"I'm asking… do you have any proof that I killed our father?"
Aren rested his arm on his knee, lazily propping his chin in his hand. A faint, idle smile lingered on his lips. In the shadows, his blood-red eyes glimmered.
Amy stared at the dried blood staining his face, her anger reaching a boiling point. Her hands trembled; her breathing grew sharp and ragged.
"…Are you mocking me?"
Even from across the cell, Aren could see the vein throbbing at her temple. She was beyond furious.
It sounded like mockery, but it was the simple truth. In the novel, no one had questioned the verdict.
Aren had never defended himself. Found among the corpses, his guilt was a foregone conclusion. They had branded him a killer and shipped him to IMFA.
"Mocking you?" Aren repeated. His smile remained composed, almost knowing. "No. I'm simply stating the facts."
His calmness only fueled her rage. The fire in her eyes burned brighter.
"The woman who accused me…" He paused, raising an eyebrow at the absurdity of it all.
"The soldiers who caught me… everyone blaming me right now… they are all convinced I killed Father and his guests."
"So what?" Amy's voice was bitter. "Are you saying you didn't?"
Her gaze pierced him with sharp sarcasm. Yet Aren remained unbothered. He looked relaxed—the only man in the room who held the truth.
For a moment, Amy hesitated. A faint replaced the heat of her anger, a creeping chill. A small, unwelcome doubt gnawed at her.
"Did you ever consider," Aren said quietly, "that I arrived after the massacre?"
His smile remained calm, but a hunter's cunning glimmered in his eyes. It was the look of someone who had just cornered his prey.
Amy's gaze faltered.
"Impossible…!" she muttered, then snapped. "Don't lie to me! Your body was covered in their blood, and now you claim you weren't even there? Those people died because of you. What now? — are you going to say someone set you up?"
The words spilled out in a rush. A crooked, unsteady smile twisted her lips, and a dangerous gleam flickered in her eyes. She stared at him with open contempt.
"Do you have no limit to your shamelessness?"
"Shamelessness…?"
The smile disappeared from Aren's face. What replaced it made Amy flinch.
"I only pointed out the possibility that I was framed in this… unfortunate situation," he said, his voice calm and even. "After all, a person is supposed to be innocent until proven guilty."
The past flashed through Amy's mind for a moment. She recognized that look—unshakable calm and studied composure. It was a suffocating presence that had always made her skin crawl.
She's afraid of me, Aren realized.
In the original novel, the world celebrated Aren's death. The story began with his execution, and whenever his name appeared, people were described as a twisted bastard; everyone was glad to see him gone.
Unlike Amy, however, Aren felt no turmoil. A strange calm settled over him, his thoughts drifting to the unfinished novel he had once read.
"I understand the shock," he said, his tone steady, "but the investigation should be thorough. Meticulous. Absolute."
"If…"
Her voice rasped under her breath.
Aren frowned, barely catching the word. Amy lifted her head, her eyes burning with restrained fury.
"If you're really innocent, the investigation will prove it," she said. Her gaze hardened, killing intent returning to her eyes.
"But if you're lying…" She held his gaze without blinking. "You'll pay for it. For the lies. For my father. I'll be waiting for that day."
She spun. Her footsteps echoed along the corridor, then faded into silence.
Aren let out a slow breath and leaned his head against the cold stone wall. His expression showed no reaction.
"She loses her temper too easily."
He clicked his tongue and shook his head.
He had no intention of going to IMFA. That place was a graveyard filled with the worst criminals alive.
"Now… time for the next move."
If I can't stop it, I'll have to plan accordingly… Still…
A faint smile lingered as his eyes drifted shut.
"Yeah… for now, I'll wait and see."
***
Inside the interrogation room, a single lamp cast jagged shadows across Aren's face. Tanium shackles pinned his arms to the metal table.
Two interrogators sat opposite him: one young and impatient, the other older, his expression unreadable.
"Did you kill your father and the others?"
The younger woman, Emily, slammed her fist on the table. "We recovered your DNA from every inch of that manor, including the bodies."
Aren glanced at the crime scene photos spread before him, smiling faintly as if enduring a tedious lecture.
"My DNA would be everywhere in that house," he said calmly.
Emily leaned forward, anticipation lighting her face. Aren's next words froze her.
"The soldiers who captured me turned my body into a pincushion."
Not in the manor, at least. But there's no reason to enlighten them.
He gestured toward the spots where spikes had pierced him, though his skin was now flawless.
"With that much blood everywhere, how could my DNA not be there?"
He shrugged, unconcerned.
"You little—"
"Enough, Emily!"
They have no intention of conducting a proper investigation anyway.
Howard, the older man, silenced her with a sharp look. She bit back her retort, her eyes locked on Aren.
"You're right," Howard said evenly. "The Aegis team acted recklessly. Their presence compromised the entire scene."
Aren gave a casual nod, acknowledging the triviality.
"However," Howard continued, "that isn't our only evidence. A witness testified that you committed the murders."
Aren tilted his head. "And what if your so-called reliable witness is the killer?"
Howard met Aren's cold, blood-red gaze without flinching. "The witness is beyond reproach."
Aren's eyebrow twitched.
"Madam Eli Bryne," Howard revealed.
The name sparked a memory: the woman from that night. Short, voluminous orange hair. Blue eyes. Heavy makeup.
She was the only saint in the history of the Bryne family who had never lost her holy power—an anomaly.
For centuries, the Brynes had produced saints, yet whenever a new generation awakened, the previous one lost its abilities.