troll
9. The Tracker
9. The Tracker
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Jina lifted her head. Past the drawn curtains, the clear blue sky was a jarring sight. Recently, London had been plagued by an uncharacteristic string of bright, cold days. High above, a V of unknown birds cut across the expanse.
“Lucky bastards,” she muttered, a humorless sound escaping her. “Just flying wherever you damn well please.”
She hugged her knees, resting her chin on them as she watched them recede.
This feels like confinement.
Two weeks.
Two weeks since she’d been back at Hampstead Heath, and in that time, Jina hadn’t set foot outside the grounds.
No one had physically restrained her; strictly speaking, it wasn’t confinement. She was free to leave.
But God, how she wanted to go out now.
A heavy sigh escaped her lips. She’d always thought herself an introvert, content with her own company, but two weeks walled up in a fortress had proven her wrong.
Thank God the mansion was so massive, at least. The estate was bigger than most local parks—complete with walking paths, a small forest, a pond, and a greenhouse. It offered just enough freedom to alleviate the worst of her cabin fever.
Ian had promised he was digging deeper. He’d ordered a full sweep of the kidnappers’ movements. Apparently, news of her escape had been an embarrassment—a public failure that sent tremors through their dark world.
“That atmosphere is all about regaining face,” he’d told her. “They’re already desperate to restore their ‘honor,’ since letting you slip away was apparently pathetic.”
The sheer absurdity of a criminal syndicate being so concerned with their reputation should have been funny. Instead, it was terrifying. Caution wasn’t a choice; it was survival.
The next day, unable to suppress her mounting restlessness, she’d joked about making a break for it. Ian’s response was a photograph.
“See? If a monster had been in there, as you described, it wouldn’t be this clean, would it?” he said, his voice clipped. “They’re sweeping the place, looking for their own.”
The moment Jina confirmed the image, her stomach flipped and her knees locked. It was unmistakable: the underground room where she’d been held.
The ropes were still coiled beside the chair she’d been tied to, and the obscenities were scattered and abandoned under the table.
The memories she’d fought so desperately to suppress surged back, a sickening wave of pure nausea.
Jina clamped a hand over her mouth and sprinted for the bathroom, Ian right behind her. That day, she purged every last thing she’d eaten.
The acrid stench of stomach bile was overwhelming, yet he didn’t flinch, holding her hair and stroking her back until the dry heaves subsided.
Later, when she went to bed, the scene repeated itself. She pushed against his chest, told him to go home, but he was stubborn, a warm anchor beside her. He simply stroked her back, his touch gentle, devoid of his usual demands.
Jina burrowed into him, clutching his shirt tightly. His embrace, as always, carried the scent of deep forest and cool moss.
He held her close to his chest and whispered, his breath warm against her hair.
“Don’t go out until you’re safe.”
“…Alright.”
His concern was a heavy, tangible thing, and she nodded, accepting it. She wouldn’t burden the man who cared for her so much with the anxiety of her safety.
So, Jina chose the confines of the mansion, a self-imposed exile.
Ding! A notification chimed from the laptop—a new message.
📱[Oh my god! You were alive! I was so worried when you suddenly stopped contacting me!]
It was a friend from the female chefs’ gathering. Jina’s fingers flew across the keyboard.
📱[All my contacts were wiped. And my messenger was completely blocked. Send me your number again, please. I’m saving it now.]
The friend sent the number. Jina snatched up the mobile Ian had given her, punched in the digits, and hit call.
📱-Jina!
The friend answered before the first ring finished.
📱-God, it’s good to hear your voice! Are you okay? Everything alright?
“Yeah, I lost my phone after the gathering, and something must have glitched. All my contacts were nuked, and my messenger got blocked and deleted.”
📱-That’s even possible?
“I know! I thought everyone had just gone silent on me.” Jina recounted her silence, letting out a burst of pent-up frustration. “I’m sorry, but can you send me the others’ contact info? I need to re-add them.”
📱-Sure. I have the attendee file, I’ll send it over. But first, I need to add you back to the group chat. I have to explain.
“Oh, don’t worry about explaining. They probably just figured I was busy.”
A moment of heavy silence stretched between them.
📱-Uh, well…
“What? Did something happen?”
📱-Look… there were some nasty rumors going around about you.
“Nasty rumors?”
📱-That you slept your way into getting the Aylesford grandson, and now you’re too good for “ordinary” people like us. You know the drill.
Jina pressed a hand to her forehead. Was it that chef who posted photos? Or maybe the department store trip?
She hadn’t seduced him; he’d been the predator. But the world only saw the one without status attacking the one with it. It was a narrative as old as time.
“Who’s been spreading this bullshit?”
📱-Who else? Chloe.
Chloe.
The name brought back the vivid, sickening memory of the gathering on the day she was taken.
Chloe, who usually bailed early, had stayed late and sat uncomfortably close.
Wait. She’d had a strange thought that day. The first glass of wine was fine, but the second had tasted off.
She’d dismissed it as poor storage and left it untouched. She’d also been overwhelmingly sleepy. That was why she hadn’t rushed back to the mansion.
That thick, drugging sleepiness had even clung to her during the kidnapping.
Could it be?
Drink-spiking was a frequent, ugly crime in London clubs—so common that detection nail polish had been invented.
It was only suspicion, a black hole of no evidence. And spiking a drink like that wasn’t simple. Yet, the cold, lingering unease in her gut refused to dissipate.
📱-Chloe had been running her mouth for ages. Saying you’d locked down the Aylesford grandson and were looking down on us, now that your status had “risen.” We just laughed it off, but some of the newer, gossip-hungry girls bought it.
“Oh, for God’s sake. Does that file have Chloe’s number? And do you have any screenshots of her garbage? She’ll deny it if I don’t have proof.”
📱-I have the chat screenshots, yes. But you can’t confront Chloe right now.
“Why?” Knowing my friend, she’d be showing up with popcorn, not trying to stop a fight.
📱-Chloe is not well right now. She’s completely unhinged.
“Was she ever hinged?” Jina shot back, annoyed.
Her friend’s voice turned serious. 📱-No, Jina. I mean genuinely strange.
