Merrick stood in the bathtub, one hand braced against the wall as water streamed down his back. Despite his madness, the past two years under medical care had kept his muscular physique strong and well-defined. Water cascaded along the contours of his body as he stood silently under the flow, though the redness at the corners of his eyes betrayed his unease.
Arabella sat a short distance away, holding a bottle of liquor. The smell of alcohol clung to her, simmering and evaporating in the steamy warmth of the bathroom. Her expression was cold, her breathing light, as her gaze locked intently on the naked Merrick. His mental state was unstable, yet to his chaotic mind, Arabella stood out as the most vivid presence. Even though someone had once hypnotized him to command him to kill, the effects of the drug could not erase one undeniable truth—Arabella was the one who made him sink into an inescapable obsession, blurring the lines between reality and illusion, leaving him utterly lost in her.
After quietly finishing his bath, Merrick obediently let Arabella approach to dry his body. He tilted his head, wet hair falling loose, and his eyes, catching the overhead light, sparkled like scattered stardust—reminiscent of Cyrus's calm and clear gaze from years past. Having spent a bit too long in the hot water, droplets of water slid down Merrick's neck, his robe hanging loosely open at the collar. The water traced a path downwards, making his well-defined abs glisten under the light, highlighting every contour with a radiant sheen. A faint smile appeared on Arabella's lips. Noticing this, Merrick looked up, meeting her gaze. After a brief pause, he slowly leaned down, pressing his bare body against hers and wrapping his arms around her waist.
"Bella, I've missed you so much."
It was uncanny—from his appearance to his voice, the resemblance was striking, carrying an inexplicable hint of mischief. Arabella's brows arched with a trace of intrigue as she softly asked Merrick, "Why do you call me that?"
Seemingly startled by Arabella's sudden smile, Merrick averted his gaze. He lowered his head and stayed silent for a moment before cautiously peeking at her again. Seeing no danger in her smile, he slowly reached out, trying to hook her fingers with his own, and replied softly, "I only remember that I should call you that."
Arabella, who had been leaning on the bathroom sink with one hand slightly open, lightly tapped her fingers. A shadowed emotion gathered in her brows. In front of Cyrus, she could be her true self—Arabella, unmasked and unpretentious. Arabella grasped Merrick's arm, her fingers curling around his strong, sinewy forearm. The warmth of his skin seeped through to her palm, sparking a flicker of curiosity in him. Emboldened, Merrick shifted from passive to active, his fingers gently trailing upward to rest over Arabella's chest.
After a brief pause, he tilted his head in wonder, his earlier fear and unease dissipating like mist. With a childlike innocence, he asked, "Bella, why is your heartbeat so slow?"
Cyrus's eyes had always been his most striking feature—gentle and luminous, like autumn waters. His temperament mirrored those eyes: serene and kind, a stark contrast to his younger brother Marcellus's fiery spirit. At that moment, his gaze seemed to suspend time, pulling her back to a distant summer. A tender boy, warm and gentle, and a defiant girl, cold and sharp, their silhouettes framed against the golden sun, etched into the marrow of her soul.
"I was injured before," Arabella replied evenly. "That's why my heartbeat is slow."
Hearing this, Merrick furrowed his brows slightly before replying softly, "Can I go get the clothes I came in? There's a piece of candy in the pocket. I know Bella, you like sweet things. Eating something sweet makes you happy, and their hearts beat faster."
Candy!
Arabella lowered her gaze, recalling the time when she was first brought to the Montfort family. The Ackerley brothers had peeked out from the courtyard gate, their heads poking through. Back then, Marcellus's head was still perfectly round, his small limbs plump like a ball. He held a candy in his hand, licking it, while Cyrus, noticing her gaze on the lollipop, immediately pulled out a beautifully wrapped candy from his pocket. The hand that reached out believed it was salvation; the one who accepted it harbored only malice. Arabella instinctively licked the corner of her lips—the savior of that past had long been destroyed by her, reduced to bones and ash, beyond redemption.
"The clothes have already been replaced. From now on, if I want something sweet, I'll ask you for it, okay?" With her head lowered, Merrick failed to notice the gleam in Arabella's eyes—a brightness tinged with a hint of killing intent. Lost in his own world, the madman's eyes lit up upon hearing Arabella mention wanting candy. His face flushed with a tinge of red as he softly replied, "Okay, I'll carry some with me next time." His voice was soft and gentle, as if he were the one who had just tasted the candy—sweet as honey.
Arabella's entire being was cold, devoid of any warmth of human sentiment. Though Merrick's gentle and earnest tone lingered in her ears, her heart felt an icy contentment. It was fine—whether bones or puppets, they were always by her side.
It was already midnight when Arabella stepped out of the room. The darkness stretched endlessly along the corridor, and she walked slowly, her face still adorned with that ever-present smile. The coldness she left behind in the room remained untouchable, and no one could discern her true self. As she reached the end of the darkness, she stopped and chuckled softly, asking, "When did you get back?"
A faint noise stirred in the shadows before a voice replied, "I have been back for a while. Seeing Master Unknown was in the room, so I didn't want to disturb you."
