“Why did you tell me not to become Hugh and George’s dog at Bluebell? Why did you save me at ? When you said you’d help me escape from Labradorham to China or India—did you mean it? When you desperately nursed my addiction, was that only to aid George’s torture? If so, why did you give me the key to remove the tracker in the Labradorham woods? Why did you let me kill George and run? When we reunited at Timothy’s estate, why did you say you wouldn’t pursue me? Why did you hand me the white mask before the ? Did you truly mean you wouldn’t rescue Christopher? Did you really plan to hand me over to Timothy?Then why… why on earth……did you leave me free all these years? Jerome’s contradictions, Jerome himself—I found them endlessly puzzling. Yet…“Don’t be afraid, Jerome. Our bond isn’t broken; it’s changed.”But today I peeled back one more layer of his eyelid. The memory of Jerome collapsed over Anna jolted me to my core. If I strip away each layer of Jerome, I will meet him raw and naked. At that moment, only I will remain for him. I wondered: would that Jerome try to kill me? Would he want me to kill him? Or would we continue living together? Whatever the outcome, one truth remains: contrary to Jerome’s words, our bond will still be strong then.One day hatred and obsession will braid together so tightly they cannot be separated. Then Jerome, like me now, will witness that moment. Until that day, we will live side by side. Jerome will become my dog and live with me.“Even if it’s hard, accept it. There’s nothing else you can do.”I rose from the bed. Three hours remained until the train. It was better to rest a little.I turned off the room light, leaving only the lamp by the door. Jerome shivered occasionally but soon fell asleep under the medicine’s effect. I sat in the armchair, watching him. My heart still pounded with excitement. Pressing my hand to my chest, I didn’t avert my eyes from Jerome. Eight years later, here I was, staring at Jerome asleep in a cheap motel room. Eight years had passed. My throat felt parched, as if I’d swallowed a large grain of salt.When the train time drew near, I woke Jerome. I removed his handcuffs and tucked them and the pistol into my coat. As I dressed him in his coat, he clenched his teeth against the pain from his arm wound. His face was pale. I led him to the station. We bought two coffees at a late-night shop and boarded the train. Jerome sipped his coffee before setting the cup down. Though it was a six-berth sleeper, it was just the two of us, so we took the spacious seats. Jerome leaned back as I drew the curtain. He watched me and asked,“Where are we going?”“What do you need to know?”I replied curtly as I sat. Jerome scooted close and nestled against my side. Left alone, he laid his head on my lap and murmured, “I was thinking of taking a nap.” Already half-asleep, he carefully placed his injured arm across his side. He must have been exhausted physically and emotionally, for he soon drifted off without another word.The train’s rhythmic clatter calmed me. I didn’t touch Jerome or brush his head from my lap. I leaned to part the curtain, but outside was pitch black, reflecting me and Jerome like a mirror. The wounded Jerome and me cradling him.Over the past eight years I had seldom dared to hope. I thought my motives might be inertia rather than hatred or anger. My life continued as aimlessly as the ongoing chase. Sometimes I thought about dying along with the two remaining boys; other times I thought living forever to pursue them wasn’t so bad. Yet occasionally I did harbor hope—vague imaginings: what if this, what if that, what if I could get my revenge.I imagined returning the suffering: addicting them, raping them, beating them near death, saving them, treating them kindly, then killing them. But that was too easy. They’d have to suffer far more than I. Yet I couldn’t conceive how to truly torment them, so I stopped imagining hope.Now Jerome was beside me, yet I felt I was escaping. It seemed I was slipping farther from the pursuit that had driven me for so long. To shake off a creeping depression, I swallowed my cold coffee. The old train lurched onward; all it could do was move forward.When we disembarked it was 3:00 a.m. The night was dark and the wind stung my cheeks. We waited at a nearby inn until dawn. Jerome’s fever persisted; he suffered through the night. In the morning he ate no bread, only drank two cups of tea. After taking more antipyretics, he collapsed and slept again. I left quietly before he woke.Money was tight. First I withdrew all my savings from the bank. I bought a backpack, visited a pharmacy, grabbed water, chocolate, some snacks, and after much deliberation, two pulp novels from a newsstand. I booked tickets for an afternoon train, then hurried back to the inn, hoping Jerome might be °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° awake.He still slept. I shook him but he didn’t awaken. I scratched the back of my head in frustration.“How troublesome…”If it were Teddy, I wouldn’t worry. Teddy was weak, smaller, only fought alley punks, but Jerome was different. He’d always been stronger and larger, and I knew from experience how well he fought. I couldn’t leave him like this. But…I sighed, hung up my coat, washed my face, slipped off my shoes, and crawled into bed. The bed was warm thanks to Jerome’s fever. I nestled against him and fell asleep. The day had been long for me, too. Jerome’s steady breathing and heartbeat gradually soothed me. My tension melted and sleep washed over me.I awoke to a faint voice:“Strawberries topped with sweet cream!”I blinked blearily. Before me was a solid chest, and an arm draped over my shoulder—I must have slept leaning on it. Raising my head, I saw Jerome propped against the pillow, watching the television. An ice-cream commercial played. He looked back at me and gently stroked my hair.