“What happened?” Jina realized her friend wasn’t kidding, and her own tone sobered.
📱-A black dog.
Jina froze. A cold spike of adrenaline seized her body. The words echoed the horrific hallucination she’d seen during her captivity: the monster with a tooth-filled, starfish mouth that tore people apart.
📱-She keeps saying the dog barked, and that if it barks one more time, she’s going to die. She’s been holed up for days, covering her ears, refusing to see anyone. She even quit her job. Her family tried to get her into a clinic, but she just refuses.
Just then, a soft creak sounded. Jina’s head snapped toward the door. Did I not lock it? A muzzle appeared in the crack—the unmistakable dark fur of a black dog.
Jina’s heart plunged. The black dog they were just talking about—
A soft whine followed as Kushi’s head pushed inside. Jina let out the breath she’d been holding, giving the pleading black eyes a soft shake of her head.
📱-Jina? What was that?
“Ah, sorry. Just the dog. So, about Chloe…”
She continued her call, while Kushi trotted in and settled quietly at her feet, as if determined to listen to the conversation. Jina smiled and stroked his smooth head.
“Yes, yes. I can’t really move for a while, those are the rules, you know? I’ll definitely be at the meeting after the next one. Okay, bye.”
She ended the call and opened the file her friend had sent. Her gaze drifted down to Kushi, who was still patiently at her feet. The monstrous image was already fading, replaced by the gentle, well-behaved dog she knew.
Then, Kushi made a guttural choking sound.
“What is it?”
She thought he was catching a cold, but a short, sharp hack! suggested something was lodged in his throat.
“Oh my God, what did you swallow?”
In a panic, Jina pried open his jaw. Normally docile, he struggled against the intrusion. She used a deliberately sharp, commanding voice.
“Stay still, you idiot! Something might be caught in your windpipe! Do we need to get you to an emergency vet?”
Blind panic overriding sense, Jina thrust her hand into Kushi’s mouth. For a terrible, fleeting second, the monster-image flared: What if he swallows me like that?
But even as the thought took hold, her hand slipped past his throat, surprisingly deep. Her fingers tried to retract.
“Huh?”
A foreign object brushed her fingertips. She carefully pulled it free. The sight of it made her eyes go wide.
“…An earring?”
Coated in Kushi’s thick saliva, it was a small piece of heavily rusted, cheap jewelry.
“You! What the hell did you eat?”
Startled, Jina slapped his back. He let out a sharp whine and slunk into a corner, looking utterly dejected, like a child caught stealing a cookie. She sighed.
“Ian said he’d handle your meals. Are you even being fed properly?”
Kushi nodded his big head, confirming the answer.
“Well, you are never to pick up junk like this again! Understood?”
A soft whine—an admission of guilt. Kushi sat flat on the floor, accepting his punishment.
Kushi was famously intelligent. Jina had heard from the secretaries that when Ian first brought him home, the chairman had been violently opposed.
The man was more superstitious than she’d realized; a black dog in the house was a harbinger of ill-fortune. But the chairman never won a battle against his grandson.
“Give it a week. You’ll change your mind.” Ian’s words, spoken with utter confidence, had proven prophetic. Kushi had won.
A week later, the chairman’s resentment had evaporated. Kushi was shockingly intelligent—more perceptive and proactive than any dog he’d ever owned, almost unnervingly human.
The clincher, however, was an incident that occurred the day Ian had Kushi accompany the chairman to the head office for a single afternoon.
That day, a mob of workers from the defunct Essex factory were waiting. The Aylesford Group had recently shuttered the plant, citing cost reduction, leaving thousands suddenly, and legally, jobless and uncompensated.
Dozens of angry, desperate people poured out of their vehicles and surged toward the chairman. Secretaries and bodyguards fought to contain the crowd, but one protester broke through, his arm raised, ready to hurl a can of paint at the chairman.
Kushi moved like a black streak.
Woof!
The bark was a physical blow, silencing the street as people instinctively clamped their hands over their ears.
Kushi didn’t hesitate, launching himself at the attacker. The paint can hit the pavement as security guards swarmed the man. While he was being dragged away, Kushi stood guard beside the chairman, teeth bared, radiating a primal, silent threat that sent the crowd slowly receding.
That evening, the chairman had returned to the mansion with a single statement for Ian. “He’s a useful fellow, as you said.”
Kushi’s residency was officially sanctioned.
Jina went to the bathroom, washing Kushi’s saliva from her hands, then rinsing the earring.
It was a gaudy piece, heavily rusted, with a faux red jewel at its center.
But this… I’ve seen this somewhere.
The familiarity was a strange, dull ache in her memory.
Where had she seen it?
She strained to recall. She knew it had been recent. It wasn’t worn by anyone on the staff; the mansion had strict rules about large jewelry. It had to be someone from outside, but she hadn’t left the grounds.
Who was the last person I met?
A single name snapped into focus. Someone who wore loud, flashy accessories…
“…Camilla?”
She pictured the woman, arms crossed, glaring, her tone razor-sharp. Jina couldn’t remember the specific earrings—who remembers a throwaway acquaintance’s jewelry? She only remembered the type—something cheap, gaudy, and attention-seeking.
But why the hell would that woman’s earring come out of Kushi’s throat?
Jina tossed the earring into the trash. She held Kushi’s face in both hands, shaking him lightly.
Ruffle.
Kushi shook his head, a clear signal to stop. Jina laughed, letting go and opening the door. “Let’s get a walk in before Ian gets back. He’ll want to spend all day indoors with me when he arrives, so I need to get my steps in while I can.”
Kushi’s tail thumped against the floorboards in perfect understanding, and he trotted out to lead the way.
The cold wind immediately slapped her cheeks, but walking under the bright, clear sky felt like a release.
It was peaceful. Truly, she’d been living a life devoid of any real worry. The only low-grade annoyance was the voluntary imprisonment, but she could endure it.
She wouldn’t be here forever. Beyond that, she was financially and physically secure.
The chairman’s promise had been immediately fulfilled: a “special allowance” equivalent to a good annual salary had been wired into her account.
