“If you say one more word, I will kill you right here.”
“…….”
“Get out. Now.”
I knew nobles often kept guns in their bedrooms for self-defense, but I couldn’t fathom where this one had suddenly appeared from.
He was dead serious. Even knowing it shouldn’t matter, when I met his cloudy gaze—which seemed to track me with unsettling precision—I swallowed hard.
“Th-then, I’ll take the laundry.”
Straightening my spine, I snatched up the pile of clothes and scrambled out of the room as if fleeing for my life. The moment the door clicked shut, my legs betrayed me.
I slumped against the wood, heart hammering against my ribs. The cold, phantom pressure of the muzzle against my forehead still lingered. Was he actually capable of pulling the trigger?
How had I missed this?
The master of this estate was a genuine lunatic.
Renika looked genuinely surprised when she took the basket from me. She was accustomed to me arriving in a disheveled mess, carrying nothing but a few pillowcases or sheets; receiving a neatly bundled load seemed to stun her.
She was one of the few people I saw daily. Every morning, she came to the annex to collect the laundry and drop off fresh linens.
“Things went smoothly this time, it seems.”
“All thanks to the Master.”
*Thanks to him, I’m going through hell.*
With my bangs obscuring my face, I forced a smirk. I couldn’t risk my complaints reaching the wrong ears, so I had to play the part of a compliant servant. Renika eyed me as if seeing me in a new light, then took the laundry and headed toward the main house.
Once she was out of sight, I sighed and trudged back inside.
That was the only success of the morning. Breakfast, as always, ended with the tray overturned. I hadn’t dared to be forceful, not with the memory of that gun barrel still fresh in my mind. He hadn’t touched his food since last night, but he didn’t seem to care.
No wonder he was so gaunt. He threw away anything anyone tried to feed him.
It fell to me to dispose of the waste. I ate my own late breakfast—tearing at stale bread and sipping cold, watery soup. Even this felt like a luxury; back home, starvation was routine, and I survived only on the scraps my father and Alicia left behind.
Compared to that life, what was the Master’s temper to me?
But the atrocities of Vincent Bellunita continued. I didn’t even get to set his lunch down before I was chased out. The moment the door opened, he began hurling objects. It was as if he’d been waiting, poised to sweep his desk clean the instant he heard a footfall. I couldn’t last a second inside. It had been a mistake to tidy his clock and vase while he slept.
He broke everything, and I was tasked with replacing it all. I had asked Isabella if the furniture was necessary, given how dangerous it was, but she told me that without items to throw, he would end up clawing at his own skin until he was covered in blood. After a few such incidents, they had resigned themselves to keeping the room furnished. He vented his misery through destruction, and I bore the brunt of the fallout.
The evening was no different. There was little left to throw since I hadn’t replaced the broken items, but the meal was overturned as usual. A second attempt met the same fate. Now, he simply waved his hands blindly whenever I approached; if I tried to touch him, the gun came out.
The next morning, I couldn’t even manage the pillowcases. After a tantrum, he smeared the meal I’d prepared all over my face. The day ended, as always, in failure.
Two days passed. Isabella visited, her expression shifting when she saw me—a look of grim foresight, as if she knew exactly how this would go. Watching her walk away with a soft sigh, a chill crawled down my spine. I knew, with absolute certainty, that I could not let her sigh for me again.
That day, my patience hit its breaking point. The gun was no longer frightening. Reality was scarier. I recalled the whispers: *“The servant who looked after the Master suddenly disappeared.”* There was no need to ask what that meant.
The bowl hit my head. Thin rice porridge soaked my hair, dripping down my face. Dinner was a wreck. I wasn’t even surprised anymore.
I wiped the porridge from my eyes, locked myself in my room, and pummeled my pillow as I made a silent vow.
*Just you wait.*
“You son of a bitch!”
Fuelled by simmering rage, I rose the next morning, grabbed his meal, and marched to Vincent Bellunita’s room. I threw open the curtains, flooding the dark room with light, and began tidying the floor. Finally, I ripped the dirty sheets from the bed.
As expected, the muzzle pressed against my forehead.
“Do you want to die?”
“Go ahead. Shoot.”
“What?”
“I’m going to die anyway, serving you like this. I’ll vanish without a trace before long. If I’m doomed either way, I’d rather have the honor of dying by your gun. Come on, pull the trigger. End it.”
“……Are you insane?”
“Not shooting? Then I’m changing the sheets.”
As I tugged the sheet, he grabbed it in a panic. We wrestled, but he was a starving invalid. I scoffed and yanked it with everything I had.
“You truly are insane!”
I ignored the shouting Vincent Bellunita and fetched the clean linens.
“Get out this instant!”
“I will leave when my work is finished. Could you sit up, please? It would make things faster for both of us.”
I pushed past his protests, pulling the bedspread taut. He tumbled helplessly to the floor, but I pretended not to notice as I finished the bed and changed the pillows.
He sat on the floor, dazed, before his rage ignited again. I cut him off before he could even spit out a “You!”
“I’ll fetch your breakfast.”
Because the floor was treacherous and his temper was volatile, I placed the tray by the door—far enough away to be safe. I made a point of clattering my footsteps loudly so he knew exactly where I was, then returned to the tray.
Vincent Bellunita felt his way back to the bed. As he reached for the sheet, I snatched it away and shoved a spoon into his hand.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Your meal is ready.”
“I’m not eating.”
He threw the spoon. It skittered across the floor, and I calmly produced another from my pocket. I had come prepared.
“How old are you, throwing tantrums like a child?”
“Do you really want to die by my hand? Is that why you’re acting so insolent?”
He held the gun, his knuckles white. I looked past the weapon and stared directly into his eyes.
“You can’t even see in front of you. Do you really think you can hit me?”
“My fingers are perfectly fine.”
“So, you’re confident in your marksmanship.”
“Shooting was my specialty.”
“Wow. Is that so?” I murmured with mock awe, knelt before him, and balanced the bowl of porridge on my lap. I scooped up a spoonful and brought it to his lips.
“Open up. I’m feeding you.”
“Get it away!”
He swiped at me, but I dodged back, faster than he expected. He groped for something to throw, but the room was empty.
Realizing he had no ammunition, Vincent Bellunita gripped the gun so hard his joints cracked. Yet, he still didn’t fire. I pressed the spoon to his lips again.
“Come on, say ‘ah’.”
“Get that away from me.”
“I’ll leave once you take one bite.”
“I’m not eating. Move.”
“Just one bite. Or would you rather feed yourself?”
“I said move! Get lost!”
“Are you perhaps unable to chew, too?”
Since you are an adult, I assumed you knew how to put food in your mouth and chew, I added, my voice dripping with forced sweetness. Vincent Bellunita let out a sharp, incredulous huff. I offered to teach him how to use his jaw, should he require the instruction.
Suddenly, he kicked the bowl off my lap. It clattered across the floor, porridge trailing like a slug’s path. I squeezed my eyes shut, listening to the dish tip and spill.
This time, my anger flared.
“Are you afraid of me?”
“What?”
“I asked if you were so terrified of me that you couldn’t even swallow a bite of porridge. Have I eaten you alive, Master? Or are you just so remarkable that you can’t lower yourself to eat? Ah, I suppose you are. The master of such a great family.”
“…What are you doing?”
“I’m lecturing you.”
The only reason I had endured his outbursts until now was out of pity for his broken heart.
They said he hadn’t always been a prisoner in this room. After he first went blind, he had tried to carry on as if nothing had changed, listening to the butler and managing his affairs. But the incidents—and the isolation—had taken their toll.