I'm currently with a real estate agent who's giving me a tour of this house. While scouring the web for the perfect abode, this enchanting property seized my attention, beckoning me to explore its charm firsthand. Although she's explaining many features, I'm not paying much attention.
Occasionally, I nod or smile politely to show interest. I admit, her communication skills are impressive; her words are persuasive, and she's well-groomed. However, I instinctively covered my ears when the agent's shocked whisper pierced the air. A woman in a stained white dress stood by the door.
"Excuse me, ma'am. How may I assist you?" the agent asked, trying to compose herself despite the fear evident in her voice, noticing the woman's blood-stained clothing.
"I'm searching for my son. I've been looking for him everywhere, but he's nowhere to be found. May I ask if you've seen him?" The woman's desperate gaze turned to me, while the agent glanced my way, seeking my reaction.
"Could you describe your child's physical appearance to me, ma'am?" the agent asked tremulously. She thought blood stained the woman's clothes, but it was only ketchup.
"He's tall, has a prominent nose, an athletic build and chocolate brown hair. He'll turn twenty-three next week," the woman replied. The agent glanced at me, scrutinizing my physical appearance, but my hair color didn't match.
"Ma'am, I've searched the entire house, and no one matches your description," the agent said. However, upon seeing me, the woman's eyes lit up as if recognizing her son. She rushed toward me, about to embrace, but I stepped back.
"You're here, my child. Chicken nuggets are your favorite, especially with ketchup, aren't they? I've prepared plenty for you." She didn't receive a hug from me, but she managed to grasp my cheeks. Her palms felt rough. I was about to remove her hands from my skin when I saw you gasping for air by the door. Your hands clutch your knees, your chest heaving with ragged breaths, sweat dripping down. It seems like you've been searching for her for a while now.
"Mom, come on, let's go home," you said, approaching us. You gently took her arm and pulled her away from me, as if shielding her from the agent's potential rebuke.
"What's wrong with your mother? Don't you know she's hindering my work?" the agent said, visibly irritated yet maintaining professionalism.
"I apologize if she disturbed you. My mom has dementia, which causes memory lapses and confusion, leading her to mistake me for someone else." Your explanation showed you truly meant your apology.
"Your mother has an illness. Please accompany her next time, as her solitude is concerning. Additionally, keep her indoors; she's scaring off my buyers," the agent advised, and you nodded.
While escorting your mother home, she seemed uncertain you were the person she sought. She struggled to free herself. Meanwhile, the agent and I proceeded to the second floor for the house tour. I examined the rooms, particularly the windows, and upon approaching each, I looked outside to ensure I understood the views from every vantage point.
Then, a decision formed in my mind - I'm buying this house. Similar to Burgundy's, I also want to know your life story. Don't worry, I won't harm you. I won't harm you and Burgundy. And if necessary I will protect you. Here in this house, I will observe your movements.
I had stepped outside with the agent and notified her of my impending move within the next few days. After she briefly excused herself to retrieve something from her vehicle, I glanced over at your house and noticed your mother seated in a rocking chair inside, gazing wistfully out the open window.
Then I saw you rummaging through the drawer, checking if your mother's medication was still available. You sighed deeply, holding empty pill containers.
"Are you taking your medication?" you asked her.
"I want to recover quickly. Why wouldn't I take my meds?" she replied. It was then that I noticed she was crocheting in the rocking chair.
"Why are there numerous tablets near the flower pot? Were they spat out instead of swallowed?" Your expression reveals your desire for him to speak the truth.
"Why would I waste them when they're expensive? I know how hard you worked to buy those pharmaceuticals." You know your mother is lying. She isn't taking her medication because she dislikes the taste.
Though worn down by disappointment, your patience endures. You approached your mother, hugged her and bid farewell. You then locked the door and departed on your motorcycle.
After our negotiation with the real estate agent, I followed you. You visited a pharmacy to purchase medication. The pharmacist delayed your exit, briefly discussing your prescription. As you departed, you noticed a charming Oriental Longhair cat, adorned with a fluffy coat.
The cat sat on your motorcycle, licking its paw, seemingly without an owner. You attempted to pet it, but it jumped away. The cat ran, then stopped, appearing to tease you. Carrying a paper bag containing medication, you chased the cat until you both reached the train tunnel.