The bloated balance meant her monthly debt payments were finally manageable. She didn’t have to worry about food, either, with Aylesford’s top-shelf ingredients arriving daily. Her colleagues were universally kind; the house was a haven of quiet stability.
All of that was enough. But at night, this happiness overflowed.
That was entirely due to Ian, who visited her every single night.
How the hell did he manage to slip in every night without detection? Her room wasn’t exactly a vault—staff passed through on occasion.
Yet, Ian appeared miraculously, never once crossing paths with anyone.
The mansion itself seemed to fall into an unnatural quiet when he arrived, as if every other person had ceased moving.
The moment he entered, he would draw a deep breath. He always said it smelled good. She knew the large furniture—the heavy wardrobe and the bed—still carried the mansion’s characteristic scent of antique wood. But Ian would inhale the air with the greedy expression of a child clutching a candy jar.
That pause was always momentary. He would reach for her where she stood, pulling her into an embrace so sudden and consuming it was a capture.
Her body would inevitably be pinned to the mattress moments later. She’d long since stopped wearing underwear to bed.
What was the point? He was only going to strip it all off anyway.
The sheets and duvet were a disaster after they disentangled.
When she’d complained that she couldn’t possibly handle the daily laundry, he’d only suggested she move into his room.
She’d playfully slapped his arm, telling him to cut the bullshit, but the intense, feral look in his eyes told her he was serious, and she knew he’d drag her there within days. Jina frowned, already planning her refusal.
A few months ago, her world was collapsing. Now, her biggest problem was how to fend off the man who came to her bed every night.
The truth, the shameful, delicious truth, was that she didn’t want to stop him. When she was in his arms, she shed her identity, becoming nothing more than a creature driven by pure, unthinking instinct.
At first, the fading adrenaline would leave her with a sour taste of self-reproach, but even that had been scrubbed away. The day before yesterday, she’d even reached for him when he made to leave. The cost of that audacity, of course, had been immense.
Jina lifted the hem of her sweater.
“It’s a disaster…”
Her skin was a canvas of purple and scarlet, covered in the evidence of his teeth from just forty-eight hours prior.
Since they’d become intimate, the marks never truly faded. In the beginning, he hadn’t conTrolld his strength, leaving not just bites, but bruises—the undeniable imprint of his hands on her chest. But after she’d shown him the pain, he seemed to calibrate his force.
Not that he stops leaving them entirely.
He found a sweet spot, astonishingly accurate, leaving marks that lingered for a day or two, only to be overlaid with fresh ones before the old could vanish.
A faint, soft chuckle escaped her lips. Everything felt unbelievably peaceful, beautifully serene.
She found herself wishing these days would stretch into perpetuity, that she could live forever, walled up in this mansion, safe in his arms, with the luxury of thinking about nothing at all…
It was the moment her thoughts drifted to that impossible horizon.
Grrr.
Kushi, who’d been leading the way, stopped dead. He turned, a low, guttural growl rumbling in his chest.
“What’s wrong?”
Jina, flustered, followed his glare. It was fixed on the mansion’s main gate. In all her time here, Kushi had never shown such aggression. What the hell could be happening?
She gripped his leash and moved toward the sound. As she neared, she heard the raised voices of the guards arguing with someone on the other side.
“Then you should have contacted us beforehand.”
“I didn’t answer your calls, so I drove directly. The old case isn’t closed, and a new problem has cropped up. I need to speak to Miss Troll immediately.”
“…!”
Jina approached the barricade, startled. The guards, relieved, called out to her.
“They say they’re the police, Miss. Do you know them?”
Jina handed Kushi’s leash to a guard and walked out to the front of the mansion gates.
“Oh! Miss Troll!”
Inspector Haywood, the owner of the voice, grinned a bright, unwelcome smile when he saw her.
“Camilla Jenkins is missing, and you, my dear, are the prime suspect! We’ve come to find you!”
The chill air hung heavy over Kenwood House in Hampstead Heath Park, but the place was still bustling with locals and tourists.
People grumbled openly about the sky—clear moments ago, it had now become a thick, solid gray.
Jina sat among them, staring up at the slate ceiling. It had been pristine blue when she was walking with Kushi. Now, it was utterly overcast, as if the sun had never existed.
Though she was a London native, accustomed to the city’s atmospheric capriciousness, the oppressive darkness today felt deeply unsettling.
A moment later, Inspector Haywood returned from the café corridor, two paper cups in hand. He sat down opposite Jina and slid one toward her.
“I finally get to repay you,” he said.
“What? Repay what—… Oh.”
The Inspector rattled the cup to confirm her realization. She remembered their first meeting, his casual request for a cup of coffee at the hospital. Now, he was settling that petty debt.
Come to think of it… I completely forgot about Mr. Evans’ request. He’d asked her to find a memory card if she ever went back to Kno Diarg.
She hadn’t, and frankly, she had no emotional bandwidth left for that wretched case. The thought vanished.
Jina took a tentative sip of the coffee. It was unremarkable, ordinary—the kind brewed from a machine that hadn’t been properly serviced.
To Jina’s professional palate, it tasted less like coffee and more like acrid, oily water. She took one sip, pushed the cup aside, and fixed him with a stare.
“Inspector, please stop delaying. What on earth is going on?”
“Right. Where should I even begin…”
Jina sighed as he hesitated.
When the Inspector had abruptly announced at the gate that Camilla was missing and she was the prime suspect, she’d wondered if she was hallucinating.
Kushi’s sustained, hostile growling behind her confirmed it was terrifyingly real. Kushi had kept his teeth bared at Haywood, but the Inspector only looked at him with indifference, a gaze that suggested,
Where is that flea-bitten mongrel barking from?
Kushi was agitated, and the guards were exchanging nervous, questioning looks. They couldn’t allow the Inspector into the mansion without a warrant, even if he was police. In the end, Jina had handed Kushi’s leash to the guards and stepped outside.
Ian’s earnest warning—don’t leave the mansion—felt heavy in her mind, but she had no choice.
I’m with the police, at least.
No matter how savage the criminal organization, or how precarious London’s public safety was, no lunatic would attempt a kidnapping right in front of a detective.
The sky had begun to darken as they walked, and by the time they reached Kenwood House, the park’s closest café, it was as black as twilight.
