Quick footsteps echoed through a corridor.
They belonged to a young woman in a tailored suit with short black hair and carrying a folder.
The rhythm of her high heels on the marble floor was so steady that one might think she was chasing someone. And, in a way, she was...
"Baron Maxwell! Baron Maxwell, stop!" she shouted at the person a few meters ahead of her. The addressed individual continued walking for a moment before finally turning around.
It was a tall man with graying hair slicked back, his mouth obscured by an elegant red scarf. His piercing gaze carried an unsettling mix of weariness and amusement. He looked at the young woman as if she were a minor inconvenience, a fly buzzing around his grand stage.
"Miss Willow..." he murmured, feigning surprise unnecessarily. In truth, he had recognized the distinct sound of this woman's steps behind him for several minutes but had decided to ignore her. After all, if he didn't turn around, he could always claim later that he hadn't noticed or something along those lines.
If she had called out with a 'Hey, you!' or something similar, he could pretend he didn't respond because it was advised not to answer such calls in the cell corridors under penalty of 'unfortunate consequences.'
The only thing she could do to stop him was either catch up and tap his shoulder—nearly impossible in this corridor—or address him by name in such a way that left no doubt he was the intended recipient of her words. But this last option was impossible. Baron Maxwell knew just how cautious Miss Willow was and how well-versed she was in the laws of the Celestial Capital. Surely, she must know the danger of calling someone's name aloud in the corridor. There was no way she would ever endanger the life of one of her students like that!
At least, that's what he thought...
"Miss Willow... what did you just do?" he asked.
"What do you think?" she replied, glaring at him.
Immediately, the previously quiet corridor was filled with a clamor, at first faint and then deafening. It sounded like the static of an unoccupied radio signal, but it quickly morphed into a cacophony of voices of all kinds.
For Baron Maxwell, it sounded like the murmurs of an audience before a grand performance. The only difference here was that he could clearly hear the words—or rather, the single word—being spoken in this 'discussion.'
"Maxwell?" "Baron Maxwell." "Maxwell!" "Maxwell?!" "MAXWELL!!!"
An uncountable number of voices—young, old, male, female, and even those whose humanity was questionable—repeated one word incessantly: his name.
"Ah..."
Through the small window of the cell doors, Maxwell could see strange silhouettes grinning at him and others reaching out or trying to grab him. Very quickly, the content of the voices shifted.
"Aristocrat." "Schemer!" "Madman." "Traitor?" "Visionary." "M-Monster!" "Ha! Fool!"
The comments grew increasingly incoherent, but also more insistent and overwhelming. Baron Maxwell soon felt as if everything in those cells wanted a piece of him, and only the steel doors separating them ensured his safety. But for how long?
He could already hear metallic voices screaming as the cell doors were pounded by their occupants. Was that a hinge popping far behind him? No, surely not. Even if it was, he knew he must not turn around. That was one of the laws of the Celestial Capital.
Suddenly, a black mass rested on his shoulder. It wasn't especially heavy, but Maxwell suddenly felt as if he were weighted down by numerous burdens and thrown into a deep, calm lake. However, he knew. He knew that, despite his first impression, this shiny black thing on his shoulder was surely a hand. A simple hand. A hand in a black leather glove. Nothing more.
He had to take a deep breath, focus his mind, and look beyond his fears. Slowly, with hesitant movement, Maxwell turned towards the mysterious figure behind him.
"Dear visitor," said the creature, whose features he didn't recognize. That wasn't a problem, though—it just meant his concentration was still lacking. His mind was still lost in unnecessary thoughts. Gradually, he calmed his breathing and focused on the thing holding his shoulder. Little by little, it appeared more human.
The corridor, which moments ago seemed infinite, now resembled an ordinary office hallway he'd seen countless times. However, the stark simplicity and complete lack of decoration—aside from a row of chairs and a wall clock—helped Maxwell ground himself. This was the reception area of the Celestial Capital's asylum.
"Dear visitor, you have broken a rule," repeated the man mechanically, his strange features now recognizable. "For this reason, your visit has been shortened."
"... Oh," was all Maxwell could say, his calm matching the stern demeanor of his interlocutor.
[Celestial Capital – JAN KEN PON]
Maxwell squinted, finally recognizing the 'creature' that had touched his shoulder moments earlier. It was simply an JKP employee—one of those who wore that peculiar plague doctor mask.
"... You scared me," Maxwell admitted, closing his eyes and letting his shoulders drop.
"Our apologies," said the employee in a robotic tone. The worker turned away without any gesture or word betraying sincerity. A perfectly normal behavior for these individuals.
Maxwell often wondered if they were subjected to the same treatment as those—or rather, the things—they guarded day and night. He pondered this thought for a moment before being interrupted by a light tap on the head.
It was the young woman who had called out to him earlier.
"I don't seem to scare you, apparently," she said dryly.
"Oh… of course… scared of you," Maxwell replied in a detached tone.
"Speak in full sentences!" she retorted, hitting him again.
"Oh, forget it! We're already late for the ceremony! Follow me!"
With that, the young woman turned on her heel and headed for the exit. Maxwell, however, remained motionless, his mind elsewhere. His performance was not yet over. The real act would be the funeral—his son's funeral. A son whose body would never return from the front. A son stolen by war and by the so-called hero.
Maxwell smirked to himself. He would play the part of the grieving madman well.
After all, every great plan required a bit of theater.