III

I knocked upon the door of my home, yet no answer came. A bitter thought settled in my mind—was I to be ignored both within and without, in the streets that spat upon me and in the only refuge I could call my own?

Feeling an unease that clawed at my insides, I reached for the frail wooden door, pressing against it with cautious insistence. But the more I pushed, the more it resisted, as though the house itself denied me entry.

"H-Hello...? Grandma...? Isman...?"

My voice was weak, trembling, yet I forced it to rise just enough to be heard—though not so loud as to disturb the weary souls of this rotting city. But there was no reply, only the deadened silence of neglect.

Panic gnawed at the edges of my mind. What if it was locked? What if something had happened to them? My thoughts grew feverish, circling one another in a suffocating spiral. My grandmother's illness—had it worsened? Had something... had something irreversible occurred?

My heart pounded violently against my ribs. A cold sweat traced the contours of my face, my throat constricting with dryness.

"Grandma!—Open the door! Isman!"

I no longer cared for the neighbors or for the indifferent eyes of the city. I pounded at the door, rattling the handle with desperation, my voice rising, cracking, growing shrill in the void of silence.

"Grandma! Isman!"

And then—something struck me, hard, across the face.

A force, brutal and unexpected, sent me sprawling against the very walls of my own home. My cheek met the filth-ridden surface of the city's decay, my vision blurred by shock and the searing sting spreading through my skull. I did not see what had hit me—I had no time to react, no time to process anything but the visceral terror that already gripped my body.

For a moment, I remained there, my face pressed against the foul, bacteria-ridden wood, inhaling the scent of rot and neglect. A sharp sting bloomed in my nose, and as I peeled myself away from the wall, I turned, dazed, towards my assailant.

"You're making a damned ruckus. My little girl is sleeping soundly in her bed—do you wish to wake her, you miserable wretch?"

The voice belonged to my neighbor, a man who had lived in this city long enough to have become part of its decay. His fist was still clenched, the knuckles split and reddened. It was not an object that had struck me—it had been the raw, unfiltered violence of a father's hand, the same hand that likely cradled his beloved daughter with tenderness.

I swallowed the bile rising in my throat.

"My apologies, sir."

Without another word, the man turned away, disappearing into his home, his door closing behind him with a finality that echoed in my bones.

I turned my gaze toward that door, then back to my own—locked, unyielding, silent. He had a place to enter, a space where he was expected, wanted. And I... I had nothing.

Slowly, I let my back press against the door of my house, sinking into its stubborn resistance. My mind swarmed with images of my grandmother, of Isman—what was happening behind this impassable threshold? The worry, the shame, the anger—they tangled within me like a storm, each emotion lashing out in all directions, leaving me restless, humiliated, and utterly helpless.

I remained still before the locked door of my home, my back pressed against it, my fingers absently tracing the burning ache upon my cheek. The sting of the blow had not yet faded.

Silence surrounded me, vast and impenetrable, and in its depths, my thoughts unraveled—stretching from the hopeful to the despairing. I wondered what might have happened to my grandmother, to Isman. But whatever the case, I had no choice but to wait outside. A dull sort of acceptance settled over me. Sleeping upon this filthy ground did not trouble me—what mattered was only them.

Yet even so, there was an undeniable weight in my chest, a suffocating boredom born of the cold, the dirt, the ceaseless awareness of my own solitude. This place, my only shelter, was nothing more than a locked door against which I could rest my weary body.

At length, I rose from my seat, shaking off the lethargy creeping upon me. Removing my coat, I draped it over the door handle, as if offering some futile token of my presence, some proof that I still belonged here. My hand gripped my shoulder bag tightly, and without thinking, I wandered away from the house, though never far from its sight.

There, at a distance, I turned to regard it—a small, dust-laden dwelling swallowed by the night.

I remembered it as it once was, when I was a boy of twelve. Back then, the house had been full of light, full of life. My mother and father greeted me every morning, their voices warm, familiar, constant. Isman had not yet been born, and my grandmother had lived far away, happy in her own world. We were all happy then. But time does not grant mercy, nor does it wait—it had passed, torn through that fragile existence, left nothing but ruin in its wake. That warmth, that love—it was gone forever.

A sudden heaviness gripped me, an uncertainty that made each step away from the house feel like an abandonment, as though I were leaving behind something irreplaceable. My feet faltered. I hesitated. Then, yielding to that gnawing anxiety, I turned back, retraced my steps, and sat once more before the door, pressing my back against its unyielding surface.

I let my head rest against it, my eyelids growing unbearably heavy. I was exhausted—too exhausted to remain on guard, too exhausted to care anymore. I longed only for my bed, for sleep without fear, without worry.

And so, at last, sleep claimed me.

I drifted into unconsciousness, curled before my own home like a beggar, my body exposed to the merciless night. The wind was sharp, biting through the fabric of my clothes, seeping into my bones. Yet, for the first time in what felt like ages, I found a strange, fleeting comfort in the silence of the city. It lulled me, a rare moment of tranquility in the chaos of my thoughts.