Jina gazed at the sky, which seemed to mirror her own foreboding, rested her chin on her hand, and waited.
The Inspector pondered a moment longer, then pulled a document from his bag.
“Sign here, please.”
“This is…”
“You’ve done this once before. You know the spot.”
It was the standard form confirming she hadn’t been coerced during the interview. Jina scowled and snatched the paper, making a show of ripping it in half.
“If I don’t sign that, do you get disciplinary action?” she asked, remembering his immediate, rude proclamation of her as a suspect. “Honestly, you’re unbelievable. I even bought you a coffee.”
“You said you were repaying me for that.”
“Ah, right. Then how about a pastry? Cookies? A bribe-sandwich?”
At the Inspector’s sly demeanor, Jina slowly lowered the paper—still unsigned.
“Inspector, if you joke about me being a suspect in front of other people one more time, I’m filing an official complaint.”
“It’s not a joke,” he countered, the weariness gone, replaced by a serious flicker in his eyes. “I’m telling you this because you are genuinely the prime suspect.”
“About two weeks ago, Camilla Jenkins went missing. The person who reported it was Rob Fisher.”
“Rob Fisher?”
“He was one of the Kno Diarg team members. He sustained minor injuries, and Ian Aylesford had found him a job within the Aylesford Group afterward, though he’s since quit.”
The name was vaguely familiar—someone tied to the horror.
“He reported that Camilla had been… eaten—no, that she had simply disappeared. When we visited her home, we confirmed she was missing. However, we’re certain it was a kidnapping.”
“Why?”
“A shattered mobile phone was found at the scene. Furthermore, her bag and belongings she had upon returning home were scattered all over the room. If she were going out again, she would take her bag and phone first, right? The room was a mess. Judging by the scattered items, it looks like Ms. Jenkins struggled.”
The word “struggled” sent a raw shiver down Jina’s spine, and she pulled her coat collar tighter. It brought back her own memories, making her desperate to return to the security of the mansion.
“Okay. Even if that’s true, she disappeared from her own home two weeks ago. So why am I the prime suspect? Did her home CCTV catch me swinging a baseball bat?”
“Nothing was captured.”
“What?”
“You mentioned CCTV. Her house didn’t have one, but we checked footage from a nearby shop window. It only captured Ms. Jenkins entering. No one was seen leaving. No one else was seen entering, either. The door opened slightly once, but not enough for a person to pass through…”
“Then why in God’s name am I a suspect?”
“Well… it’s strange to call it a grudge, but you are the only one who would have reason to harbor ill will towards Ms. Jenkins.”
“Me? Why?”
“The last person she met on the day she disappeared was you, and it was not a pleasant conversation, was it? We confirmed this via CCTV near the Aylesford headquarters and their security personnel.”
He must have seen the confrontation, the moment Camilla had appeared out of nowhere to declare Ian’s change in taste.
“I understand the term ‘suspect’ doesn’t sit well with you, but in situations like this, even without concrete evidence, the last person to have met and spoken with the individual is considered a suspect. Please try to understand.”
“…”
She couldn’t argue. He clearly hadn’t come here to arrest her, only to confirm her story. She reluctantly accepted the unpleasant title.
“But couldn’t you have handled this confirmation over the phone? Even if my mobile was unreachable, you could have called the Aylesford mansion. They would have answered.”
“Hmm, well… I actually needed to meet you in person to discuss a few things. It’s not just about Ms. Jenkins’ case. It’s about the Kno Diarg matter, too.”
“Why Kno Diarg again?”
“It seems Rob Fisher went there.”
“…Seems to have gone?”
“This is also a long story. When Mr. Fisher reported Ms. Jenkins’ disappearance, he said some bizarre things. He mentioned a monster, and that he needed to find a ‘Mr. Parker.’”
“…!”
“And then he sent me some strange drawings. He insisted I look at them first.”
The Inspector pulled out his mobile and held a photo in front of Jina. The moment she saw what he presented, Jina gasped. They were strange, unfamiliar glyphs—more like symbols than characters.
“Mr. Fisher said that after looking at this, if you looked at photos of Kno Diarg Mansion or Ian Aylesford, you would ‘see the truth.’ He was practically wailing, utterly terrified.”
Jina heard him but was staring blankly at the photo.
I’ve seen something similar before.
What was it? She felt a memory hovering just out of reach, but something felt like it was physically covering her eyes, blocking the light.
Don’t look. Don’t find out.
It felt like a whisper in her head. No, not a whisper. It sounded chillingly like Ian’s voice. Why? What is this…
Bzzzzzzzz!
Her mobile phone on the table erupted with a loud, violent sound. Ian’s name flashed on the screen. Feeling the Inspector’s gaze fix intently on the name, Jina picked it up.
“Just a moment. I need to take this.”
“Yes, please do.”
With the Inspector’s permission, Jina moved a short distance away and pressed the call button.
“Ah, Ian. What—”
📱-Why did you leave the mansion?
His voice cut her off before she could finish. Jina involuntarily pulled the phone away from her ear, staring at the screen. What is it? Ian’s voice was utterly wrong. It wasn’t his familiar, pleasant deep tone. It was broken, like a speaker filled with metallic, crackling static.
After a brief, horrifying silence, he spoke again.
📱-Who are you with right now?
It was a chilling sound, like a great beast growling, barely suppressing a building, furious rage. That sound was definitely not human.
What the hell is that sound?
Fear clawed up her legs, instantly seizing her breath. The terror was overwhelming, numbing her senses.
Her body froze, incapable of even a choked sound. The voice, as if echoing from the deepest, darkest cave in the world, plunged her surroundings into darkness, even in the middle of the day.
In the fear that crushed her physical freedom, only her mind struggled for escape.
Run.
A voice echoed in Jina’s head. It sounded like her own, yet like someone else’s. Like a friend’s voice, like her teacher’s from childhood, like the cook’s from this morning, like her dead father’s. The voice of everyone, unknown, familiar, cried out.
Run!
“Ah…”
She intended to scream with every ounce of strength. She had to flee from Ian, from wherever he was, to the farthest, safest place imaginable.
