Sigh.

A slow heat blossomed along the trail of his touch. The marks he left behind surfaced vividly in her memory one by one. Debbie stared at herself in the mirror before tentatively inserting her finger into her entrance.

A moist friction sound quickly followed. It felt strange to hear such sounds coming from herself. She stirred slowly, mimicking how he had teased her. Though she felt somewhat close to the sensation, it remained far from what she truly desired.

Transparent fluid trickled down between her legs while her inner flesh twitched secretly, desperately searching for something. It seemed to whisper for her to insert that thing from earlier. Debbie sighed deeply.

She tried again to recapture the pleasure he had shown her, tracing through her memories with longing. Yet despite making herself wet enough between her legs, her empty heart remained unfilled no matter how well she imitated the act.

“Haa.”

Debbie regretted not removing his mask. She even considered finding another freelance journalist, putting a mask on him, and trying to recreate the same experience. But while entertaining these bitter thoughts, the space between her thighs dried up, making the movement of her fingers painful and uncomfortable.

No matter how hard she tried, no more fluid flowed. In that moment, she realized the truth—it wasn’t the s*x itself she had enjoyed, but the mysterious atmosphere he created.

After showering to wash away her remaining attachment, she changed clothes and sat at her desk. Then, the first column that had been so difficult to write flowed from her pen like water.

* * *

“Sob, sob.”

Young Debbie heard quiet sniffling carried on the breeze while passing by an orchard. She could have walked on, but she didn’t miss the sound.

When she climbed the small hill, she saw a boy lying spread-eagled in the hidden grass, basking in the sunlight. He appeared free at first glance, but tears flowed from his tightly closed eyes.

Rustle.

Debbie approached the boy’s feet. His face wasn’t familiar to her. Unlike the other children in the village whose skin had darkened from running wild through mountains and fields like stray dogs, this boy had skin white like a freshly bloomed lily and delicate features.

If not for his short, shaggy hair, she might not have recognized him as a boy—his face was that pretty.

“…!!”

The boy opened his eyes, which were more light pink than red. Debbie stared at them, entranced by the idea that pink eyes could exist in the world.

“Get lost,” he said.

Had he spat rudely like her neighbor Ricky, she would have spat back and told him to get lost himself. But the words he uttered seemed fragile like a candle flame that might extinguish with a single breath, so she couldn’t leave.

A strange thought circled her mind—perhaps the spark might go out forever.

She needed to help him.

She needed to reach out.

Why?

There was no particular reason. Her heart simply led her to do so.

“Why are you crying?”

The boy didn’t answer for a long time. Debbie waited patiently, watching him mumble, seeming about to speak before swallowing his words.

“Because I’m too worthless.”

Debbie narrowed her eyes as though she’d heard the most disagreeable thing in the world.

“Why?”

She pondered whether this pretty boy with skin fairer than her own was mocking her or genuinely mistaken when he called himself worthless.

“Why do you think you’re worthless?”

The boy raised his upper body and wiped his tears with his fist.

“It hurts my pride to be scolded. I don’t want to make mistakes, but I keep repeating them.”

Suddenly, the breeze felt incredibly gentle.

Swish.

The wind that lightly brushed the boy’s hair carried dandelion seeds from the meadow toward Debbie.

Sparkle, sparkle.

Watching those seeds draw gentle arcs toward the brilliantly shining sky, Debbie spoke softly.

“Then tell yourself to keep getting scolded.”

“What?”

The boy’s eyes flashed sharply. But no matter how fiercely he glared with those pink eyes, he only looked as cute as a rabbit.

Debbie barely resisted the urge to grab and stretch his cheeks with both hands. His fine skin looked like it would stretch delightfully if pulled.

“Tell the child who gets scolded to keep getting scolded. Whenever I get caught playing pranks and get scolded, I think: the person being scolded right now isn’t me, but a child called ‘A.'”

The boy’s eyes narrowed as he listened.

“Troublemaker A gets scolded today, but good child B isn’t involved, so B waits patiently. And after A is done being scolded, B takes funny child C and troublemaker A to play in the stream.”

Debbie shared the role-playing technique she used whenever her parents scolded her.

“That’s the most refreshingly absurd thing I’ve ever heard.”

The boy spoke with disbelief. Debbie shook her head and continued.

“It’s unfair. I tried to do well, but my parents never mention what I did right—they severely scold me for one little mistake. I really hate that.”

The boy swallowed hard as he listened to her words.

“There isn’t just a bad child inside me. I have a good child, a fun child, an imaginative child—all kinds. Yet they lump me together and scold me for that one mistake. What can I do? That’s just the troublemaker who comes out occasionally and causes problems.”