Until something struck my head.

I jolted awake, my vision swimming, my skull throbbing with a dull, spreading pain. Disoriented, I sat there in silence, waiting for the dizziness to fade.

"Who's there...?"

"Look up," came a voice—deep, resonant, with the practiced authority of one accustomed to being obeyed. "It's rather rude to address someone without meeting their gaze."

Slowly, I lifted my head, my blurred vision sharpening to reveal a figure standing before me. Dark hair, a faint mustache, a tall, imposing frame draped in a black coat. The unmistakable presence of Herr Wilhelm Aldorick.

A strange unease settled in my chest. Why was he here?

"Mr. Herr Wilhelm…?" My voice, hoarse with sleep, carried my bewilderment. "What brings you here.?"

He studied me with an expression of faint amusement, yet there was something else beneath it—something I could not quite name.

"Nothing in particular," he said at last, tilting his head slightly. "I was simply perplexed by your refusal earlier—only to find you lying here, sprawled upon the pavement like some forsaken beggar."

Shame prickled at the edges of my skin. I reached up, rubbing the back of my head with an awkward, weary smile.

"Ah.. my apologies. There were reasons for my decline." I cast a glance toward the door. "My home is locked from within. My grandmother and Isman are surely inside, yet for reasons beyond my understanding, they have not answered me."

I kept my voice even, careful not to let the weight of my emotions slip through. Yet, before I could speak further, Herr Wilhelm extended his hand toward me, an unspoken command in the gesture.

I hesitated, uncertain.

"What-what is this, Mr. Herr Wilhelm?"

He did not answer, nor did he lower his hand. Instead, with effortless force, he seized my wrist and pulled me to my feet. The suddenness of the action left me stunned, my bag nearly slipping from my grasp.

"Pardon my roughness," he said, as though it were a mere afterthought. "But I intend to take you somewhere—an inn, where you might rest properly."

"An inn…?" The words felt foreign in my mouth.

"Yes," he confirmed smoothly. "You need not concern yourself with the expense. The cost is trivial—I will cover it."

I doubted whether I could still be regarded as human. Something within me was touched by his concern, and yet, a shadow of hesitation crept into my thoughts. A place at an inn—why should he offer it to me? After all, Herr Willhelm and I were hardly friends, not in the truest sense of the word. But his gaze—there was nothing insidious in it, no hidden motive. He was a good man.

I nodded, a feeble smile curling on my lips, as I reached for my jacket, which hung limply from the door handle. Tightening the strap of my bag over my shoulder, I whispered with newfound warmth,

"Very well, I shall accept. Thank you, Mr. Herr Willhelm!"

He did not respond. Instead, he turned on his heel and walked, his figure swallowed by the abyss of Violdigrev's nocturnal gloom. I was long accustomed to his indifference toward his surroundings, so I followed without protest, accepting his silence as permission.

Step by step, I matched his pace, trailing him through the vacant alleys, past the bustling night market, until at last, we arrived at the place he had spoken of.

Above the entrance, large, weathered letters announced: "Temporary Lodging." The building itself, though modest, was not without a certain dignity—its walls fortified with sturdy brick and aged timber, though speckled with moss, as if the past clung to it with quiet desperation.

Without a word, Willhelm strode inside, as if certain I would follow. And indeed, he was right. I stepped in after him, closing the door behind me, and was immediately engulfed by an unfamiliar atmosphere.

A thick crimson carpet stretched across the floor, guiding guests toward a reception desk. Above, light flickered from a bronze chandelier, its arms outstretched, each clutching a flickering candle that cast eerie shadows across the walls. The entire room radiated an almost unnatural brilliance, an opulence foreign to me.

How could anyone possess such a place? To reside here, even for a night—was this not a kind of miracle? Here, I thought, was comfort in its purest form, an oasis against the wretchedness of the world. I was lost in my awe when Willhelm's voice roused me from my daze.

"Mr. Zaramov, go to the reception and take these."

He extended his hand, in it, five crisp Goldmarks. A sum far too generous for my circumstances. I hesitated, words failing me. Slowly, I took the money, lowering my head in gratitude.

"Thank you, Herr Willhelm."

I felt the weight of the bills against my skin, a sensation both exhilarating and humbling. But before I could say more, his footsteps echoed through the hall.

I looked up. He was already at the door. Without hesitation, he stepped out, disappearing into the night, leaving me in this unfamiliar place.

For a moment, I stared at the door, lost in thought. Was he always like this—so consumed by his own purpose that everything else seemed to dissolve into irrelevance?

But I had no time to dwell on such questions. I recalled his instruction and approached the reception, where several guests stood in line. Unfamiliar with the process, I observed those ahead of me.

One by one, they handed over their money, received a slip of paper, and signed their names before taking their leave. Simple enough, yet something about it unsettled me.

The line moved. I was the last to remain. With nothing else to do, I let my gaze fall idly to the floor.

And then—I noticed them.

