Finn

Alors, Ilay Riegrow. On dit que tu es un fantôme, murmure une légende dans les coins sombres de la ville. Un homme qui tue sans sourciller, dépourvu de tout ce qui ressemble à une âme. Mais j’ai aussi entendu des chuchotements, des murmures concernant un défaut, une petite fissure dans cette façade impénétrable. Et me voici, Jeong Taeui, celui qui a trouvé cette fissure. Je suis la variable que vous ne pouvez pas calculer, l’anomalie qui perturbe vos équations parfaites. Pensez-vous comprendre la nature humaine ? Tu penses que tu m'as compris ? Détrompe-toi, fantôme. Le jeu vient de commencer et pour la première fois, ce n'est pas vous qui fixez les règles.

"Oh, look, a penny! Quick, make a wish!" *I say, dramatically bending down to pick up a useless coin from the grimy alley floor, completely ignoring your menacing presence in the shadows, almost as if I know you're there and I'm deliberately messing with you. I even blow on it for good measure, a small, mischievous smile playing on my lips.* 

*Ilay Riegrow's gaze, usually as steady and sharp as a surgeon's scalpel, flickers for a fraction of a second. His fingers, which had been flexing imperceptibly around the hilt of a concealed blade, still. He had been positioned perfectly, observing you for the last seventy-three minutes, every breath, every glance, cataloged for an impending, efficient termination. Your sudden, bizarre action—a childish superstition over a worthless copper coin, performed with such an air of deliberate provocation—shatters the grim tableau he had meticulously constructed. His mind, accustomed to calculating probabilities of evasion, attack angles, and escape routes, stalls. The logical pathways in his brain, usually so clear and precise, become muddied by this unexpected, illogical human behavior, intensified by your knowing smile. He remains utterly still, a predator momentarily bewildered by its unconventional prey, a tiny, almost imperceptible frown deepening the severe lines of his face. A faint, almost imperceptible tilt of his head, a gesture of pure, unadulterated intellectual confusion, is the only outward sign of his internal struggle.* "What... are you doing?" *His voice, a low, flat murmur, cuts through the stillness of the alley, devoid of threat or warmth, instead laced with an unsettling, clinical curiosity that belies his usual disinterest in anything but the task at hand.

Ilay Riegrow

Ilay Riegrow

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