The boy’s eyes widened at Debbie’s words.

“So, what. What are you going to do about it?”

Despite clearly listening with interest, the boy changed his expression as soon as she finished speaking. Debbie grumbled, thinking she had offered the most excellent words of comfort.

“Keep sniffling and thinking that troublemaker is all you are, then.”

At that moment, their eyes met. The boy, bathed in sunlight, smiled happily with his eyes crinkled.

Her chest tightened, almost stopping her breath. For the first time, she realized that a person’s smile alone could capture someone’s heart in an instant.

“Thank you. That’s what I wanted to hear.”

The boy said, extending his hand.

“What’s your name?”

“Debbie.”

“Nice to meet you. My name is Blake.”

Debbie’s face grew hot as she hesitantly took his hand. The boy was so beautiful that it hardly felt real.

After wiping his tears, the boy stood up abruptly, perhaps feeling awkward, and disappeared beyond the orchard.

“Debbie.”

Just as they were about to start dinner, Debbie’s father pulled out a chair and sat down.

“Have you ever seen the young master at the orchard hill?”

“Who’s the young master?”

Debbie asked with a puzzled expression while breaking bread and dipping it into soup.

“Well, you couldn’t have met him. Never mind. It’s nothing.”

Debbie waited for her father’s explanation, but he focused intently on his meal as though nothing had happened.

“What happened?”

Debbie’s mother looked at her husband while serving food onto her plate.

“The son of someone important was staying briefly at Mr. Humboldt’s orchard. They say he was originally so quiet you couldn’t even hear him breathe. But something changed overnight—he became an uncontrollable prankster who nearly ruined the orchard’s livelihood.”

“Oh my!”

“Mr. Humboldt threw his hands up in defeat. He couldn’t do anything because of the boy’s status. He begged the officials every day to take him back, and they did, but they sent him back to the orchard less than a week later.”

“Goodness!”

Debbie’s mother exclaimed in surprise.

“The orchard isn’t even that far away.”

“Both you and I are too busy commuting every day to know much about village affairs.”

“We should warn Debbie. Tell her not to associate with such a noble rascal if she encounters him.”

Surely it couldn’t be Blake.

Debbie unconsciously recalled the boy she had met recently.

* * *

Now Debbie’s hand traced over a business card—an extravagant one with gold embossing mixed with some kind of glittering powder.

On the front was written: “Count Blake L. Barnabas, President of Banana Publishing House.”

‘It must be that boy I met back then.’

The person she had casually approached, Blake, had become the lord of Terium Province where Debbie was born and raised.

She had advised a future lord to play “multiple personalities”—the more she thought about it, the more she wanted to erase the memory.

‘How would a commoner like me ever meet a count again?’

She had buried the shameful past with a thread of hope. But that seal had broken because of a mere business card.

She broke into a cold sweat at the thought that she might meet him again through her publishing house work.

‘Even if we meet, I’ll pretend not to know him.’

Debbie took a deep breath.

‘Meeting the Count that day was something done by A inside me—the loose-lipped, mistake-prone part. I’m not A; I’m B who writes. I’m writer B.’

Thinking this, she placed the business card on her desk. The back side faced up, coated in silver with white decorative borders.

Written on the back was: “Gray Turning, Editor-in-Chief of Troublesome Magazine.” It seemed odd that both the president’s and editor-in-chief’s names were on a single card, especially since the publishing house didn’t appear to be struggling financially.

Editor Gray explained the reason as, “Isn’t it inconvenient to carry two cards in your wallet?”

He said that in this industry, which others looked down upon, it was essential to display both the president’s and editor’s authority simultaneously.

— If someone gives you trouble about our magazine, show them this card. The president said it’s okay.

According to Gray, Count Barnabas had such a notorious reputation that most people preferred to avoid him. They would likely compromise rather than deal with him. Debbie felt anew how small the world truly was.

Looking around, she could see the imperial palace in the distance through the publishing house window.

She had expected a shabby, unremarkable publishing house that hired just anyone, but the address pointed to a location right in front of the imperial palace along the main road.

Debbie mentally compared her hometown Terium province with the capital.

Every building in sight was more magnificent, expensive, and luxurious than Seven Chambers. The streets were neat and open, with all buildings gleaming brightly. Everything seemed decorated to match the standard of the distant imperial palace.

Being located in Felicita’s capital, even the finishing materials of the publishing house building and office furniture were of the highest quality that Debbie had never dared to experience before. And it felt all the more intimidating because of it.