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Chapter 23
“Disgusting. Get lost. But don’t you ever lose your respect for me.”
“Of course not.”
At Laila’s spirited reply, Paulo nodded in satisfaction. Aris, meanwhile, cast a sidelong glare at the liquor bottle.
‘Paul Forde 30 years.’
Its taste was exquisite, but a few years ago, an attack by monsters had completely destroyed both the distillery and its brewing secrets. Because of that, it now remained only as a legendary whiskey, priceless beyond measure.
Surely they weren’t saying they’d finish the whole bottle tonight. But when the others said they’d drink beer first and then use the whiskey as a chaser, Aris realized—they really were serious. He was used to cleaning up corpses, so clearing away these people afterward wouldn’t be a big deal.
Five beer mugs, filled to overflowing, clinked together with a sharp clash. Mireia, who only moments ago had been grumbling, now gulped hers down in one go and let out a loud “Khaah, that’s the stuff!”. Popping a piece of fried chicken into her mouth, her face brimmed with pure happiness.
Paulo, knowing that drinking Paul Forde on an empty stomach would mean it would vanish in a heartbeat, warned them he wouldn’t open the whiskey until they’d had enough food first. So the others attacked the meal with battlefield ferocity.
Paulo had a gift for guiding conversations so that no one was left out. Thanks to him, the chatter turned boisterous, and Aris even found himself loosening up, speaking casually and without formality. And the Paul Forde truly was delicious; the four of them kept sipping and nodding in agreement. Mireia, her face flushed, smiled lazily after downing a glass.
“Now I get why people went on and on about Paul Forde. It’s even better than I heard. I feel nicely tipsy too. Honestly, it’s good to be alive.”
That last line struck Aris strangely. Rarely had he ever thought it fortunate to still be alive. Yesterday had been his birthday, but aside from childhood, he hadn’t celebrated in years, nor had he received congratulations.
He hadn’t taken tonight’s gathering too seriously either—more like polite small talk than genuine celebration. After all, they’d only known each other for a few days, hardly enough to build trust.
The whiskey was indeed good, but Aris was not the kind who enjoyed drunkenness itself. He could appreciate the taste, but not the dizziness that followed.
Soon, the three of them—who had been exclaiming in delight over every sip—collapsed onto the table almost in unison. Surprised, Aris poked Mireia’s cheek with his finger, while Paulo chuckled slyly.
“Haha! Just as I planned. Stuff them full of beer, and one shot of whiskey is enough to knock them out. Brats.”
Paulo stroked his chin.
“Plenty of whiskey left, too.”
With a victor’s grin, he resealed the bottle and glanced at Aris, who was still sitting upright.
“You drank a lot too. How are you still fine?”
“I’m not fine. I’m just pretending to be.”
“Drunks never admit they’re drunk. The fact that you admit it means you’re still sober.”
Paulo himself had drunk plenty, but his complexion hadn’t changed a bit. He gave Shio and Laila’s shoulders a few taps. Neither of them budged.
“They’re dead.”
Aris gave him a look that meant What now? Paulo only shrugged.
“Leave them here. Let them wake up on their own in the morning. If they’re late, I’ll make them run laps. Tell them that if you can.”
“You’re the one who made them drink, and now you’re just abandoning them? That’s low.”
“I’d love to crash here too, but I’ve got a wife waiting for me at home. Anyway, if you’re really not drunk, help me out.”
Paulo hauled Shio up and tossed him toward Aris, then slung Laila over his own shoulder and headed upstairs. He shoved open the nearest door and dropped her onto the bed without much ceremony. Aris did the same with Shio.
They came back down. Paulo picked up the unconscious Mireia and carried her to her bedroom, while Aris tossed the dirty dishes into the sink and piled the leftover food together.
Paulo didn’t even need directions; he remembered Mireia’s room well. The furniture was arranged almost exactly as he recalled, which made him chuckle faintly. He laid her gently on the bed and pulled the blanket up to her chin.
Compared to how he’d treated Shio and Laila, his favoritism was obvious. Just as he was about to leave quietly, Mireia grabbed the hem of his shirt.
“Paulo.”
“What?”
Her voice was surprisingly clear, but Paulo knew she was completely drunk. It was hard to tell whether she was sleep-talking or half-aware of what she was saying.