It was the moment her sharpest, most desperate scream was about to tear from her throat.
––—!
A bizarre, earth-shaking sound ripped from the other end of the line. It was unmistakably a roar.
Like lightning splitting a dark sky, the sound spread from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes.
She couldn’t understand its meaning, only instinctively sense that the ‘thing’ on the other side was immensely, fatally enraged.
And so, she had to prostrate herself.
Because it was a being that had commanded fear since the dawn of time. It was the natural order: accept, worship, serve, and be consumed. Therefore…
The voice telling her to run receded into the distance.
That voice was now crying.
Jina felt like she knew who the voice belonged to.
Mom…?
Her consciousness plunged deeper. The crying was swallowed by the monster’s voice, which covered and covered all other sounds, as if determined not to leave a single trace of their existence.
Then, in the moment only one voice remained in the world.
“Miss Troll?”
“…!”
Jina finally snapped back to reality, thanks to Inspector Haywood’s voice and the sight of his hand waving in front of her eyes.
“…?”
She glanced around. What was that just now? What happened?
Ah, the Inspector had shown her something. And then Ian had called.
Haywood waved his own phone again, showing her a picture of Ian: immaculately dressed in a suit, a light brown trench coat suiting his tall frame.
Looking at the photo of his profile, Jina felt a moment of raw, possessive pride, but she involuntarily tightened the corners of her mouth and pushed the Inspector’s phone away with her hand. She mouthed the words:
Please put it away.
📱-Jina?
“Ah, I’m sorry. What were you saying? The sound… it seemed a bit strange.”
As she tried to recall the horrific voice she’d heard just moments ago, Ian’s pleasant, deep tone flowed through the speaker once more.
📱-I just got back and you weren’t there, so I called. Where are you? I told you not to go out, it’s dangerous. Are you with someone else?
“I’m here at Kenwood House. It’s the closest café in the park. And I’m with Inspector Haywood right now.”
📱-Inspector Haywood?
For some reason, his voice seemed to have dropped an octave, the tone dangerously low.
“Um, he’s the one in charge of Kno Diarg.”
📱-Why are you meeting him?
“Camilla Jenkins is missing, and they say I’m a suspect.”
A low, unsettling chuckle came across the line.
📱-They’re barking up the wrong tree.
Jina flinched. The certainty in his voice was unnerving, as if he knew exactly who the perpetrator was.
At that moment, the Inspector, who had been watching her intently, pulled the document she had almost signed back toward him. He quickly scribbled something on the back with a pen and held it out for her to see.
📱[Do you perhaps have a history of domestic violence, or something like that?]
Taken aback by the unexpected question, Jina pulled the phone slightly away from her ear, covered the microphone with her hand, and glared at the Inspector.
“What are you talking about?”
The Inspector looked mildly embarrassed, then shrugged, apparently relieved that wasn’t the case. He then spoke loudly, clearly projecting for Ian’s benefit.
“Hello, Mr. Aylesford. It’s been a while since we’ve spoken like this. Do you happen to know anything about the whereabouts of Camilla Jenkins?”
📱-Why are you asking me that.
Jina found his voice strange. He wasn’t even attempting to hide his displeasure. Ian never showed his emotions so openly to others.
She sometimes caught him in the mansion, and he would have an almost frighteningly expressionless face for his secretaries, completely unlike the smiling, demanding man who came to her room at night.
It was as if even a sliver of his emotions was too precious to waste on anyone but her.
He offered no smile, no frown—his face a terrifying blank canvas. She’d learned long ago that the only time his features stirred was when he sought her out. And hadn’t that fact sparked a perverse, inexplicable sense of pride in her chest?
Yet now, he aimed a bewildering, cold hostility directly at the Inspector.
Why?
Haywood, for all his eccentricities, was still a police officer. Even as the Aylesford heir, Ian had no need to deliberately provoke law enforcement. He wasn’t stupid. So why the performance?
In that moment, the Inspector rose, leaned into the phone, and spoke with piercing clarity.
“Mr. Aylesford is also one of the suspects.”
It wasn’t her imagination; the word suspect felt carved from ice. At the next table, people leaned closer, murmuring, “Suspects?”
A sharp, stifled gasp came from the other end of the line.
“Kushi? Is Kushi there?”
The sound was sickeningly familiar, the same wheezing gasp Kushi had made just before Jina had finally walked out the door.
“No.” The reply was short, firm, and too quick.
“On second thought, Kushi is eating… No, I’ll tell you later. Inspector, do you have any other questions? I’ll hand the phone back.”
“No. That’s fine.” The Inspector waved a dismissive hand, indicating the call was over.
Jina confirmed she’d be inside shortly and killed the call, her finger hitting the ‘end’ button with unnatural speed.
Anyone who’d listened to her and Ian’s terse exchange would know the unsettling intimacy of their connection. She refused to let anyone else see it.
As soon as her phone was pocketed, the Inspector’s gaze snapped back to her, as if he’d been waiting for the silence.
“When did you two start dating?”
“…We’re not dating.”
The Inspector merely glanced at his own empty cup, then pointed a finger at Jina’s half-full one she’d pushed to the side. It was a clear, unspoken request.
“We must protect the environment. Even the coffee beans, hauled from distant lands, deserve a meaningful end.”
His easygoing remark grated against the tension. Jina picked up her cup and poured the remaining cold coffee into his.
He drank the now-cold dregs in a single, unceremonious gulp, not wasting a drop, and then ran his tongue across his lips. Left to his own devices, he looked like a man who would simply buy another.
“Wouldn’t it be better if… Mr. Aylesford came here?” Jina interjected quickly. “It would be efficient for the Inspector to meet everyone while you’re in the area.”
Ian’s voice, raw with unconcealed displeasure, echoed in her inner ear. A strange, sickening feeling of culpability settled in her gut. She had done wrong. She had dared to anger ‘it’…
“…?” A shiver, colder than the coffee, traced its way down her spine. Jina raised a hand to her face, confused.
What the hell was I thinking?
It was disconcerting. Her thoughts felt clipped, fractured, as if an invisible wall had descended to prevent any further introspection.
At that moment, the Inspector crumpled the empty cup in his hand, a look of profound disappointment crossing his features.
