After eating and drinking his fill, Peter sprawled on the sofa and let out a satisfied sigh. He rubbed his stomach and said, "Although the new sanatorium is bigger and more luxurious, I still prefer this place."
He glanced back and saw that Schiller was still busy in the kitchen, then turned back with a hint of complaint. "You made me drink way too much today, Doctor, but you barely drank any yourself. That isn't fair at all..."
"Because I don't like sherry. Obviously, I'm on the porter side." Schiller looked back at him and said, "But I had a glass too, as a courtesy to you."
"That's not my fault." Peter stared up at the ceiling, his Adam's apple bobbing as he spoke. "You never discuss alcohol with me, as if I'll be sixteen forever and can't even hear about it. I have no idea what kind of liquor any of you like."
"There's no need to know." Schiller said, "Only alcoholics care about such things. What kind of alcohol non-alcoholics prefer doesn't matter."
Schiller was slowly chopping vegetables. The plates in the sink showed that they had already eaten salad, yet he was still methodically slicing red cabbage. With each cut, countless purple shreds drifted down.
Suddenly, his hand froze, as though he could no longer control his body. A flicker of panic appeared on his face as he murmured, "No, don't open the elevator! Superego... he broke the rules!"
The next second, slender fingers gripped the knife. Schiller turned around, walked behind the sofa with it in hand, and Peter tilted his head back, lifting his eyes as high as he could, seemingly trying to see behind himself through that ridiculous posture.
A hand settled on Peter's Adam's apple. Peter did not move, only looked upward in