Arabella responded softly and stepped into a nearby room first. Caracal followed closely behind. As the light flickered on, the two could finally see each other. Arabella smiled first and remarked, "Another new face?"
Caracal instinctively touched his face, feeling a bit guilty. After all, he had indeed hidden some intentions behind this choice. As the saying goes, beauty is like a sharp blade, enchanting and dangerous. A striking appearance always drew attention, though someone liked him should never have been burdened with such an excessively beautiful face—too conspicuous, too impossible to ignore. He was a shadow, and this broke the rules.
Arabella didn't care about his thoughts. She had only brought it up casually and offered a light compliment, "It's nice. Better than the last face."
The praise delighted Caracal. He had painstakingly crafted this face, radiant and exquisite, undeniably outstanding. With his breathtaking face, he stepped forward, a mind full of schemes as he said, "Master Unknown, as you predicted, Nicholas and Julius's dealings involve Faceless Ghost."
Under the light, Arabella studied Caracal. His nose was sharp, his lips glistened, and his dark brows framed piercing eyes. Though handsome men came in many forms, this face Caracal had crafted was truly peerless, so stunning it seemed to outshine everyone else, almost excessively so. With this thought, Arabella extended a finger to poke him. Caracal instinctively flinched but then stood still, his gaze softening into a pool of spring water as she let her hand rest on his face.
Arabella had no real interest in face-changing techniques. Against absolute power, such tricks were nothing more than child's play. But Caracal's face reminded her of someone. The memory had faded, and the person's features were blurry. All she could recall was their final, desperate cry: "Arabella! You must find happiness!"
At midnight, rain began to fall outside. Arabella absentmindedly traced her fingers across Caracal's face. The one touching did so unconsciously, but the one being touched felt heat spreading beneath the false skin. His true face was not lacking, yet from the day he became a phantom, he had forfeited the right to show his real features. Still, the falsity hardly mattered—his crafted visage was a masterpiece, so flawless that no touch, no matter how probing, could uncover even the slightest crack leading to the truth.
Arabella's brows arched as she fell into her thoughts, separated from the present by memories. The room grew silent, the air thick with a vague intimacy. It was rare for Caracal to have such a moment alone with Arabella—so quiet, so close. He held his breath, silently savoring the fleeting pleasure. After finishing her touch, Arabella seemed to realize something. She chuckled lightly and said, "Your master was a legend in both the underworld and the normal world. You've learned quite a bit from him."
"I still have much to learn. But about Faceless Ghost—Master Unknown, why have you never suspected that I could be him?"
Hearing this, Arabella found Caracal childish. Her touch shifted from his face to his shoulder, and she replied with a smile, "Faceless Ghost is ranked fifth."
Caracal felt indignant at this. Though his skills weren't top-tier, could Faceless Ghost really be so skilled as to evade Arabella's sharp eye? At that moment, someone questioned, "His skills are too good—doesn't that, in itself, make him suspicious? Could Master Unknown not sense him?"
Though Arabella smiled, her eyes grew sharp and heavy. She stepped closer, pressing against Caracal, who reflexively looked around in panic. His tall, imposing frame seemed to shrink into hers, bending like a willow.
"Master Unknown, did I say something wrong?" As someone adept at stealth, Caracal's sharp instincts immediately picked up on Arabella's coldness.
Her only response was the click of a switch. The room plunged into deep darkness, as black as the sea. Arabella concealed her ruthlessness, speaking in her usual gentle tone, "Caracal, a ghost follows its master like a shadow—it doesn't scheme."
In the darkness, Caracal froze, his heart sinking like ice. He was well aware of his position and that he had overstepped his boundaries. For a moment, his overly striking face felt searingly hot, so much so that he wanted to peel it off, replace it, and quietly disappear.
Just as he wallowed in his turmoil, Arabella burst into laughter. Her hand once again rested on Caracal's neck, her warm breath brushing against his ear. Caracal found himself dazed as he wrapped his arms around Arabella's waist. Her voice whispered softly in his ear, "The terrifying thing about Faceless Ghost is his skill. When evenly matched, it's impossible to detect his disguise."
Caracal's heart skipped a beat, though he still felt uneasy. His question came out almost petulantly, "Master Unknown, am I really that unskilled? Can't I disguise myself?"
Arabella shook her head, her face nearly brushing against Caracal's neck. Her voice carried a trace of amusement as she replied, "Caracal, Faceless Ghost is a cop. He's here to go undercover, not to outshine everyone with his looks."
In the darkness, Caracal blushed. If anything, the flush only made his already striking face appear more radiant. It turned out all the little schemes he had recently harbored were entirely obvious to Arabella. He had thought she wouldn't notice him tweaking his appearance every so often to look more attractive. In the end—he had only made a fool of himself.
"Caracal, just being yourself is good enough."
Caracal tightened his arms around her, feeling an unexpected sense of reassurance. In her words, he caught the confidence and subtle trust she rarely showed. It truly was a remarkable thing—to earn even the smallest amount of trust from someone like Arabella.
