The Next Day, a Mad Dog...

Old Whateley had the best bedroom in the entire Whateley family.

It was merely less cramped, though. It didn't have any more windows, and it was just as dark and damp as Hope's room.

He lay in his bed, feeling his breaths, each one weak and feeble.

He knew that even breathing like this wouldn't be possible for much longer. His appetite was worsening, and his sleep was becoming increasingly erratic.

Lavinia was right. He, the old man, was going to die.

And at a time like this, someone had to come disturb what little sleep he had left.

"Come in."

He'd finally had enough of the knocking, which was growing more and more insistent.

A person wearing a black cloak came in. They were of average height, dressed entirely in black beneath the cloak, with their face hidden.

"Welcome, Robert Miller," Old Whateley said. "How is Carl Miller?"

It was just a courtesy. Old Whateley neither welcomed Robert Miller nor cared about Carl Miller.

If he had to care about anything, he hoped neither of them would live to see the end of the year. Better yet, they could both die after he was gone.

And Robert... The man was rude and stupid, unwilling even to exchange pleasantries. "When are you going to die?"

"Soon."

Old Whateley watched Robert stroll around at his leisure. He looked as though he were in some newly purchased Miller family field, not the ancestral home of the Whateley family...

No, Old Whateley was certain Robert wouldn't dare act so casually on Carl Miller's turf.

"I need a specific time," Robert said.

"No one knows when they're going to die."

"It's my uncle's request. You old geezer, don't forget the contract you signed with him."

"It might as well have been a contract of servitude," Old Whateley said. "The New Federation abolished slavery long ago, but I've always suspected Carl Miller tricked me into signing one."

"Even if he did, you signed it of your own free will. My uncle didn't force you." Robert stared at him. "Don't try to fool me. When are you going to die? Tomorrow or the day after? You old geezer, I know you have a way to find out the exact time."

"Did Carl Miller tell you? But I don't want to know. It's too cruel for an old man."

Old Whateley sighed. "Bring me the notebook on my nightstand and tear off a page."

"What kind of evil object is that notebook?" Robert asked. He didn't approach; instead, he took half a step back.

"Don't be foolish. Just bring it here. It's an ordinary notebook. The evil object isn't here."

Old Whateley took the torn page. His long fingernail scratched his shriveled arm, and a thin line of blood immediately appeared on his skin.

He ran the paper over the cut, and it absorbed every last drop of blood. When he lifted it away, the skin beneath was completely unmarked.

Old Whateley handed the bloodstained paper back to Robert. The blood on it flowed strangely, forming a string of numbers along the grain of the paper.

"How did you do that?" Robert asked.

"Do you want to know?"

Robert licked his lips. "...No, I don't."

Robert took the paper and smiled. "Ah, so..."

"Don't read it aloud," Old Whateley interrupted. "Just give it to Carl Miller. Don't tell me. I don't want to know the exact time yet."

"You old coward." Robert scoffed and slipped the paper into his cloak.

The cloak lifted slightly as he did, but even then, the space beneath it remained pitch-black, with not a speck of light getting inside.

"Also, about..."

"Wait, Robert." Old Whateley interrupted him again.

"Let's talk about that on the day I die. Bring Wilbur along, too. After I'm gone, you'll have to deal with him. For now, just tell Carl Miller he'll get what he wants."

"Good." Robert nodded, apparently wondering who Wilbur was. "Have Wilbur come see me. I want to meet him."

"Not now. He's not here. He left with Lavinia before dawn."

Robert picked up a silver steel pen from the table and twirled it in his hand.

"Clack!"

He fumbled it, and the pen fell to the floor.

"Piece of junk." Robert picked it up. "You're giving it to me!"

"That belonged to my younger brother... Damn it, take it! My brother's soul is still attached to it! Get out!"

Robert paid Old Whateley's insults no mind and sauntered out of the room.

But after leaving Old Whateley's sight, he didn't leave right away.

He remembered something: Although Wilbur Whateley and his feebleminded mother were both gone, Old Whateley wasn't the only one in Whateley House.

He'd always known Old Whateley had two grandsons. He'd only met Wilbur; he'd never laid eyes on the other one, Hope.

Hope hadn't woken up willingly... At least, he'd have preferred to sleep a little longer...

But... what was that thing called, "muscle memory" or "circadian rhythm"?

He added another note beside the name Number Four Hope: A lunatic who'd forced himself to get used to waking at daybreak every day.

"Ah... ah..."

Hope tossed and turned in bed, wriggling as he tried to drift off again, but no matter what, he couldn't fall asleep. His body was rebelling against his mind, refusing to let him go back to sleep.

This body seemed to be demonstrating what it meant to be steadfast and unyielding... Did it not realize it had a new owner now and should learn to read the room? ...No matter. We still had plenty of time together. I had all the time in the world to train it. It would forget everything eventually...

Since he couldn't get back to sleep no matter what, Hope could only resign himself to getting up. There were no toiletries here, but there was a toilet...

Good grief!

There was a flushing toilet here. Wasn't this a bedroom?

Hope lay back and frowned. Now he knew where the smell that had been bothering him for so long came from. The conditions here really were worse than a college dorm.

Huh, they already had porcelain toilets in this era. The toilet seat was wooden... At least it looked clean enough.

Perfect. His lower abdomen felt a little full after waking up.

Hope braced himself against the wall and unfastened his pants...

He'd only undone them halfway when he fastened his belt again.

He remembered something and decided to take care of his bodily needs later.

Hope crouched down and lifted the bedsheet he'd deliberately let hang down the night before. Someone was still fast asleep underneath the bed.

Hope cautiously held a finger beneath the girl's nose... She was still breathing... still asleep...

Hope placed a hand on the girl's shoulder, preparing to take her back to Old Williams House.

Just then, a rustling sound came from the ceiling.

Hope hesitantly looked up at the wooden ceiling.

Whateley House was supposed to be only two stories tall. There shouldn't be anything above them.

"Creak!"

Startled, Hope pulled his hand back.

He looked up in surprise.

A whole section of the small room's roof—made of wooden boards even shoddier than the roof of Old Williams House—had been removed, and the roofing felt had been violently pulled aside.

Great Night Hawk... Could there be more of them?

A hand holding a screwdriver appeared through the opening, followed soon by the rest of its owner.

A handsome young man with blond hair.

It was Paul.

"Surprised?" Paul said.

He looked at Hope. "What are you doing under the bed?"