Konrad Curze did not like his name.
He never had.
Not for a single moment.
To put it more precisely, more extremely, in a way more suited to the complexity a man like Konrad Curze ought to possess—he did not like anything. He loathed everyone, himself included. In his darkest thoughts, he even wished everyone would just die and be done with it.
But either way, for now, people still called him by that name.
"Mr. Konrad!" Someone knocked on the door.
With a surge of fury, Konrad Curze spun around, flung the door open, black hair flying. His pale face, gaunt cheeks, and furious expression made him look no different from a ghost.
But the child who had called him was not afraid of him. With a shy little smile, she held up the enormous tray in her hands. On it were several precious pieces of white bread, a round red fruit Curze could not name, and a large bowl of thick soup.
"Breakfast Mom made. There was extra."
The child said softly, "You went out fighting again, and you didn't eat properly again. You must be starving. My mom said if you don't eat on time, you'll get malnourished. You don't look very healthy."
Curze's neck began to twitch in spasms. The child's concern became a bone-eating poison, making his face convulse despite himself.
Along with it came a violent impulse, and he began to pant harshly.
No!
Konrad Curze gritted his teeth and hurled that impulse into the darkest corner of his humanity—no! No!
You could not do this.
After a long while, he finally stopped it.
He roughly snatched the tray from the child's hands and said coldly, "Don't make a special portion and bring it over again. Don't do this anymore, understand? I can live