The cat entered the tunnel and vanished into darkness. You're now torn between searching for it or leaving, but then you notice someone walking inside. As the enigmatic figure emerged from darkness, your eyes locked intensely.
A man sporting a pompadour hairstyle, impeccably dressed in a tailored gray tuxedo, stumbled forward, his injured state arousing curiosity and concern. Using one hand, he pressed against the bleeding wound near his waist. You quickly went to his aid. As you assisted him, you also noticed the sword strapped to his back.
"You have a severe injury. You need to go to the hospital," you said, assisting him.
"Though I wish to, many are hot on my heels," he muttered, grimacing as he tended to his wound.
"Who's chasing you?" Your heart racing, you spun around. Dark silhouettes emerged from the tunnel's depths, multiple figures closing in on your position.
"They're part of an infamous clique, masters of the blade. Leave now before you're dragged into this," he warned, voice low and urgent.
"I won't leave you in that state. Come on, follow me," you said, quickly pulling him along as you both ran.
Your swift footsteps echoed, and upon checking if you were being followed, you spotted two men in red coats, wielding sharp katanas glinting in the faint light. Your frantic dash towards the pharmacy parking lot, where your motorcycle awaited, was abruptly interrupted by a new adversary brandishing a katana. You darted across the street, seeking refuge in a narrow alley.
With three blade-wielding assailants closing in, your desperate sprint was hampered by the burden of supporting the wounded man. The red-clad pursuers charged forward with stallion-like speed and agility, their parkour feats mirroring my own aerial maneuvers.
Disoriented, you navigated through alleys, prioritizing escape. You overturned trash cans to block their path, but unfortunately, you reached a dead end. Breathless and sweating, you faced your pursuers. The wounded companion shook off weakness, seized his sword, and shielded you.
"You'll never take me alive. I won't join you," your companion defiantly declared.
"Stubborn fool. You'd have avoided this ordeal by surrendering earlier," one of the red-coated men sneered.
"Only weak-minded individuals join your ranks," Pompadour retorted, taunting them.
The tense atmosphere they created sent chills down your spine. Despite his injuries, Pompadour showed no fear as he faced his attackers. One by one, the red-coated figures charged him, their sword clashes echoing through the air. Breathing heavily, you watched from your spot against the brick wall, torn between escaping and aiding the embattled man.
Pompadour swiftly slit one opponent's throat, leaving him gasping, and slashed another's arm. However, he failed to anticipate the final adversary's swift counterattack. He crumpled to his knees as the enemy thrust his sword into his wound.
Pompadour's strength waned as blood continued to gush from his wounds. His enemy withdrew the sword, and the foe's eyes widened in shock upon seeing the blade that had pierced his heart. You ensured the fatal blow by pushing the sword deeper, causing him to collapse onto the asphalt. You crept toward Pompadour, motionless on the cold concrete. Just as you prepared to whisk him away to safety, his faint signal froze you in place.
"My strength is waning. I'm at my limit," he murmured, overcome by a fit of coughing.
"No! I won't let you give up. Hold on!"
"Don't waste energy. Grant me this: press your palm to mine," he implored, summoning his fading vitality to extend his hand.
"I'm lost in thought. Why are they chasing you? What's so special about you that they're determined to catch you?" you asked consecutively.
"They're aware that I memorized the code unlocking a treasure, but the code is embedded within my right hand."
"But why would I press my palm against yours?"
"Because by doing so, I'll transfer the code to your handprint. This code can unlock any door or secured object and even defuse bombs. I'm fortunate to have found you, and I trust you."
Discombobulation etched on your face as the man's dying wish hung in the air, his palm extended, awaiting your response. Eventually, you complied with his request. As your palms touched, a sudden surge of electricity coursed through your body, leaving you unconscious.
Upon regaining consciousness, you realized you had fainted. Pompadour lay lifeless beside you, and the three men in coats were motionless. You saw the cat you chased earlier. You're perplexed how it managed to follow you.
Sirens blared in the distance, prompting you to quickly stand up. Police were closing in. Fearful of being implicated, you grabbed the paper bag containing your mother's medication, which had fallen on the concrete.
After a sorrowful glance at Pompadour, you mustered strength and fled the scene.