Chapter 5: On the Secluded Path

Cornwall stepped out of his house. In the dark night, a carriage passed right before him, stirring a cold breeze. He stood at the door for a few seconds, waiting for the shivering to pass, then closed the door, descended the steps, and walked northward close to the edge of the road. He hoped that the place he was heading to already had a fire lit in the fireplace.

Today was his wife's birthday. Half an hour ago, as their silent dinner was coming to an end, Cornwall placed a small jewelry box in the middle of the table. "This is for you," he said, looking down. His wife extended her left hand to press down on the jewelry box, slowly sliding it towards her. "It's a brooch," Cornwall said as soon as he heard the box open. "I need to go out. There's work at the bureau." Then, he took his dishes to the kitchen to wash them; five minutes later, he combed his hair, put on a new coat, and headed for the door. He placed his left hand on the door handle and looked through the hallway at his wife in the dining room—she was standing up with the dinner plate, and their eyes met for a brief moment. At that moment, Cornwall turned his head, opened the door, and saw a carriage that appeared larger than it actually was because it blended into the night.

Throughout this process, his wife said nothing, and Cornwall did not expect her to. It was better this way. Claiming he had work at night was just a necessary but meaningless procedure, like a checkbox on a bureaucratic form that no one would read but still had to be marked. After twenty-five years of marriage, his wife had no interest in what Cornwall did when he went out at night. The same was true for him.

Cornwall could not explain how their small family of two had reached this point, but fundamentally, it all started on their wedding night. They were both born into strict, conservative families and had only met twice through a matchmaker before their engagement. The fact that they had been childless for many years after marriage brought scorn from their families. When almost all the elders who had criticized them had passed away, they found they had permanently lost some of the dignity and courage—courage that once made them consider ending the status quo and starting anew. On one hand, they grew closer, building a circular wall around them, excluding any influence or manipulation. On the other hand, they became more estranged from each other. They became like two nails on a wooden post, initially placed close by someone else, and after twenty-five years, their own will no longer mattered, and they could find no reason or opportunity to separate.

Another carriage passed by. Cornwall stopped again. This time it wasn't because of the cold wind but because he had the illusion that the carriage almost brushed past him and could have hit him with a slight deviation. If it had hit him, it probably wouldn't have been an accident... The sound of hooves faded, but he couldn't shake off these thoughts and speculations. Similar things had happened earlier that afternoon when he stood in front of a vendor selecting a brooch for his wife. Amidst the crowd, something hard struck his back. He immediately turned around, looking around anxiously, knowing it was probably just the elbow of a clumsy passerby, but he couldn't dispel the image of a sharp knife stabbing into his body, even without any blood or pain to prove it. On his way home, the usually docile neighbor's wolfdog suddenly barked at him incessantly... baring its teeth... seemingly about to break free from its worn collar. This again filled his mind with imaginations of being murdered by a wild beast.

Cornwall knew he was paranoid about being attacked. This had intermittently occurred for several years, becoming increasingly frequent lately. He understood the reason, much like he understood the root of his failed marriage, but it only led to a sense of helplessness.

Seven years ago, the current head of the independent intelligence agency, Panthonia Shawl, eradicated the biggest gang leader in Queens, Salvaney, through a costly raid. There were many suspicions surrounding this operation, and as an investigator of the security bureau, Cornwall questioned Panthonia and conducted some private investigations. He eventually compiled an objective report that suggested Panthonia might have used unlawful means to achieve his glory, including possibly murdering colleagues. Within a week, his superiors transferred him to another team; for a considerable period afterward, he became almost an ordinary clerk filling vacancies. Later, he realized that Panthonia's backer was probably Duke Koen, but it was too late. The paranoia about being murdered took root in his mind.

Now, the situation had changed. In a Shawlt time, Duke Koen, once the most publicly known figure in the parliament, became the highest-ranking criminal in Stormwind. Accusations of illegal private assets, bribing courts, and even hiring assassins to kill political enemies led to his house arrest. Investigators from the security bureau stayed daily at his former mansion, searching for evidence of his crimes. Cornwall had imagined that Panthonia would fall along with his former master; however, he later learned that some key figures in the country could no longer separate themselves from the intelligence agency led by Panthonia. They were reconstructing its background, completely severing ties with Koen, and the biggest rumor was that it would be renamed MI7, giving the public the impression that it had been serving the nation in the shadows for years. On the surface, Panthonia and his men were not involved in the investigation against Koen, but the parliament was vague about who provided the substantial evidence that started it all. Cornwall was one of the few investigators allowed into Koen's mansion, which should have been a significant step in his stagnant career, but he felt no joy or comfort. His worsening paranoia convinced him that this assignment indicated he was back on the radar.

