Chapter 17

He stared down at the diary, stuck on the same page, refusing to turn, with a look of irritation in his eyes.

“…She’s lost her mind.”

No matter how many times he read it, the same conclusion came to mind.

There was no other explanation—how else could she have come up with a plan to assassinate one of Hasmal’s top officials, no less than the chief of the Stifts, Herman Miller?

‘Unless she was desperate to die.’

Of course, being the cautious woman she was, she hadn’t written anything explicitly in the diary.

It was all vague and veiled, just enough to hint at her intentions.

But for someone like Zechart, who had been meticulously tracking Edith’s movements, those hints were enough to piece together her plan.

‘Liche is a little odd. She’s changed jobs so much she’s been to almost every part of city hall by now’

—Gisela’s report had only confirmed it further.

Combining everything, Zechart could even guess the exact date she planned to act.

‘The commendation ceremony.’

He checked the date on his desk calendar and clenched his jaw until it ached.

Even if she succeeded in assassinating Herman Miller, she wouldn’t survive afterward.

She likely had a backup plan in mind, but Stifts wasn’t foolish enough to overlook an attempt on one of their leaders.

She’d be caught, interrogated under the guise of questioning, tortured, and ultimately executed.

What bothered Zechart most wasn’t the act itself—it was that he would have no involvement in her death.

Whether it was pity or something else, she was a woman who grated on him.

She was an obstacle.

And yet, she was someone he couldn’t easily deal with.

Precisely because she was that kind of woman to him, he couldn’t stand the thought that her death—be it now or later—would happen without his hand in it.

The problem was, the woman wasn’t one to give up easily.

If this insane plan were born from mere ideology, perhaps it could be shaken.

But if it involved the life or death of a fellow comrade trapped in a labor camp, then Edith would neither abandon it nor delay it.

‘So what now.’

Thoughts tangled like summer vines, sprawling in every direction until, eventually, they reached a single conclusion.

A conclusion he normally wouldn’t even entertain—yet once it emerged, his thoughts came to a halt.

Click.

With a faint scoff, Zechart took out a cigarette and lit it.

The smoky haze drove out the remnants of lingering thoughts.

His smoke-stained hand finally closed the diary that had been open for so long.

It was a decision.

***

Time passed like an arrow loosed from its string.

Four days could fly like that.

Edith was chopping onions, carefully washed and placed on the board.

Despite her caution, the slices came out all uneven—too big to sauté, too thin to grill.

Cooking just wasn’t her strength.

In truth, Edith wasn’t good at most things done by hand.

She had no dexterity and was clumsy.

She was better at still, thoughtful things—reading, writing.

She had loved traveling, was full of curiosity, loved freedom, and was honest.

Well… I suppose that’s changed now.

Had life not taken the path it did, she might have remained that kind of person—unburdened by heavy missions, not forced to hide her thoughts and pretend composure.

But like a rock worn down by storm after storm, much of who she was had changed.

But then why is my cooking still this terrible?

“Lady Edith?”

“Huh?”

“You should take a break. This must be hard.”

The speaker was Sasha, her voice gentle.

Realizing she was diplomatically referring to the pitiful onions on the board, Edith flushed slightly and set down the knife.

Sasha walked over quickly and took over, slicing the remaining onions into neat, even pieces.

Watching silently, Edith spoke in a small, defeated voice.

“Still… give me something to do. You shouldn’t be doing it all yourself—especially not in your condition…”

“Then could you get a few plates from over there?”

Edith nodded quickly and went over to the cupboard.

It was tall enough that she had to stand on tiptoe to reach the dishes.

Between the rhythmic sound of the knife and the soft humming Sasha began, a quiet warmth filled the kitchen.

Though she didn’t show it, Sasha seemed excited for the upcoming dinner.

On the eve of the commendation ceremony—what was essentially the calm before the storm—Edith had suggested a small party.

It was nothing extravagant: just cooking something a bit nicer than usual and eating together.

But without it, the night would have been steeped in tension.

Since deciding on the dinner, the four had avoided mentioning tomorrow’s mission.

There was no need—they had finished all preparations.

The bomb was hidden inside a large planter by the podium.

Karon had subdued Groth Gunther and taken his uniform and ID.

He would trigger the device, escape with help from Edith and Perel.

There was nothing left but prayer.

So just for today—perhaps their last—Edith hoped they could eat well and fall asleep in peace.

She would soon realize how hopeless that wish truly was.

“Edith!”

The door burst open with a crash—Karon entered, breathless.

But Perel, who had gone grocery shopping with him, was nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s Perel…?”

“That’s…”

Karon, panting so hard his chest rose and fell, fell silent mid-sentence.

The plate in Edith’s hand trembled slightly, her knuckles going pale.

***

“What? Perel Monty? Zechart’s current target is with the Berg resistance?”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

Markus’s reply made Rachel’s face twist in disbelief.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I thought you knew. You’re his partner.”

“Zechart doesn’t share things like that with me. You know that.”

“Why are you yelling at me, then…”

Markus was about to argue back but bit his lip when Rachel shot him a sharp, triangular glare.

“You’re useless. Useless! What are you going to do if he runs into that woman?”

“What’s it matter? He doesn’t even remember—ah, fine. Fine! Stop glaring at me.”

Rachel yanked at her naturally cascading red hair in frustration before whipping around.

Bang!

Even after stepping into the dim hallway, she couldn’t calm herself.

She paced back and forth, took out a cigarette, put it to her lips, then pulled it away again.

What the hell is he thinking?

Rachel couldn’t understand why X had given Zechart such an order.

Maybe X wanted to test his abilities.

Or maybe he’s overconfident.

She bit down hard on her neatly trimmed nails until a sharp crack made her lower her hand.

“…No. Absolutely not.”

She had to meet X.

No—Zechart first.

Rachel immediately went down to the first floor, got into her car, and started the engine.

She realized she no longer had the keys, but it didn’t matter.

If he was out, she’d wait until he returned.

The car roared to life and sped away.

***

The missing keys turned out to be a needless worry.

She didn’t need them.

As soon as she arrived at Zechart’s hideout, she found him standing in the hallway.

“Why?”

Instead of answering, Rachel bit her lip.

Considering how she’d just driven like a madwoman to get here, her subdued demeanor was almost absurd.

Zechart looked down at her for a moment, then pulled out his keys.

Her voice came out just as the door clicked open.

“Where… were you?”

“As you can see.”

He didn’t invite her in, but Rachel followed him inside anyway.

The heavy sound of the door closing echoed behind them.

Crossing the cold, lifeless living room, she sat down on the leather sofa.

Meanwhile, Zechart stood near the bathroom, unbuttoning his suit jacket one button at a time.

“Wait.”

He didn’t say why, and Rachel didn’t ask.

She thought she knew—because of the faint scent hanging in the air.

Something all too familiar.

Blood.

Had he finished the target?

Water splashed beyond the closed bathroom door.

Rachel stared blankly at it, lost in thought.

Was that blood he was washing away truly Perel Monty’s?

If it was, had he avoided meeting that woman? Or had he met her and still killed her comrade without hesitation?

She couldn’t be sure.

Hope that he hadn’t and fear that he had tangled together, tightening in her chest.

Markus said his memory loss is permanent… but is it? Do I even need to worry anymore?

With the questions multiplying, Rachel clenched her trembling hands together.

At that moment, the water stopped.

The sudden silence didn’t last.

Clack.

The door opened, breaking the uneasy quiet.

Rachel lifted her head.

A tall shadow fell across her vision.

It belonged to the man who held all the answers to her doubts.

“…Zechart.”