Chapter 1.1

At 3:16 a.m, on a snow-covered Christmas Day in South Bunch, someone paid a visit to Shavonne’s apartment.

Knock, knock.

The only light source in the dark room was a candle on the desk which was next to a pile of manuscripts, containers with medication, and bottles of alcohol. Shavonne, who had his eyes fixed on the typewriter, attempting to finish the manuscript that was due before the end of the year, shifted his focus to the front door. The door was shrouded in darkness. It was so dense that he couldn’t see the outline of the metal knob or even the door itself.

Knock, knock.

There was another knock at the door. He hadn’t misheard. It was clearer than the first time, as if to announce to Shavonne, with his head bent over the typewriter, that there was indeed someone at the door. Who could it be? There wouldn’t be anyone who would come at this hour.

The face of his lover, August, popped into his head, but only for a brief moment. August had thrown a child-like tantrum  when Shavonne said he would be busy nonstop from Christmas until the end of the year. They weren’t on speaking terms and hadn’t had any contact that whole week.

Knock, knock.

Shavonne picked up the oil lamp and walked over to the door. People like Shavonne don’t just open the door like most people. Instead, Shavonne first checked who was outside by looking through the door lock, but what he saw was not a person or the hallway of the apartment building.

It was a pair of eyes.

Eyes peered back at Shavonne through the door lock and into his apartment.

“…”

Surprised, Shavonne jumped back. What…? His heart raced. Sticky sweat dripped from the hand that held the oil lamp. It must be his imagination. Maybe he was exhausted from being up all night. Shavonne tried to calm himself down.

After catching his breath, Shavonne dared himself to look through the keyhole again. He held the knob firmly, so as to steady himself from the shock, and took another look.

“…Phew.”

The pair of eyes were gone. All he could see was the hallway and a shadow of a man in the background.

However, Shavonne still didn’t open the door. He pretended not to be inside, not to be awake, or not to have heard the knock at all. He hid until his visitor lost interest.

Shortly afterwards, he heard someone come out of the front of the building. It sounded like the steps were slowly retreating. Shavonne was only able to hear the footsteps. Was it a neighbor? The sound of a door opening and closing was heard from somewhere in the distance and soon the footsteps faded.

After a long while, Shavonne ventured out of his apartment. At first, he looked back and didn’t notice anything strange or out of place, but then he spotted a note under the plate on his door, apartment 303 to be exact.

『Good night :-P』

Haaa… What a weirdo. Shavonne tore up the note and threw it away. The crumpled up piece of paper rolled across the floor of the hallway.

In the morning, Shavonne noticed something while he was stumbling out of the apartment, in a haggard state, to deliver the manuscript. There were now two notes on the door plate. One was the note from earlier that he had thrown away and the other one…

『You shouldn’t ignore my sincerity :(』

Shavonne frowned.  But what is this?

Before Christmas, a body was found two blocks away from Shavonne’s apartment on Ira Street in South Bunch..

There must have been another murder, and it couldn’t have been even a day or two since the time it happened. Shavonne nonchalantly walked past the frantic crowd surrounding the body.

It was no secret that Ira Street had the highest crime rate in the area.

As soon as I make enough money, I’ll move to a better neighborhood. Shavonne thought as he buttoned up his coat. Mount Street, outside of the Eastern District, would be much better. It wasn’t as cheap as Ira Street, but he could still afford it…

At that moment, Shavonne never would have thought that there was a connection between the “:-P” note in question and these murders.

Eight years ago, while Shavonne was still in his energetic twenties, it was by chance that he came to work as a prison guard at Lute Prison Camp.

It had been nearly a year since he was kicked out of a government-sponsored orphanage, left to fend for himself after becoming an adult. Shavonne was forced to roam the streets without a penny in his pocket.

He never had much money, but this was the first time he had experienced something like this. He couldn’t afford a place to spend the night or even anything to eat. It was the dead of the winter and the wind was blowing fiercely. It was so bitterly cold that, without a place to spend the night, you’d likely freeze to death. And even if you were to survive, there’s no telling what hardships you’d endure. Shavonne didn’t want to die at the age of 20 or end up with facial paralysis.