Cornwall no longer remembered why he had completed such a sensitive report. Perhaps because, with no hope of salvaging his personal life, he sought dignity in his work. Now, for a man afraid of passing carriages in the night, the only dignity left was walking this same path he had taken countless times after leaving home. A brief departure from his wife, heading to where he wanted to go, was his only act of defiance.

After walking straight along the street for over ten minutes, he turned through some sparsely populated alleys and entered a dead-end lane. Shawltly after Salvaney's death, the name "Queens" was banned, and most of the streets in the area were renamed, with Cutthroat Alley being one of the remnants. The ominous name did not signify chaos and violence; it was a relatively peaceful residential area due to its seclusion. The old, dilapidated buildings crowded together, making it quite dark even during the day; Cornwall quickened his pace as he passed some vagrants. He had long been familiar with their appearances and begging methods, but he couldn't help but imagine one of them hiding a knife, waiting for him to turn around. He took a deep breath, trying to overcome these delusions that threatened to strip him of his last dignity.

As he approached the house, Cornwall adjusted his collar and straightened his back. At the door, he took out a key and opened it. This is my place. If I want to enter, I will.

A long-haired woman sat in the center of the room, her back to him. The dim, yellow light of an oil lamp struggled to extend outward, trying to occupy every inch of the narrow room, but it could never escape the woman's reach.

Cornwall walked quietly to the woman's back and placed his hands on her shoulders. "Sylvia," he said, then stroked her face with his left hand while leaning down to smell her hair. As he tried to kiss her neck, the woman suddenly turned her head away, stood up, and walked to the other side of the table with an unpleasant demeanor.

"Don't touch me."

"What's wrong?" Cornwall asked, approaching her.

"I'm not in the mood today."

"You asked me to come, Sylvia. I told you it was my wife's birthday today, but you insisted I come."

"Oh, really?" The woman turned to face him. "That must have been hard for you. Who forced you to leave your wife of over twenty years to see me, a poor woman? And don't rush to do that as soon as you enter the house; it's disgusting. I asked you to come because I have something troubling me and wanted to talk to you. What do you take me for?"

"You know that's not what I meant."

Cornwall tried to touch her face again; she pushed his hand away.

"I said, don't touch me."

"Okay, I'm sorry." Cornwall sat down at the table, looking up at her. "What's the trouble? Sit down and tell me."

"I quit my job," she said, still standing.

"Quit again? Why?"

"Because I'm unhappy."

"This is the third time this year. Why can't you keep a job for a while? It's good for both of us."

"I don't want to work in a hotel, Cornwall. I graduated from the Second National University. Besides, do you know how many drunkards are there all day? Do you know how annoying they are?"

"It's inevitable, no matter what job you do..."

"Oh, have some conscience, Cornwall. Didn't you understand my point? Those people are always looking for an opportunity to grope me. I'm always worried when I go home at night. Do you really want things to be this way?"

"I can talk to the hotel owner and ask him to pay more attention to the order in the place."

"How can that help? According to you, just 'talking' would make all robbers and murderers disappear overnight. Besides, I've already quit and won't go back. I'm not that kind of shameless woman."

"Honestly, you're putting me in a difficult position. I don't know what kind of job to find for you next, and there may not even be an opportunity."

"Fine, I quit to avoid worrying you, but you have this attitude. You're becoming more selfish, Cornwall."

"Don't say that." He stood up.

"You're selfish and increasingly unconcerned about me. It doesn't matter; just don't care about me from now on."

"I'll figure something out, Sylvia, I promise. Take this to pay the rent, and if there's anything else urgent, I'll come by again tomorrow." He took out some silver coins and placed them on the table, then gently stroked her arms up and down. "Don't be sad; I don't want to see you like this."

"Don't talk to me like that again. I'm serious this time."

"I'll remember. With me around, everything will be fine. I love you, baby."

Cornwall began kissing her and stroking her hips. After a while, she led him to the bedroom, showing him everything he anticipated.

In front of Sylvia, Cornwall was always hesitant to undress. He had never been an attractive man, and at fifty-two, he couldn't shake a sense of bodily insecurity that transcended gender. She was half his age and naturally retained her youthful allure; at least to him, she appeared only slightly changed from when they first met years ago. Of course, this might be because he unconsciously compared Sylvia to his wife.

Having Sylvia in the dark was Cornwall's only dignity now, even though he knew from the start that it was wrong.