"Are you… are you a Shapeshifter, Chase Oppa?"
"Someone who can shift between human and animal… and back again?"
"Someone who… who wants to take revenge on the humans who have… who have oppressed, insulted, and looked down on you?"
Her voice came out broken—shaking and hoarse—yet she pressed on after swallowing hard.
"The blood… that blood belonged to Veriza and Noor, didn't it? The dried blood you used to write that message… it was theirs, wasn't it?"
"So… everything is clear now. Those two events are linked… and it all leads back to you, doesn't it? You're the one who did all of this, aren't you?"
Her next question dissolved into a whisper that was nearly lost, as if the wind could snatch it away at any moment, for her heart was pumping nothing but ceaseless terror and dread.
Chase remained silent for several minutes. He didn't answer immediately; in fact, he didn't shift his position even an inch—as if his body had frozen in place, like a statue carved specifically to endure whatever was meant for it.
Then, in the following second, something entirely unexpected escaped his lips.
A small laugh.
At first, it was merely a short huff of breath, nearly inaudible.
But that breath didn't stop. It grew, it vibrated, transforming into a soft, low chuckle that became clearer and more palpable.
The laugh sounded twisted—it wasn't the sound of unbridled joy, but rather the laughter of someone who had realized the utter absurdity of the situation and, for some reason, found that very absurdity hilarious.
He stood up then, his movements unhurried, as if his body were still swaying to the rhythm of the soft laughter that hadn't quite faded. His voice had changed now—lower, more obscure.
One of his hands rose, his fingers sliding through his dark hair in a reflexive sweep, clearing his vision to look directly at Margaret.
"What's wrong, Margaret?"
"Why are you suddenly avoiding me, hm?"
His voice returned, soft and tender once more.
Along with it, the look in his eyes shifted. His brows furrowed slightly, his gaze dimming as if a sudden confusion had crept in and seized his entire expression upon seeing Margaret's face, which was racked with tremors.
But that confusion was merely the outer layer.
Secretly, deep within him, that small laugh still lingered.
It wasn't a laugh that could be heard, nor one that could be seen. It was only a subtle vibration in his chest—a sense of inexplicable satisfaction, like someone realizing that the situation had moved exactly in the direction he had anticipated.
"Your face... why has it turned like that?"
"Did my story... make you afraid?"
He took a step toward her.
The moment Margaret saw it, she reacted instantly. Her breath hitched, and before she could even process another thought, her voice lunged forward—panicked, trembling, yet loud enough to pierce the air.
"Don't come any closer!"
Her palm shot out in front of her, thrusting straight toward Chase as a desperate shield.
Chase's footsteps halted abruptly, as if those words had struck him faster than he had anticipated. For a split second, his body lost its balance—lurching forward slightly, just enough to give the impression that he was about to fall.
Yet, he quickly regained his center. His posture straightened once more, impeccable and composed, as if that stumble had been nothing more than a minor slip in a grand performance.
"You wouldn't believe my story right away, would you, Margaret?"
His voice shifted again—becoming serious and bone-chillingly cold.
His brows knit together sharply, forming a stern line across his face—not out of confusion, but with an expression of cold, controlled focus.
"You also wouldn't think…"
He paused.
Then, without any warning, he lunged toward her—utterly ignoring Margaret's previous threat.
In a matter of seconds, Chase was standing far too close. Both of his hands shot up, bracing against the wall on either side of Margaret, trapping her in the space between them.
His face was now so near to hers that he could feel the tension radiating from her body. The shock was vivid in Margaret's eyes—her pupils darted frantically, searching for a foothold, searching for distance, searching for anything that could restore the control that had just been snatched away.
"…that if I stood this close to you…"
He paused again.
His hand rose with cautious deliberation, and then his fingertips grazed Margaret's cheek, stroking it with a haunting tenderness.
Even the look in his eyes shifted—replaced by a gaze that was far calmer—almost worried.
"…I would kill you, right, Margaret?"
"Because it's impossible for me to kill someone I like."
His head then dropped slowly onto Margaret's shoulder.
His forehead touched her first, followed by his cheek resting lightly against her, as if the immense weight he had been carrying all this time had finally found a place to rest.
At the same time, his arms moved, encircling Margaret's small frame in a slow, deliberate embrace.
"I'm so sorry, Margaret… truly, I'm sorry for making you so afraid. But please, believe me… I didn't do things exactly the way you're imagining them."
His embrace tightened slightly.
Chase felt Margaret's small frame remain rigid in his arms, growing even more tense with every passing second.
He quickly realized the cause.
Margaret was pinned between him and the wall behind her, her every avenue of escape utterly cut off. In that position, she had little choice but to remain still; the lingering shock seemed to have rendered her completely immobile.
Secretly, hidden behind Margaret's hair that fell over part of her face, Chase smirked. The scent of her hair—soft, sweet, and calming in a way that was almost dizzying—made him intoxicated beyond measure.
However, he quickly restrained himself and continued,
"That little white puppy is mine. So, I only told the story as if I were that dog."
"And about the message… I didn't write it with anyone's blood at all—not Veriza's, and certainly not Noor's, Margaret. The red ink I was using was almost dry, and since I didn't have any more, I traced over the letters repeatedly so they would remain visible."
"I gave you the bouquet of roses and the box of sandwiches as an expression of gratitude and an apology, because you saved my puppy."
"That promise didn't mean I did something bold—or cruel—like you're imagining. I only wanted to scold them, to repay the resentment you felt."
"But in the end, they got away, and it was actually I who received the reprimand."
"That's what I meant when I said I left them half-alive."
It was glaringly obvious—the way he rushed through his explanations. His voice carried a frantic edge, yet it remained laced with a lingering softness. There was a manufactured rhythm to it—every word, every pause, every minute quiver of his lips seemed measured to ensure that Margaret would truly believe him.
He wanted her to believe—to believe with her entire heart that he was scared out of his wits. Not just a simple fear, but a compelling, desperate terror that made a person appear fragile and human.
Because beneath that elaborate performance, there was only one thing he truly feared: being seen as monstrous, being seen as dangerous—being seen as something alien and terrifying in Margaret's eyes.