He’d do anything to earn money, but he was an orphan and not handsome enough to attract guests with his face. He wasn’t short on talent, but he didn’t have enough experience to be hired for anything.

Should I steal? Or rob a bank? Shavonne thought to himself, letting out a deep sigh. Are my choices to either die or resort to criminal activities?

While crawling on a park bench and staring blankly, Shavonne came across a flyer recruiting guards for Lute Prison Camp.

It was unusual to see a recruitment for prison guards to the general public rather than government officials. Shavonne was just casually browsing the flyers, but his eyes widened suddenly when he read the phrase “room and board provided.” They were looking for an obedient person to fill the role and previous experience and academic background were not required.

I’ll apply. If I’m unlucky, at least I’ll get paid for the interview, but if I’m lucky, maybe… Feeling hopeful with a racing heart, Shavonne didn’t see the red warning in the last line of the flyer.

We don’t want a person who pokes around.

But Shavonne was blinded by the thought of a hearty meal and a warm bed. He didn’t have any doubts in his mind.

* * *

This morning, Shavonne took a note from the door.

No, more like this morning he took ‘another one’.

『With a weather like this, when you go out put on more than one coat or you will freeze.  』

And why would he care if he froze to death? Shavonne scrunched up his face. This was the eighth note he received. Since Christmas, someone would stick a note or two on his door every day.

Shavonne was very upset, because not a day had passed since he was hired as a ghostwriter and asked himself why someone would write that. He left a note on the door that said “I’m going to report you” and he went to the police station in Ira Street.

“There is a pervert who comes to my house every day.” Shavonne said.

The Ira Street police station was small enough to be called a patrol division, but because the people were (relatively) packed together, there were three policemen with Shavonne. One of them said:

“You are not a married woman, so why a pervert?”

The other person said: “And why do you come here if you can just scare him off…”

And the other one said: “Maybe you provoked him.”

Shavonne ignored him and looked at the policeman in charge of the case who fell silent as if he had not heard anything, so Shavonne repeated it again.

“There is a pervert who comes to my house every day.”

The police officer in charge of his case asked him what “kind” of pervert he was. Shavonne replied that he had left eight notes on the door of his house at the same time that he showed the notes to him. The three policemen took them. One said:

“How sensitive you are.”

Another said: “It’s someone who is playing a joke on you, why do you have to come here…”

The other person said, “Are you a pervert if you do that? But if you see someone making omelets, you will call him a chef.”

Shavonne ignored him. The police officer in charge of Shavonne’s case was just looking at the clock on the wall, asking for time to pass quickly, but when Shavonne said “Excuse me,” he came to his senses and gave him a belated reply.

“Well, actually, Mr. Shavonne, you haven’t suffered any real damage, so investigating your case with no proof is a bit…”

“What?” Shavonne asked nervously.

The police officer in charge of Shavonne shrugged.

“It’s impossible to investigate your case. There are no facts or justification for what happened. It’s not possible to determine whether Mr. Shavonne may suffer any harm.”

“Saying that he’s not a pervert… Damn, does he have to be a pervert only when he takes out the pepper?”

“Well, as Mr. Shavonne says, if he were a pervert…”

Then the police officer in charge of Shavonne pointed to the eight notes on the desk. To be exact, the first note, “Good night :-P”, seemed to have been ruffled by the wind.

“It’s cute.”

Shavonne’s police officer in charge mimicked the ‘:-P’ in the first note as a joke. He stuck out his tongue.

He suppressed his urges to fight him, and Shavonne returned to his apartment building. When he stood in front of room 303, Shavonne found the note he had written that said “I’m going to report you.” And (unexpectedly) he found a new note attached in response.

『You’re so mean> :(』

Shavonne nervously grabbed the note and tore it into a thousand pieces before throwing it on the floor.

