—Judgment?—
We waited until Margaret's breathing steadied, until the tension loosened enough for the silence to settle back over the second floor.
Only then did I turn to her.
"Give me your son's birth date," I said.
"Since no traces remain here, we'll try another angle."
She hesitated. Her fingers tightened once in her lap, then relaxed.
She recited the numbers carefully, as if afraid a mistake might change the outcome.
After a moment, she added—quietly, with a note of strained hope:
"Someone read his chart once... said it indicated a very fortunate future."
I didn't answer.
I lowered my gaze, letting the numbers align in my mind.
The room held still.
Only the faint sound of her breathing broke the quiet—slightly quicker than before.
As the chart took shape, my jaw tightened.
The pattern wasn't unfamiliar.
Not rare.
But deeply unsettling.
It wasn't chaotic.
It was precise—too precise.
Every line, every point, curved inward.
Everything converged on the self.
Resources, emotions—even the boundaries of others—were reduced to tools.
And when met with resistance, the recoil would be violent.
Margaret shifted.
"Do you... see something?" she asked carefully.
I looked up.
"If this is what you call a 'fortunate future,'" I said, my voice even,
"then I need to reconsider the meaning of the word."
Color drained from her face.
"This isn't blessing," I continued.
"It's a structure of profound self-absorption. No restraint. No internal limits."
I paused.
"People like this consume everything around them—
and never believe they've done wrong."
Her lips trembled.
"He has a volatile temper," I said.
"Extreme mood swings. Rejects all limits. Correct?"
She didn't answer right away.
Then, almost inaudibly: "...Yes."
"'Yes'?"
A low sound slipped from my throat—dry, humorless.
"Judging by the trail he's left behind, that 'yes' has likely caused more than its share of trouble."
"And cost a great deal of money."
Her gaze dropped.
Her hands clenched together until the knuckles went white.
"Tell me about when he was sixteen," I said.
"That year shows a fracture. Legal exposure. Extreme action."
I held her eyes.
"What happened?"
Her fingers tightened further.
I didn't press.
I waited.
Seconds passed.
I rose to my feet.
"If you won't speak truth," I said, "we're done here."
"No—"
Her head snapped up. Her voice cracked.
"I'll tell you. I will."
She drew a sharp breath, as if dragging the memory up by force.
"At sixteen," she said,
"Adrian assaulted a classmate."
The words landed and stayed there.
"The girl fought back."
A pause.
"In the struggle... he killed her."
The room seemed to hollow out.
"What then?" I asked.
"We... handled it."
She couldn't meet my eyes.
"Paid a great deal. Her family accepted. The matter was buried."
"Do you understand what that taught him?"
My voice didn't rise.
"It taught him that from that moment on, he would never face consequences."
Her shoulders began to shake.
"I know it was wrong," she whispered.
"But he was so young. We couldn't just watch him go to prison—"
"You weren't protecting him."
Aya's voice cut through the room, sharp as glass.
She stood abruptly, her palm striking the table.
"You were teaching him that money erases consequences," she said.
"That with enough money, he could do anything."
Her voice trembled—not with fear, but with rage.
"I thought things like this only happened in stories."
She turned toward me, eyes burning.
"Rhan—why save someone like this? This isn't a curse."
"It's what he deserves."
I didn't look at her.
My attention stayed on Margaret.
"There's more," I said quietly.
"This isn't all of it."
Margaret broke.
In fragments—uneven, disordered—she admitted that after the killing, Adrian hadn't stopped.
The details came without structure.
But each one was clear enough.
The air felt heavier, as if it had thickened.
Aya stood rigid, breathing fast, her face pale.
A slow chill climbed my spine.
After a long silence, Margaret seemed to latch onto a final thought.
"Is it her?" she whispered, eyes unfocused.
"That girl... has she come back for revenge?"
"No."
The answer left me immediately.
"A spirit that new couldn't erase its traces so completely," I said.
"Even the most vengeful ghost leaves a mark."
I considered the chart again, then asked:
"That year—aside from this, did anything else significant happen?"
She shook her head.
"Nothing... He became quieter after. Still willful, but no more... major incidents."
I didn't respond.
With a chart like his, "quieter" rarely meant better—
only fewer bodies.
The chart offered nothing more.
I set it aside.
Then—
a scream tore through the house.
Raw.
Furious.
Adrian's voice—ragged, cornered.
Margaret wiped her face in a rush and hurried upstairs.
The living room emptied, leaving only Aya and me.
"Let's go," she said, voice low and tight.
"He's not worth the risk. If he dies, that's on him."
I met her eyes.
"I'm not here to help him."
She froze.
"Then what are you doing?"
"This isn't punishment," I said, looking toward the closed door on the second floor.
"And it isn't simple retribution."
Her expression shifted.
"Then what is it?"
"I don't know yet," I said.
"But tonight, I need to see it for myself."
Her hand reached out, gripping mine.
Her fingers were cold.
"Two guards lost consciousness without warning," she said.
"If what's in there is dangerous... are you sure you can handle it?"
I squeezed her hand once.
"It's alright," I said softly.
"Trust me."
I didn't believe the violin had come to judge him.
Whatever remained in that room
did not feel like vengeance.
And that, more than anything, unsettled me.