“You went and stole someone’s grave goods again? How many times have I told you that’s dangerous… There are so many people in that shop. If you get caught, I don’t even want to think about what they’ll do to you!”

Speak of the devil and he appears—seeing the silver pipe, Romeo snapped. At the same time, he came over with a big pot in his hands and started ladling soup out for the kids.

Wild greens, carrots, and potatoes simmered into a thin broth. It really wasn’t the kind of thing you put on plates. But other than these random plates they’d salvaged from the dump, they had no room to be picky.

“And you two, are you really going out again this afternoon? Those people are coming tonight.” Romeo said.

The orphanage didn’t just owe Maria money. They were neck-deep in loan shark debt too. Acadia’s generous credit policies didn’t extend to Curseborn. Ever since the kids were kicked out of an inner-city orphanage, they’d not only owed money for the first house they’d built, but also for this half-finished new one. Add oil, salt, sauce, clothes, furniture—everyday things for the kids—and the orphanage’s debt only got heavier.

And the worst part was, a Curseborn had to go under the knife just to live a halfway normal life.

As a Curseborn slowly grew up, their traits would start showing little by little. Like a four- or five-year-old Curseborn whose eyesight had already begun to deteriorate. If they didn’t get surgery before their eyes rotted out, even if it didn’t kill them, it would at least leave scars on their face that would never fade.

Operations could cost a few thousand at the low end, and easily run into the hundreds of thousands at the high end. Way beyond anything the orphanage could handle.

The “those people” Romeo mentioned were the debt collectors.

“Ugh… you’re getting naggier every day. Going senile already?” Othello watched Romeo fussing and muttered under his breath.

“Jeanne’s coming tonight too!” Hearing Romeo, the youngest kid in the orphanage, Macbeth, who was sitting next to Merka, shouted in excitement. Merka glanced at him, puzzled.

At his age, he had no idea what debt really meant.

“Man… if Miss Jeanne d’Arc sees us in this pathetic state, what are we supposed to do… Um… how about you two stay tonight?” Romeo finished serving, held the pot against his chest, and went to stand beside Juliet. He snuck a worried look at her while scooping a small spoonful of soup for himself and sipping it in tiny sips. He didn’t have a plate to drink from—he’d given his to a troublemaker who’d accidentally smashed their own.

Juliet blew hard at the steam drifting off her soup, tested the heat with a quick touch of her lips, then tipped her head back and downed it in one go.

“Romeo, help me put some medicine on. Othello and I are heading out.” Juliet looked at Romeo, her eyes serious. Romeo, who’d been about to argue, let his gaze slide away, and in less than a moment, he caved.

Someone who doesn’t bring in money doesn’t get to make decisions… That was probably what Romeo was thinking.

After all the noise and chatter, lunch for over thirty kids finally wrapped up. The older ones now had to go to the dump to collect recyclables. The younger ones stayed at the orphanage for a nap, including Merka and Macbeth.

Seven or eight kids squeezed together on the floor, on top of worn-out sheets. Only Merka still sat upright and quiet, as if lost in thought.

The last few times Sister Joan came by, Macbeth barely reacted, even looked a little upset. I figured he was jealous that I get to learn reading and writing from her.

But this time Macbeth’s mood was different. Why? Because he thinks he can get Joan to teach him to read and write now? Because he can already read and write a bit, so he’s sure she’ll praise him? Whatever it is, it’s definitely got something to do with Sister Joan.

…And the only thing in our home that has any writing on it is that plaque that just went missing.

If someone could open up Merka’s head right now and watch the way his thoughts flowed, they’d be shocked that a kid his age could think so clearly and logically. Smart enough—and maybe that’s exactly why Joan favored Merka more.

Merka nudged Macbeth, who was “pretending” to sleep beside him. Macbeth was so excited that even his ears had turned red. Merka said, “You’re the one who hid the plaque, right? Because you wanted to secretly learn a few characters, then show off in front of Sister Joan to get praised, didn’t you?”

Macbeth shot up from the floor, blurting in a firm voice, “No way! I didn’t!”

So it is Macbeth. If he’d actually been asleep, and I woke him up, he’d be more likely to say something like “Huh? What’s going on?” instead of denying it first thing.

Merka stood up from the bedding and walked toward the dorm door. There, each kid had a tiny locker. If Macbeth hid it, it could only be in there.

Merka opened Macbeth’s little locker. Macbeth rushed over at once and grabbed Merka’s wrist before his hand could reach in.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s my fault… Can you not tell Romeo?” Macbeth looked up at Merka—just a bit taller than him—with pleading eyes.

“That depends on how you behave.” Merka rummaged inside and, sure enough, pulled out the plaque. “I’m putting this back over the front gate. You go back to sleep.”

“Um… actually I already learned how to write these characters…” Macbeth scratched his cheek, forcing himself to speak up. “Can I ask you one more favor? Jeanne’s probably gonna ask later, and I don’t want to disappoint her…”

His face was adorable—round eyes, round little ears, lips pushed into a small pout. The marks left on him by the gods were still faint for now. His sweet features were almost angelic.

“…Fine.” Merka went quiet for a moment, then, imitating Joan, gently patted Macbeth on the forehead.

“How do you read these three characters?” Macbeth asked.

Merka studied the plaque, then nodded thoughtfully and said,

“Smoke-Free Zone.”

——————————————————————————

“What the hell? It cut off?” Turing had been watching with full attention when a burst of white light flashed from the machine and kicked him out of the dream.

A faint, tiny presence brushed against him from somewhere nearby, and Turing instantly sat up alert, scanning the room.

The presence was like a wisp of smoke—and in the blink of an eye, it vanished.

“Just my imagination…” Turing leaned back in his chair, hand gripping the armrest, and tried to sink back into sleep.

Hiding behind a bookshelf, Hamlet was pressing both hands hard against his chest, like his heart was about to leap out of his throat. Forget slowing his heartbeat—he didn’t even dare breathe, or blink, or swallow. His legs were still frozen mid-step and had been for over ten seconds.

Hamlet had a feeling: if Turing caught him, the consequences would be hundreds of times worse than death.

Stopping so suddenly after moving that fast made his blood feel like it was flowing backward. He’d only taken a few steps, but he felt like he’d shaved years off his life.

So that’s how it is. No wonder Merka could sit back and relax…

He must’ve scratched a few random marks onto the disc so that when Turing read the memory, it would hit these “nodes” now and then and force him awake.

Since I don’t know how far apart those nodes are, I’ve got no choice but to play an insanely hard game of Red Light, Green Light with him.

And if I go a few steps farther, I’ll probably enter his field of vision. So I have to reach Altria in one breath and kill her.

But I only get one shot… If he sees me even for a second, there’ll never be a second chance.

He’s using that against me—using my fear of that—to herd me all the way to the moment Altria finishes reading the memory!