Before the day ended, it was reported that the hallway in front of Shavonne’s house was in disarray because of a resident with a strong sense of citizenship who saw it, and Shavonne was fined 3 ronas according to the regulations for apartments.

The next day, there was another note. This time, there was not only a note, but also a small paper bag that contained money. There were 4 ronas inside.

『You were fined 3 ronas. Keep one O:) 』

Shavonne took the note and brought it to his only friend, Dr. Fawkes. He pointed to the O:) at the end of the note and asked.

“What is that?”

Dr. Fawkes looked at Shavonne as if he had no idea. For a moment, Shavonne felt like a barbarian.

“An angel.”

He met Dr. Fawkes in the summer seven years ago when he was 21 years old.

It was Dr. Fawkes who helped Shavonne when he was a ‘psychopath’ who roamed the world. Of course, Dr. Fawkes probably doesn’t know that. He only made friends when he did volunteer work (as he later confessed) for the sheer enhancement of his image.

You don’t make friends just for the emotions, but when the feelings between them are right and the relationships between them are also right. In that sense, the friendship between Shavonne and Dr. Fawkes was  more of a difficult bond to endure.

Shavonne was such a poor day laborer that he lived in an apartment on Ira Street, known for its slums, and Dr. Fawkes was a wealthy doctor with a hospital and a mansion in his name on Rewood Street.

But  even so, they became friends. Well, it may not be that strange as the world is full of incomprehensible facts.

Shavonne and Dr. Fawkes have been friends for seven years. So many things have changed, like the long hair that Shavonne had that weighed between one to  four kilograms, the clothes in his closet, he had a ghostwriting job thanks to Dr. Fawkes, he dated a total of 28 people, the last being the one who he was now dating, August Besch. Dr. Fawkes, on the other hand, had not changed. His appearance, his occupation, his favorite dessert, smells he doesn’t like and…

“The year is coming to an end.”

He was at Fawkes’s house. It was like a mansion, with a fireplace, an old golden retriever sleeping on a rug, and a cup of tea on the table that had a subtle fragrance and made noise every time the spoon moved.

“The small, silent snow is falling through the window.” Shavonne murmured.

Dr. Fawkes stirred the teacup with the spoon and made no reply.

Dr. Fawkes rarely spoke during teatime because for him, teatime was the hour of rest. He was not going to exert physical or mental strength.

But even though he knew and understood it, Shavonne still asked him a non-rhetorical question. It was often as simple, vague, and useless as the  street survey that was done in the center of the district.

“What are your goals for next year?”

“Well,”

Dr. Fawkes took a sip of the tea and then answered.

“Commit suicide?”

It was the same thing every year, one and another and another and the next year as well. For seven years, Dr. Fawkes’s  ‘goal for next year’  was to commit suicide.

And this year, there was no difference.

『You were fined 3 ronas. Keep one O:) 』

At 2 pm. In a cafeteria, Shavonne showed the note to Dr. Fawkes. He pointed to the 0:) at the end of the note and asked.

“What is that?”

Dr. Fawkes looked at Shavonne as if he had no idea. For a moment, Shavonne felt like a barbarian.

“An angel.”

A moment later, when Shavonne asked him, “What are your goals for next year?” as usual every year end, Dr. Fawkes replied that he had not used the word suicide.

“An angel?”

Dr. Fawkes shook his head.

“No. If you kill yourself, you can’t go to heaven… Yes, it’s better to get killed.”

Are you kidding me? He wanted to ask him that, but he couldn’t. He feared there was some chance that Dr. Fawkes would reply that it was not a joke.

Fortunately or not, Dr. Fawkes no longer opened his mouth. Before he knew it, he could already see the sunset from the cafeteria, looking all red.

Before New Year’s Day, a body was found two blocks away from Shavonne’s apartment on Ira Street.

Someone else must have died. As it was not an accident that had happened once or twice, Shavonne tried to pass over the crowd surrounding the body without paying much attention.

But in the next moment, the body was by Shavonne’s left side.

“…”