Strictly speaking, I was an intruder.
A squatter.
A full-on criminal who had moved into someone else's house without knocking—except the "house" was his body.
If this had been an empty property with no owner, fine. But Nigel was very much alive and kicking.
That's why he left me a note.
> Who are you?
Why have you taken over my body?
Honestly? Pretty polite for a serial killer. The handwriting was neat, the wording cautious—like a landlord who'd come home to find a stranger using his toothbrush. You could practically feel the please don't stab me energy under those carefully chosen words.
I had planned to write something equally polite—this was, after all, our first "tenant–landlord" chat—but his wary tone threw me off.
Still, rule number one when dealing with a murderer: don't make him mad.
> I'm sorry. I didn't take over because I wanted to.
I woke up inside your body for reasons I don't understand.
But I have no intention of harming you.
There. Short, humble, and absolutely designed not to trigger a stabbing. I even considered adding a smiley face but decided against it—no need to look too cheerful while begging for my life.
The real goal, of course, was to eventually ask him to stop killing.
Because apparently, I'm the type of idiot who thinks a serial killer might respond well to polite negotiation.
A tenant can dream.
I set the note neatly on the desk and crawled back into bed. If Nigel came out while I was asleep, he'd see it.
And thus began our delightful little pen-pal arrangement: I'd wake up, find a reply, scribble back, and hope he didn't murder anyone in the meantime. A communication system slower than carrier pigeons—but safer than a face-to-face meeting with a man who collects corpses.
To my surprise, Nigel was… consistent.
A polite serial killer.
Ridiculous as that sounds, he answered every note, his replies careful and weary, like a man sighing through ink.
Somehow, that made it worse. A deranged murderer with manners is infinitely creepier than one who just drools and rants.
No matter how polite his tone was, Nigel's answers never changed.
Every single note carried the same quiet rejection.
> Why should I do as you say?
Sometimes he'd elaborate a little:
> It's my body. My life. Not something for you to meddle in.
And when he felt particularly wordy, he'd write things like:
> I've never been in danger living this way, so there's no reason to change. I'd appreciate it if you stayed out of my affairs.
No matter how I pleaded, he never budged.
Tearful persuasion? Useless.
Logical arguments? Wasted ink.
Nigel acknowledged my presence inside his body, yes—but he flatly refused to stop killing.
For now, he hadn't murdered anyone—maybe because we were busy exchanging notes, or maybe he simply wasn't in the mood. But I couldn't rely on that forever. If I woke up one morning in the middle of a blood-soaked crime scene, holding a mace slick with flesh, I wouldn't even be surprised.
I needed a new strategy. Something stronger than reason.
The problem was that Nigel had no weaknesses.
Final boss. Serial killer. Completely indifferent to every character in the story.
…Except one.
Beatrice.
A young girl from the Elohim Church's orphanage.
I remembered her—always approaching Nigel first with a bright, fearless smile.
And Nigel… Nigel never pushed her away.
In fact, in the entire story, she was the only person he ever gave a genuine smile.
Hmm. Should I use Beatrice's name?
I hesitated. Dragging a child I'd never even met into this mess felt wrong.
But hesitation wouldn't stop a murderer.
I could always apologize later with a gift.
Right now, I needed leverage.
I pressed the pen to paper.
> Nigel, if you kill anyone, I'll tell Beatrice. I'll go straight to the orphanage the very next day. I swear I will.
Of course, I had no intention of actually telling the child about Nigel's murders.
But if he believed Beatrice might be saddened—or worse, frightened—maybe it would shake him.
So please, Nigel.
For the sake of that child you care about…
stop.
---
I opened my eyes.
Above me was an unfamiliar ceiling—one that, over time, had become oddly familiar. In other words, I wasn't staring up at some gruesome murder scene. This was just the ceiling of my bedroom, the one I'd been using ever since my transmigration.
"Ah… thank goodness."
Relief washed over me. A small, ridiculous part of me had been terrified that Nigel might have grown annoyed with my constant note-leaving and decided to express his frustration in the most serial killer way possible.
If I'd woken up in the middle of the night to find myself at yet another murder scene, I might have developed a lifelong case of insomnia. Fortunately, Nigel Caritas turned out to be a surprisingly considerate serial killer—one who actually seemed to care about unwanted tenants like me.
Never in my previous life did I imagine I'd be grateful to a murderer, yet here I was, silently bowing my head in thanks.
But more importantly…
I scrambled out of bed and rushed to my desk. My heart beat faster as I snatched up the piece of paper lying there—Nigel's reply to the note I'd left last night.
The handwriting was neat, sharp, and unsettlingly calm.
> I understand, so please stop leaving notes.
Unless the situation is unavoidable, I will do as you wish.
And however you found out, Beatrice is a good child who has nothing to do with these matters.
Absolutely do not involve her.
"…Ah."
My determination to stop writing notes evaporated like foam on water, but in that moment, I was saved—not by logic or restraint, but by a single name.
Beatrice.
A young savior I hadn't expected to appear in a serial killer's message.
Who was she? A student? A colleague? A lover?
Why did he bother to single her out in a note to me of all people?
I reread the lines, tracing each sharp stroke of his handwriting with my eyes. Absolutely do not involve her.
The words weren't just a request—they carried the weight of a threat.
"Great," I muttered under my breath. "Now I'm not only a tenant in a serial killer's body, I'm also responsible for someone I don't even know."
I set the note back down, careful not to wrinkle it, as if damaging the paper might somehow damage me.
Beatrice.
If she was important enough for him to protect, then I needed to know who she was.
Not out of curiosity—
…Okay, maybe a little curiosity—
but mostly for survival.
If I accidentally crossed paths with her and made the wrong move, I didn't want Nigel snapping back into control and deciding I was the problem.