“I want ice cream.”I reached out silently. I felt my forehead and cheek—still warm from fever—and noted his pale complexion. Jerome repeated softly:“Ice cream, Raymond.”Even in sickness he was beautiful. I gazed at his flushed cheeks and moist eyes. He looked so inviting that I sat up. I donned my coat, slung on my backpack, laced my shoes, and turned: Jerome was upright too, wearing his coat and extending both hands meekly. Instead of cuffing him, I took his hands and helped him up, then we left the inn together.At the station’s newsstand in the chill winter wind, Jerome chose a pint of chocolate ice cream that looked unbearably sweet to me (I’d expected him to pick strawberry). We stood shivering side by side. Jerome no longer asked where we were headed; he glanced at a sign and murmured, “You must be changing direction.” I said nothing and watched for the train.This time a drowsy lady sat in the compartment. Jerome, by the window, with his fever-blushed ears, began eating his slightly melted ice cream. He offered me some; I, who despise sweets, declined. I took out a pulp novel I’d bought and began to read while Jerome steadily scooped ice cream. When he’d finished the pint, he leaned his head on my lap, exhaled softly, and soon fell asleep. Unconcerned, the train continued its journey.After the lady disembarked, an elderly couple with a child boarded. As meal time arrived, we sat knee-to-knee and ate together. All the while Jerome slept soundly on my lap.“Where are you two headed?” the old woman asked softly. Conscious of Jerome, they spoke quietly, and the child sat calmly watching the scenery.“To somewhere with beautiful views. We’re sightseeing.”“Your friend seems unwell.”“He has a fever.”I checked Jerome’s forehead—it was still warm, though less severe than before. A scab had formed on my own gash from the pistol butt strike. I wiped sweat from his brow.“He should recover by our destination.”The couple and child soon left the train.“Have a good journey,” they called.I nodded and waved; the child shyly waved back.As soon as the train moved, I woke Jerome. He blinked sleepily and looked at me. I helped him sit and handed him the missed meal. He ate some of the sandwich, but without appetite, he barely finished it. He drank more than half the water, then readily accepted and snapped off pieces of a large chocolate bar—but still ate less than half.“You should eat more. We’ll keep moving.”“If I start eating, your empty wallet won’t hold up.”Though he could barely manage chocolate, Jerome boasted.“I have a big appetite.”“Sure you do.”Suspicious, I returned to my seat. When I came back from washing my hands, Jerome was leafing through my pulp novel. I gestured at him while unloading the pharmacy purchases.“Take off your coat and hold out your arm.”“Raymond… please, can’t you take me to a doctor?”Without replying, I moved to his side and tugged his arm. His injured arm had no strength; he had to give it up. I forced off his coat; Jerome groaned as he slipped his arm free from the sleeve. He removed the sweater himself. The bandage bore faint bloodstains. Carefully undoing it, Jerome awkwardly tripped over the book.“What’s this awful book? Do you really want to read a mistress-and-servant romance?”“I just grabbed any book from the stand.”“Yet you seemed to enjoy it.”“I’m busy—just shut up.”Seizing my chance, I peeled off the bloodied gauze. The wound hadn’t worsened. It was swollen as expected, but showed no sign of infection. I held his wrist firmly and poured disinfectant onto the cut. His arm muscles tensed instantly. When I applied more, Jerome let out a low groan. He watched me apply the ointment and cover with fresh gauze. Finally, Jerome teased in a laugh:“Oh, Doctor, that scar will be terrible.”“Don’t complain. In a few years you won’t notice it.”“I doubt that… ow, be gentler—I’m a patient here.”I tied the bandage tightly and tapped his arm. Jerome scowled in mock resentment then silently pulled on his sweater. I handed him antipyretics and painkillers; he swallowed them at once and turned his gaze out the window. I picked up the book and resumed reading. Just as I was about to turn the page, Jerome suddenly asked:“What did Lady Stella tell you?”I looked down at the book and answered:“About what she witnessed.”“Tell me too.”I lifted my gaze. Jerome, leaning his head against the window with the setting sun behind him, watched me. When our eyes met, he smiled.“We have a long journey ahead. We need stories.”“Right. We need stories. Why didn’t you silence Lady Stella?”Instead of answering, Jerome shrugged and rummaged his back pocket. From it he produced a crushed pack of cigarettes. I frowned and muttered, “What a strange hobby.” Jerome, retrieving an ashtray from the armrest, noticed my gaze and shrugged.“Most people get hooked on their first smoke. No special reason. Want one?”“No thanks, I’ll smoke mine.”“This is good stuff.”He smiled and lit one. He handed me the lighter and I lit his cigarette. Having had no chance to smoke earlier, I appreciated it. I exhaled slowly, and Jerome said casually:“I didn’t silence Lady Stella because you saved me. You choked me that day but gave up.”Recalling that moment churned my stomach. I drew in a long drag of smoke without speaking. Outside, darkness had fallen completely and only the train’s rumble cut through the heavy silence. I realized Jerome would fall silent now. If I didn’t answer, he wouldn’t speak again.In eight years, I’d never imagined this scene: Jerome and I on a moving train, talking calmly without violence or coercion. I was escaping—being carried along the tracks to somewhere I didn’t know. The cigarette burned down to the filter, so I stubbed it out and lit another.“I don’t want to kill you. I want revenge.”I whispered, suppressing a chilling premonition and deep fear.“I didn’t want to end it all with death.”“So I took a gamble on Lady Stella.”“A gamble?”“I want nothing to change, Raymond. We bond through hatred, revenge is our trap, and it ends in death. You must kill me. You promised long ago.”Jerome, reclining casually, suddenly closed the distance between us. There was no room to retreat. His heated muzzle—the PPK tucked in my coat—pressed to my forehead. I didn’t even notice when he’d drawn it. In a whisper close enough to feel his breath, he said:“If you don’t keep your promise, I will threaten you anytime.”His finger on the trigger, Jerome spun the gun’s handle toward me. Half-unconsciously, I took it. Unlike me, he showed no tension. Tilting his head curiously, he looked into my eyes, then tapped his forehead to mine—kissed me gently.

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