I can recover my life. It’s my first time seeking admission voluntarily, so I’m nervous. I probably won’t be able to log onto Twiver for a while.

In the photo, 3547—Andy Leclair—stood beside another man. Their faces looked so alike within the frame that it was clear the man was his brother.

Zooming in on the photo of Andy and his brother, Siron felt a strange familiarity. The building behind them looked familiar. A spire rose sharply skyward, and the exterior walls were carved with ornate stonework. It looked like a massive cathedral, a European gothic church reinterpreted in modern architecture.

Stone... something psychiatric hospital?

It was the very place where Baekgyeong had been confined for the past three years. The psychiatric hospital his mother had built to lock him away. A quick search confirmed it: Stone Creek Psychiatric Hospital. Siron found Andy’s path curious.

Andy surely knew Baekgyeong. Out of all the psychiatric hospitals he could have chosen, to end up at the very one where Baekgyeong had been committed—perhaps his purpose wasn’t purely treatment.

Or maybe not? Am I jumping too far ahead?

Determined that one day he would reach out to Andy, Siron clicked on another follower’s account. It belonged to Spencer, the journalist suspected of having interviewed Gezar Bazelli at Somora Prison.

I’m taking a short vacation. A pause before a leap toward truth.

Looking at her last post in silence, Siron clicked it open. Underneath, reply after reply had piled up—201 in total. Many people had left comments to mourn her death.

Maybe someone who helped her with her reporting is among them.

Siron began clicking through the 201 users one by one. Among them was the editor-in-chief of the New York Times, a news anchor he had often seen on TV, and Andy Leclair, his fellow inmate from the island prison.

As he clicked through names and posts almost on autopilot, Siron suddenly froze. Entering the account of user “mxjustdoit,” he was met with a header photo of Somora Prison’s front entrance, staring straight on.

“What the—?”

“What is it?”

Baekgyeong, who had approached without him noticing, glanced at the screen Siron was staring at.

“Somora Prison? ...What’s that about?”

Siron explained the meaning of the reply under Spencer’s last post, then continued.

“Don’t you see whose account this is? The profile only has two letters—MK. And the warden of Somora Prison? His initials are MK. Malcolm Knox.”

His voice rose with excitement.

“MK, who used a photo of Somora Prison as his profile banner, left a reply under Spencer’s final post? That’s way too perfect to be a coincidence. I think I’ve found Malcolm Knox’s account.”

Taking a deep breath, Siron shut his eyes and shook his head, as though he could hardly believe the enormity of his own discovery. Forcing himself to calm down, he opened his eyes again with determination and began investigating the Twiver account in earnest.

MK’s most recent post was indeed the reply under Spencer’s last entry. Whether her death had shocked his routine or not, he hadn’t posted since. But up until that incident, he had tweeted about his everyday life with surprising frequency.

“He’s unexpectedly modest,” Baekgyeong remarked, dragging a chair closer and sitting beside Siron.

MK had posted everything from complaints about his 20-year-old oven breaking down and asking for recommendations for a new one, to impressions of recent podcasts, books, dramas, and films. But the posts that filled his account most frequently were retweets of crime news and discussions about prisoner and guard treatment.

“It’s him. The prison warden.”

“It does seem likely... Hold on. Stop scrolling.”

At Baekgyeong’s words, Siron halted the reflexive spin of the mouse wheel. Baekgyeong leaned forward, enveloping Siron’s upper body as he seized the mouse. In his large hand, the mouse looked as small as an egg.

“This guy’s a real drama fan.”

“Huh?”

Baekgyeong scrolled up a bit. There it was—a thumbnail Siron instantly recognized. A clip from Return to Bunker, the drama Lewis had filmed before he became an alpha, reposted on MK’s account.