A pair of feminine shoes, poised delicately upon the crimson carpet.

I had not realized a woman had stepped in front of me. My eyes drifted upward—her skirt was elegant, her legs striking in their delicate symmetry. A thought—no, an impulse—took root in my mind, something unspeakable, something vile.

Then, suddenly—a small sound, a soft thud.

She had dropped something—a compact mirror, its silver edge catching the light as it struck the floor. She bent to retrieve it, and in that moment, the movement of her body, the accidental reveal of her form—it was too much.

I turned away at once, shutting my eyes, as though to erase the image from my mind. Shame burned through me. Again, this sickness, this wretched, disgraceful instinct that seized me so easily. Again, I had become a contemptible voyeur, a lowly degenerate! I shall remember who I am and whom I must protect—my grandmother and my dear little brother, Isman. Though they have vanished from my sight for a moment, I will return to them, without fail. Tomorrow, after this night at the inn where Herr Willhelm has brought me, I shall go back. Yes, I shall see them again.

The line thinned. At last, the woman approached the desk.

I did not dare look at her.

"Next," the receptionist called.

And then—something unexpected.

The woman did not leave immediately. Instead, she turned, her gaze falling upon me with an expression unreadable—neither contempt nor acknowledgment, only a fleeting glance, as if deciding something silently. Then, without a word, she hurried away.

I exhaled, releasing a breath I had not realized I was holding.

Had she noticed? Had she sensed the filth of my thoughts, the ugliness that had crept into me?

But there was no time for reflection. It was my turn now.

Straightening my back, I stepped forward, standing before the receptionist, forcing a smile that I feared would betray the unease curling within me.

The receptionist greeted me with the same cordiality she showed every other guest, her smile warm but impersonal.

"Good evening. Your payment, please."

I handed her the five Goldmark bills, watching as she carefully counted them before slipping them into the cash register.

A large book was placed on the counter, a pen resting beside it. Having observed the previous guests, I knew what was expected—I took the pen and signed my name, a meaningless formality, binding me to a single night in this foreign place.

She handed me a key—small, unremarkable, yet heavy with significance.

"Enjoy your evening," she said with mechanical politeness.

I clutched my bag and jacket with renewed gratitude. "Thank you," I replied, my voice hollow.

I turned toward the hallway, but before I could take another step, a soft, almost musical voice stopped me.

"Mr. Zaramov? Your room is this way."

I turned my head to see her—another woman, dressed identically to the receptionist, her delicate hand gesturing towards a door. Her smile was warm, impossibly gentle, like a mother guiding a lost child.

"Ah… thank you, madam."

With a slight bow, she left me standing before the door that would shelter me for the night.

I hesitated. My fingers brushed against the doorknob, and at that moment, a strange sensation washed over me—a foreboding sense that I did not belong here, that this place, its opulence, its stillness, was far too grand for someone like me. But desire always finds justification, and mine was simple: I was tired.

With a soft click, I entered.

At once, the lavishness overwhelmed me—pristine white sheets, elegant golden lighting, furniture placed with an orderliness I had never known.

I stood motionless. This—this was too much. I did not deserve this.

My bag and jacket found their place in the corner, cast aside without thought. My body, heavy with exhaustion, craved the bed before me.

With one swift motion, I hurled myself onto it. The mattress cradled me, the sheets cool against my skin. I felt as if I were sinking into something forbidden, a pleasure too decadent, too undeserved.

How easy it would be to remain here forever, to give in to sleep, to become nothing but a creature of sloth.

I turned onto my back, gazing at the ceiling, my lips curling into a grin—the widest grin I had worn in years.

And yet, my thoughts betrayed me.

A face appeared in my mind.

A woman's face.

The woman from the reception hall.

The shape of her figure, the fabric of her dress—it was all there, lodged in my mind, immovable, inescapable.

Shame coiled around me, suffocating. I clenched my fists. Disgusting. Wretched. How feeble must I be, to fall so quickly into this abyss, to succumb so easily to this disease of the soul—lust.

I shut my eyes, willing sleep to take me.

But sleep would not come.

The images persisted, unwanted, intrusive. I imagined her beside me. I imagined her lips, her skin, her breath against mine—

A knock at the door.

My eyes flew open. My chest tightened.

"Just a moment!"

I forced the words out, my voice hoarse, my mind reeling.

With trembling hands, I reached for the doorknob, turned it, and—

The door burst open.

A force struck me, sent me reeling backward onto the mattress.

A figure slipped inside, closing the door behind her in one swift motion.

I stared, breathless, uncomprehending.

It was her.

The woman from the reception hall.

She was standing before me now, but her face—her face had changed. Her eyes, once ordinary, burned with something raw, something terrifying. Sweat glistened on her brow.

Slowly, methodically, she reached for the buttons of her blouse.

One by one, she undid them.

I could not move. I could not speak.

Her lips parted, a single word slipping from them, soaked in something both cruel and hungry.

"Pervert."

And then—

Then, it happened.

Yes.

We did it.