“What kind of police officer gathers suspects together for a group interrogation?”
“Is that… so?”
She realized he was right. In every drama she’d seen, suspects were always called in for questioning one by one.
“And Mr. Aylesford has a solid alibi. During the estimated time of disappearance, he was in a conference call with the overseas branch. More urgently, Rob Fisher. He’s apparently gone to Scotland, but he’s unreachable. I’ve alerted the police there, but be prepared—he might do something at Kno Diag.”
“Prepared?”
“I can’t share the entire content of the call… but Mr. Rob Fisher seems to have an extreme phobia of Kno Diag. When a person’s phobias exceed a certain level, they tend to act in a specific, destructive way. What do you think that is?”
Jina couldn’t formulate a reply.
The Inspector let the slight silence stretch before giving the answer himself.
“Arson.”
“Haaahm.”
Andy yawned, stretching his jaw wide as he glanced up. It was mid-winter, days cut short, and with the heavy cloud cover, darkness had already descended.
The cafeteria staff, done for the day, kept shooting him pointed glances. They clearly wanted him gone, but Andy paid them no mind, instead pulling up his mobile.
A few taps brought up the photo Rob Fisher had sent him. Below it was the recording of Jina’s face as she took Ian’s call after viewing the image. He scratched his cheek, muttering.
“Both of them are suspicious.”
He replayed the moment Jina took Ian’s call. The second Ian spoke, Jina’s pupils dilated to an impossible degree. Andy knew exactly what that physical reaction meant. Utter, blinding fear.
Jina Troll had clearly tried to scream. But her focus seemed to vanish for a microsecond, and then her eyes snapped back, calm. Serene. As if the preceding moment of terror had never happened.
Is that even possible?
No actor, no matter how skilled, could fake such a drastic, instantaneous shift. For an ordinary person, it was physically impossible.
Yet, she’d recovered in an instant. It wasn’t an act. The abnormal physical reactions had simply ceased to exist. It was as if she had erased the fear from her mind the second it registered.
It’s like she was under strong hypnosis. That’s not possible with just a phone call.
Unless Ian was running a secret society that sent owl admission notices, that kind of instant mental control was science fiction.
He still wanted to confirm the cause of the fear he’d witnessed. When he’d asked Jina if Ian was threatening her, she’d looked at him as if he were deranged.
He felt awkward, but Andy had been determined to try again—with the “monster photo” Rob Fisher had described.
“Inspector, after seeing that, if you look at Ian’s photo, he looks like a monster! Oh, Lord! Oh, dear…”
Rob had dissolved into shouts and sobs. Andy tried to reason with him, but the man was hysterical.
“Camilla saw it too! She definitely saw it! It’s not a lie!” He’d screamed, frantic with excitement.
To settle him down, Andy agreed, promising to look at the picture and then at Ian’s photo, just as Rob instructed. Of course, he saw no monster.
“Mr. Rob Fisher, I’m sorry, but Mr. Ian Aylesford’s photo did not appear to me in any other form. If it’s alright, perhaps we could meet once…”
“No! That can’t be!”
Rob had shouted before slamming the phone down. Andy sighed deeply and submitted paperwork to check Rob’s psychiatric history.
He’d texted his police friends, begging for a favor, and the results came back quickly: Rob had no psychiatric records whatsoever.
He didn’t seem strange when I met him either.
Andy had called Rob to the station a few days after he’d returned to London. He’d been an ordinary, timid young man in his early twenties.
A typical young man, brief with strangers, but whose voice soared when he discussed his favorite football club.
Andy had sensed nothing unusual. Rob cursed Colin, the colleague who had disappeared and abandoned them, but expressed profound gratitude for Ian, who had found him a new job.
Now, after a long silence, he was screaming that Ian was a monster.
When someone becomes mentally unstable, their existing emotions usually deepen.
Why had this become the polar opposite?
And besides his terrified, sporadic screams, Rob had seemed perfectly fine. The messages he claimed to have exchanged with Camilla, even his lucid conversation with Andy—none of it showed a sign of cognitive decline. In short, by any standard: he was not crazy.
If he wasn’t crazy, Andy would have to officially record his testimony.
But how could he write down, in a police report, that a grown man sees a monster when he looks at a drawing?
Just in case, he’d shown it to other colleagues; they saw nothing unusual. Except for one colleague from Scotland, who admitted, “I feel a bit uneasy,” and left work a few hours early.
Still, he’d shown it to Jina. And she had reacted exactly as Rob had described, as if she’d seen a monster.
But it only lasted a few seconds. It was rational to dismiss it as delusion, but Jina’s trembling figure was burned into his memory.
Camilla, Rob, and Jina.
He cycled through the three names, searching for the common thread that linked them—the thing they possessed that others lacked, but nothing came to mind.
Andy checked the opening hours posted by the entrance.
Closing time: 4:30 PM.
The clock read 4:15 PM.
The moment he saw a staff member start dismantling the coffee machine, he lunged forward, placing an order.
“One flat white!”
“Sir, our milk today is—”
“Espresso is fine, then!”
Perhaps it was the desperate determination in his voice, his refusal to leave without the necessary caffeine. The staff member sighed, then wordlessly slid a small cup of espresso across the counter.
“Thank you. My head doesn’t work without this.” Andy tossed the espresso back in one go, the dark liquid scalding his throat. He coughed from the heat, fanned his face with his hand, and grabbed his bag.
In that microsecond of pain and caffeine rush, a hypothesis flashed through his mind.
“…!”
His eyes widened. He immediately pulled out his phone and searched for one name: the Inspector in Scotland who had handled the Kno Diag case just before he had.
CRASH!
Ian’s kick sent a beautiful antique side table, one worthy of being called a cultural asset, flying across the room to slam into the wall.
Fragments of shattered wood and varnish rained down on Kushi, who was a mere lump of dark red meat lying on the floor.
Without the temporary name tag the staff had attached to its neck, no one would recognize the mutilated mass as the black dog.
Ian, unable to contain the volcanic surge of his rage, took another step.
CRUNCH.
Beneath his foot, Kushi’s bones broke, the sound sickeningly indistinguishable from the splintered table fragments.
