Chase didn't answer right away. Instead, he remained silent, his eyes locked onto Margaret with a gaze full of sharp awareness, savoring every subtle shift across the girl's face.
Margaret's expression fluctuated between emotions she could no longer fully control—as if trapped at a crossroads that was utterly suffocating—between fear and curiosity, between denial and acceptance, between reluctance and a desperate need to know.
With a deliberate motion, Chase pushed himself up from his chair.
The faint screech of the chair's legs against the floor was subtle, yet enough to make Margaret's heart race even faster.
Chase didn't approach her immediately.
Instead, he paced around the table, his steps calm, almost leisurely—as if he were granting Margaret time to realize what was about to happen, or perhaps, to fuel her rising anxiety.
Margaret followed his every move, her eyes wide with a mixture of confusion and stark terror etched clearly across her face.
When Chase stopped directly in front of her, without a single word, he lowered his body. He knelt down with cautious precision, and his hands reached out toward her lap.
But he didn't stop there.
His gaze shifted into something deeper, more soulful, as if—at least in Margaret's eyes—a heavy burden had finally been allowed to fall. Slowly, Chase rested his face upon her lap. His head lay there, calm and fragile in a way Margaret had never seen before.
Yet his eyes—those eyes—remained open. They stayed fixed on her, unblinking.
Then, after several seconds of silence, Chase's voice finally surfaced...
"If you hadn't come... I might have died, Margaret."
"Perhaps I would never have been able to meet you again…"
"Perhaps I wouldn't have been able to claim your promise—the one where you'd make me a sandwich."
"Perhaps your promise to take care of me would have never been fulfilled, either."
"Perhaps I would never again hear your voice—angry, annoyed, or exasperated—as you defended me against those two arrogant girls."
"Perhaps I wouldn't have seen that look on your face—the anxiety, the worry, and the guilt you felt, even though you tried with all your might to find me… only to eventually give up. Am I right, Margaret?"
"Because I hid on purpose. I wasn't ready to live with you yet."
"I liked you too much, Margaret. And I was afraid… afraid of losing control, and ultimately, of hurting you. So, thank you for saving me."
That smile reappeared, almost shyly, but this time it was different. This time, there wasn't a trace of falsehood left. It was pure, innocent—like the smile of a child who had just received a small yet precious gift.
And it wasn't just his smile. His voice, which had been so soft it was barely audible, now flowed with genuine sincerity. Every word, every tone that escaped his lips felt terrifyingly honest.
Suddenly, a realization jolted him, like a sharp prick at the nape of his neck. He hurriedly lifted his head from Margaret's lap, his eyes searching hers.
"But, Margaret...."
His gaze shifted once more, becoming increasingly complex—a volatile blend of hidden fear and a faint, yet poignantly real regret.
His eyes cast downward, as if he no longer dared to meet Margaret's gaze directly, yet his focus remained fixed on something—Margaret's hands, which had somehow ended up resting in her own lap.
He took both of her hands into his with a gentle touch, then pressed a lingering, soft kiss onto the back of her hand. The kiss wasn't fueled by fire or hurried passion; it was something tender—love, remorse, confession, and vulnerability all poured into that single, small gesture.
"I'm so sorry… I couldn't keep my promise."
"I… I couldn't properly repay the resentment you felt toward those two girls."
"I tried, but… I was nearly caught. So, I just left them as they were—in a state of being half-alive."
He looked up again, meeting Margaret's gaze as her eyes trembled violently. He could see her lips quivering, her shoulders rising and falling in sync with her erratic, ragged breathing. Yet, he ignored all of it.
Then, with a tone of voice so innocent—truly innocent, like a child pleading for mercy in the dead of night—he began to speak again.
"You aren't angry, are you, Margaret?"
"I know… you must be angry."
"That's why I gave you the bouquet of roses and the sandwich. I left them with one of the staff at ASpire Entertainment—since I didn't know your home address—and told them I was your school friend. If I had said it was from Chase CHASEMINE, wouldn't you have been even more shocked?"
"That was… my apology."
"You ate it, didn't you, Margaret? Or… was it too simple? Because of that, I decided to meet you in person today… and brought you chocolates instead."
"I thought… they'd taste better. And perhaps… they're more appropriate than a sandwich."
At that very moment, without a second thought, Margaret shoved her chair back with a violent jerk. The sound of wood screeching against the floor sliced through the silence like a stifled scream.
With unsteady steps, she lurched to her feet, stumbling backward in a frantic retreat until her back finally collided with the cold glass wall behind her.
Her face turned deathly pale—a stark, ghostly white, like a sheet of paper drained of every last drop of color.
Her entire body shook violently, nearly uncontrollable, as if she had been dragged into the heart of an ice storm—where thousands of ice shards clung to her and pressed from every direction, igniting a chill that pierced through to her very bones.
Her gaze, which had once clearly perceived the world before her, began to tremble and blur; every object she saw swayed and flickered, as if reality itself were shuddering along with her. Yet, strangely, even as her vision fractured, she remained acutely aware of exactly what stood in front of her.
A sudden, throbbing ache seized her head, pressing with a force that made her hands instinctively reach up to massage her temples and the crown of her head.
But the pain refused to leave; it clung to her, a grueling companion amidst the ceaseless whirlpool of her thoughts. Every memory, every recent event etched in her mind collided with one another—pressing, choking, entangling her until she was nearly suffocated by her own mind.
"It's impossible... it's impossible... it's impossible..."
The words escaped her parched lips, sounding hoarse and trembling—like someone standing on the very edge of a precipice, caught between a gripping terror and a suffocating denial.
Her gaze drifted back to Chase, who remained kneeling on the floor. His head was bowed, his face partially shrouded by the dark locks of hair falling forward, obscuring an expression that had now become a complete enigma.
From across the distance, her voice began to flow again, fragmented and broken.
"A man standing one hundred and eighty-five centimeters tall... a bouquet of roses and a black tote bag filled with a box of sandwiches... a man over one hundred and eighty centimeters... the one who attacked Veriza and Noor... white dog ears and a tail emerging from the lower part of his body... and then... and then... and then..."
She paused for a moment—not because her mind had suddenly gone blank or because she truly didn't know what to say, though in truth, that feeling did linger there.
She stopped because her throat grew increasingly parched, her breath snagged in her chest, as if horror itself had chosen the nape of her neck as its throne.
In the next second, it was as if a sliver of courage finally clawed its way back to her.
Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, so tight that the tendons strained against her wrists—a sign of a forced determination to remain standing, even as her chest continued to shudder.
Then, her voice rose again.
"Are you… are you a Shapeshifter, Chase Oppa?"