“Paulo, I’m really, really fine now.”
They’d spoken casually since childhood, but after she became his subordinate, Mireia had trained herself to use honorifics. In unguarded moments, though—like tonight, with drink in her system—her old familiar tone slipped out.
“Yeah.”
“Why’d you come?”
“To drink.”
“Liar.”
“No, really.”
“You know I’m fine, right?”
“I know, I know.”
“I really am. Don’t worry.”
“Got it.”
“Really. I love having you here. I love this house.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“I’m fine.”
“Just so you know, tomorrow when you remember this drunken rambling, you’re gonna tear your hair out.”
“No I won’t.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Be good to Cadi-unnie.”
“Of course.”
“If you make her cry, I’ll kill you.”
“Hey, between me and Cascadia, who do you like better?”
“Cadi.”
“Fair enough. I’ll pass that along to her.”
“Mm, make sure you do.”
“But Mireia—let go of my shirt so I can leave.”
“Mmm……”
Her grip loosened. As Paulo pried her fingers free, he noticed a bracelet dangling from her left wrist.
“What’s this?”
When he reached for it, Mireia—despite being dead drunk—lashed out with lightning speed and smacked his hand.
“Don’t touch it.”
“What is it that makes you so serious?”
“It’s mine.”
“Fine. Keep it.”
There’s no prying a claimed possession from a drunk. Smiling faintly at her ragged breathing, Paulo slipped quietly out.
When he returned downstairs, Aris was nowhere to be seen. But a noise from the back door gave him away.
The back door opened to a full view of the sea. Aris leaned against the frame, gazing out.
“What are you doing?”
At Paulo’s voice, Aris pressed a glass of cold water to his temple and murmured,
“Bit dizzy. Just getting some fresh air before going back in.”
“Alright. Don’t stay out too long.”
“What about you? Shouldn’t you head home?”
“I will.”
But instead of leaving, Paulo crouched down beside him, lit a cigarette, and puffed. Earlier they’d both been chattering away; now, silence stretched awkwardly. The sea breeze played with Aris’s braided hair and Paulo’s short tied ponytail for a long while before Paulo finally spoke.
“So, which room are you using?”
“The attic on the third floor.”
“What? That was my room.”
“Your room?”
“Yeah. I lived here too, up until six years ago.”
That explained Aris’s earlier suspicion—Paulo seemed far too familiar with the house.
“Sounds like this house carries a lot of stories.”
“It’s not the house with stories—it’s us.”
Paulo exhaled a stream of smoke.
“I was a war orphan, and a child soldier. Once, during an air raid, everyone in my unit was wiped out. I was the only one left. Mireia’s father, who was part of that operation, found me sitting there. You should’ve seen his face—no wonder, I was only twelve at the time. And my commander? The bastard used to shove kids into enemy lines and tell us that if we got captured, we should kill ourselves rather than be tortured. I actually held a pistol to my head. That’s when he grabbed me. I thought for sure I was about to be tortured… but instead, they gave me the best meal I’d ever had.”
Listening to Paulo ramble on, Aris thought to himself: once some people start talking drunk, there’s no shutting them up. All you could do was endure until they finished. So he let Paulo speak.
“I figured it was my last supper before execution, and resigned myself. But instead, they brought me here. Later I asked why, and he said he couldn’t trust an orphanage. Too unreliable. He had spare rooms in his house, and figured one more person wouldn’t matter.”
Paulo paused, sifting through memories.
“So I lived here from when Mireia was two years old. I felt indebted, so when I enrolled in the academy, I left to live in the dorms. But every holiday, I came back. Mireia and I aren’t quite siblings, but maybe like uncle and niece. These days, of course, I’m married and live elsewhere.”
After a long monologue, Paulo suddenly turned to Aris.
“Have you counted the bedrooms in this house?”
“Five, not counting the attic.”
“Right. Every single one of those rooms used to have an owner: Kaid Jainster, Rain Mariard, Mireia Jainster, Hyureo Jainster, Sephiros, and me.”
Paulo listed the names calmly. But hearing those unfamiliar names, each tied with the surname Jainster, made Aris’s chest tighten with a strange, chilling feeling.