The moment he stepped through the front door, he knew. Jina was not there.
The sweet, heady scent that always pleased him upon his return was fading. He searched, swiftly, savagely. But she was nowhere in the mansion.
Where did she go?
Jina might not realize it, but he had been constantly implanting suggestions in her mind.
How many times had he whispered that this mansion was the only safe place for her?
He’d done it while simultaneously drowning her in pleasures she couldn’t handle.
It was a delightful form of torture. When he moved his hips, thrusting deep inside, she would sob and collapse into a small, weeping heap.
He would hold her soft body, even as she begged him to stop, whispering incessantly: Wait for me here.
He wouldn’t stop the motion of his hips until she answered clearly that she would. Even if she answered, he pretended not to hear and kept moving, driving her to tears and multiple, frantic affirmations.
When she finally fainted, he would lick up everything she had shed.
He roughly manipulated her mind—sharp, almost dangerously so—and deliberately made it dull.
As those days became the routine, she stopped asking when she could leave, instinctively refusing to exit the room even as the confinement suffocated her.
How deliriously happy he had been when he confirmed that fact. He’d praised her obedience and didn’t withdraw from her body until the morning light.
When it was time for her to finally move, he reluctantly pulled out, and the hot, ravaged hole that had held him all night couldn’t close, quivering in need.
He buried his face there again. Everyone in the mansion had wondered why they were an hour behind schedule that day.
In any case, he had to know why she’d broken his suggestion and gone outside.
I was being extra careful because she’s of the Troll bloodline.
He had to be more vigilant when controlling Jina’s mind. Unlike others who surrendered completely and at once, Jina never fully succumbed, no matter how much he distorted her memories and drove his suggestions deep.
It must be the power of the Troll blood.
That was why, if he let his guard down for even a moment, she clawed at her original self.
When he’d left on a two-day business trip, Jina had felt a strange unease toward Kushi, who had remained by her side, and had tried to push the dog away.
She’d even tried to go outside. If he hadn’t ended the trip early and returned, she would have fled.
After that close call, Ian held her in his arms every single day, scrubbing her memory and implanting new commands.
The human mind was like paper: repeated erasure left it tattered. When it hit its limit, a hole opened, and nothing more could be erased.
Yet today, she had finally left.
Just then, Kushi had sensed its master’s return and dragged its broken body back, bowing its head and trembling before him.
He immediately clamped his hand around the dog’s skull. What Kushi had seen was instantly conveyed to him.
He saw a man smiling, waving at the guards.
Andy Haywood.
In the dog’s memory, Jina immediately followed the man out of the mansion. The moment he saw it, he called Jina. And then, with his own raw strength, he crushed Kushi.
ROOOOAR!
Kushi writhed, its sound less a dog’s whimper and more a monster’s screech. Its bones shattered, and bloody foam gurgled from its muzzle.
Still, his rage was insatiable.
He should have consumed that human.
Anger surged, volcanic and dark, at the thought of having to recapture Jina, whose suggestion was now broken.
The real problem was what happened the second Jina answered his call. No matter the words exchanged, she had recognized him for what he was by his voice.
She’d hastily employed the ancient language of power. It was a savage act of self-erasure, of mind-wiping, but she’d had no choice.
Otherwise, she would have fled, truly fled.
Now, what was the next move?
The human mind was always more easily penetrated when it was unstable.
Wasn’t that why he hadn’t prevented the kidnapping?
But now, the thought of other human males holding her, looking at her like that—it was a disgusting violation.
He pondered what could hurt Jina most deeply, something that wouldn’t cause physical damage. Then, he recalled the word she mumbled while she slept:
Mother.
“Ah.” A bright, chilling smile stretched across Ian’s face. Mother. That was the name of the emptiness within Jina.
When he first arrived in London, wearing this convenient skin, the documents the Chairman had given him were filled with information about Jina.
Her parents were listed with three names. He’d initially wondered if three were required for human reproduction, but he soon understood: the one who had given birth and the legal mother were different.
As their relationship deepened, and they began to share intimate stories, he enjoyed cautiously prying into her past, a topic she never approached fondly.
It gave him an inexplicable satisfaction that she told him secrets she withheld from everyone else.
To reveal her weakness herself.
It was a foolish, almost lovely act.
So, whenever Jina spoke of her mother, he adopted an even greater facade of tenderness.
He would embrace her, kiss her forehead and cheeks, and simply hold her, stroking her hair. And Jina, devoid of any sexual intent, would simply burrow deeper into his arms.
Frankly, he still couldn’t perfectly grasp that kind of human behavior.
He knew precisely when she felt the deepest pleasure.
When he thrust his penis deep near her cervix and bit her neck, she would shed her pathetic human reason and howl like an animal.
He found that sight so pleasing, he deliberately moved more roughly, driving her to the brink.
What was so difficult about moving his hips a little for the foolish, lovely creature in his arms?
He had become engrossed in making Jina cry, a perfect act of submission. Yet, she preferred that trivial act of simple holding, no different than breathing, over his exhaustive efforts.
As he was lost in thought, a pleasant, sweet scent wafted in through the open window.
Ian rose instantly. Jina had returned.
With a cold, possessive gaze, he commanded the lump of mangled flesh on the floor.
“Go back.”
Grrr.
At his words, the lump made a weak, rattling sound. Ian sneered at the detestable whimper.
The torn, mashed flesh and shattered bone writhed for a sickening moment, then, as if an invisible hand had reassembled a dropped puzzle, it snapped back into the original shape of a dog.
Kushi staggered, its neck difficult to mend, and walked out into the hallway with its head listing at an impossible angle.
“Aaaah!”
A moment later, a scream, raw and tearing, ripped through the air.
Ian stepped out. At the end of the hallway, a mansion maid stared at the dog with its dangling neck and collapsed, screaming hysterically.
He passed her without a glance. Others, drawn by the maid’s hysteria, watched him walk calmly down the stairs, their expressions confused.
He caught the stronger rush of Jina’s scent and subtly raised his hand. The maid’s continuous, piercing screams snapped off instantly. Those heading up the stairs froze mid-step, statues in the hallway.
Ian moved among the completely still figures, his eyes momentarily losing focus as he walked toward the main entrance. And he saw Jina approaching from a distance.
She was dressed head-to-toe in everything he had bought for her. Everything that he had saturated with his own scent before it ever touched her skin.
I’ll have to keep dragging her along like this.
When he got closer, the foolish girl would smile and rush into his arms, as always. And he would embrace her with open arms, in a place where no other humans could see.
Ian thought this, approaching Jina. He opened his arms, waiting for her familiar, welcoming hug.
Jina’s smile hardened. Then, she took a sharp step back.
“…Jina?” He stopped dead in his tracks, calling her name cautiously.
“What’s wrong?” A sharp, silver gleam flashed deep within his ice-blue eyes.
It was Jina who felt the shame and awkwardness.
Her steps had been heavy the entire way back from leaving the Inspector.
She felt irrevocably dragged, even though she was returning to the place she was conditioned to believe was the safest, coziest refuge.
She’d considered driving straight into the city and checking into any anonymous hotel.
Nevertheless, her feet had carried her back to the familiar, gilded cage.
She stood hesitating at the door for too long.
“Aren’t you going in?”
The guard’s quiet query had finally forced her inside, but her pace slowed even further once she crossed the threshold.
I have a lot to do.
Ian had returned unexpectedly; she needed to prepare his meal. Then change, then rush back to the kitchen staff. But unlike every day before this, the motivation simply wasn’t there.
Why?
Jina lifted her head and stared up at the mansion. It was a stately home that boasted its wealth, its beauty, its perfect elegance, as always. But the moment her eyes truly focused on the façade, a thought struck her:
It is terrifying.
Why did she feel this strange, profound feeling of dread when looking at something so beautiful?
When did this start?
Her memory easily found the anchor point.
That photograph. The picture Inspector Haywood had shown her. The one Rob Fisher had claimed would reveal the truth if she compared Kno Diag and Ian.
What did it look like?
She remembered it being a crude drawing, an unknown, distorted shape. But no matter how fiercely she tried to recall the image, it was gone.
Strangely, only that section of her memory seemed painted black. She could still vividly recall the scrutinizing expression on Inspector Haywood’s face as he watched her.
Just then, she saw Ian step out of the mansion. Surely, he was coming out with that stern expression because he was worried about her.
I must hurry and face him…
The moment the thought of approaching him surfaced, a terrible discomfort churned in her stomach.
That wasn’t all. She found herself utterly unable to take a single step closer. The sight of him closing the distance sent a deep, freezing chill down her spine. Without realizing it, she stumbled back.
“Jina? What’s wrong?” When he stopped, his posture baffled, she couldn’t find the words. How could she possibly say, You look terrifying and wrong?
“No, it’s just…” Jina looked down, then slowly lifted her head. Their eyes met. The moment she saw the dark, flickering light deep beneath the blue irises, everything shifted.
“…!”
A raw, high-voltage jolt of electricity seemed to course through her body. Her mind clouded over again, and the strange, terrible sense of discomfort she’d felt moments ago instantly faded.
In a moment.
I don’t know. Why am I doing this? Jina tilted her head, confused by her own behavior.
“Ah, I need to get the meal ready instead. Let me know if the schedule changes.” Jina glanced around. Usually, at this time, there were staff and groundskeepers walking about, but strangely, there was no one in sight except for herself and Ian. Just like when he comes to my room.
As she nervously scanned the empty grounds for other people, Ian, who had been watching her silently, finally spoke.
“I told you not to go out.”
“I know.” Her voice was tight. “But the officer came looking for me right in front of the gate. How could I not go out in that situation?”
“Then why didn’t you simply talk inside?”
“At first, I thought it might be fine, but… the secretaries wouldn’t like it if we brought the police inside.”
The Chairman was always in the news due to factory layoffs.
On those days, when reporters lurked outside, the secretaries were notoriously on edge. She knew that on such days, the staff kitchen made more cookies and desserts than usual.
“And the officer also said it would be better to talk outside rather than in the mansion.”
“Did he really say that?” Ian’s skepticism was a low rumble.
Jina answered urgently, “I guess the security personnel here were a bit overwhelming.”
Somehow, I felt that I shouldn’t share the full circumstances with him.
“Then hurry and go in. It feels a bit awkward when other people see us like this.”
“What does it matter if anyone sees it?” Ian dismissed the concern. “The secretaries all know you and I were together at the Chelsea mansion, anyway.”
At his possessive words, Jina playfully poked his side, a light, pain-free tap, and moved to brush past him. The moment Ian reached out to catch her arm, Jina turned and spoke, cutting him off.
“Please don’t come to my room today. I’ll lock all the doors and sleep. And about going out, I think it’s time I do that a bit. I’m feeling so anxious, staying cooped up here is suffocating.”
“But…”
“On the condition of attaching security.” She paused, defiant. “Is it done?”
“…”
The silence stretched. The last time he had suggested hiring a bodyguard, Jina had been horrified and refused.
Ian had known she would—it was why he suggested it. Yet now, she was volunteering to leave the mansion, even with a shadow attached.
“Then, see you tomorrow!” Jina waved a quick hand and headed for the entrance.
Ian relaxed, watching her retreating back. The mansion would operate as usual. However, the maid and any other staff who had seen Kushi would wake up with a fleeting, brief lapse in memory.
“…It’s frustrating.” The subtle, mental hint that had ensured she walked willingly into the safest place in the world for weeks had vanished in an instant.
What the hell did that man do?
He remembered the human he’d seen through Kushi’s eyes. The encounter had undoubtedly affected her’s fragile mind.
It would be ideal to simply grab Jina now and devour her memories, but since she’d physically recoiled from him and the hypnotic spell over the mansion was failing, recklessly manipulating her mind now could lead to the complete chaos of all his careful work.
Ian crossed his arms, staring intently at the place where she’d disappeared.
“I want to go out…”
It was a request he could not refuse. He recalled the schedule his secretary had prepared.
A slow smile spread across his face.
“There’s no reason not to go out. If you want to go out, I’ll certainly let you.”
But when you return, I will make sure you never want to leave again.