Every Male Lead love Me

Chapter 5

A jagged stone crashed down with brutal force.

Flesh split, bones fractured, producing a sound at once crisp and muffled, shattering the serene, festive calm that should have enveloped the community on the eve of Christmas. The meticulously crafted scene, as delicate as a painting by an artist’s hand, was obliterated in an instant.

Warm splatters of blood hit Summer, and she staggered back, collapsing to the ground in shock. When she lifted her head, her gaze met Matthew’s, who had turned toward the sound.

Like her, Matthew’s face was streaked with blood. His flawless pale skin, his golden hair, all marred by crimson stains, yet beneath the dark red, his eyes—clear as the sky and the sea—remained piercingly serene.

There was no emotion in them.

No fear, no guilt, no trace of remorse for what had been done. For Matthew Dennish, the task had been simple: tend the garden. To him, executing a defenseless creature was no different from shoveling snow.

Moments ago, Summer had marveled at Matthew’s angelic features. Now, he had demonstrated, with chilling precision, the dark reality beneath that veneer.

Beneath the angelic exterior lay the soul of a demon.

Summer blinked, collecting herself. She sprang to her feet and approached Matthew, scooping up a handful of snow to wipe his face. The snow melted into water against his skin, and with the icy moisture, she hastily wiped away the blood from his face and hair, then used the soil beneath the snow to obscure the stains on his clothes.

“It’s not good if Mrs. Peet sees this,” Summer whispered. “She’d be terrified.”

Matthew made no movement, allowing her to tend to the mess.

Once the blood was concealed, Summer swiftly removed the pulverized corpse of the vole and shoveled away the bloodstained snow.

She had read numerous case studies of serial killers; many accounts noted that those with antisocial tendencies often tortured animals in childhood. Matthew Dennish’s behavior was a textbook example, even more extreme than real-life cases—at least those children could communicate. Now, Summer felt her attempts at coaxing him into connection were akin to warming a stone with her hands.

Driven by necessity, she cleaned the garden with unprecedented speed.

When the task was complete, she paused, gasping for breath, and returned to Matthew’s side. Throughout the ordeal, he had remained unnervingly still, as if he were a meticulously sculpted statue rather than a living child.

“From now on, when you encounter pests—mice, voles—you can choose to handle them with tools or chemicals,” she said. “Adults dislike scenes of blood and c*****e; they might label you a monster, shun you, or treat you like Frank does. If the same task can be done in a way they approve of, why not choose that?”

Her hands trembled as she spoke—not from fear, but from the surge of adrenaline that follows witnessing such violence. Her words tumbled out faster than usual.

“This world has a framework, Matthew,” she continued, drawing an imaginary box in the air.

“Humans are hypocritical; they craft laws, morals, and countless other rules. Anyone who steps outside these bounds faces punishment. For example, Mrs. Smith does not allow conflicts at home—if Frank breaks that rule, he suffers consequences.”

“But within those rules, we can still strive to be ourselves.”

She spoke with careful urgency.

“By pleasing the adults who set the rules, they’ll favor you. Using tools instead of brute force to handle pests earns you their approval. Perhaps you don’t understand why rules exist… but for your own benefit, isn’t it better to avoid punishment, earn rewards, and avoid doing what adults dislike? You’ll get sweets and protection too.”

Yet Matthew remained impassive.

His sea-blue eyes never left her, studying her with the intensity of a predator or an artist examining a subject. He had observed her all day; had he not drawn any conclusions yet?

Summer felt a twinge of discouragement. She could not tell if he had absorbed her words—he offered no acknowledgment.

She could not hope to win Matthew Dennish’s trust fully in a single day. Step by step, she reasoned, she would learn his thoughts, trace his behaviors.

“Let’s finish up and go,” she said lightly, trying to mask her nerves. “Next time… I hope you won’t crush any animals with your bare hands. There are other ways to handle it—ways that won’t frighten anyone. Can we agree on that?”

Fortunately, her method of “erasing the evidence” was efficient.

The snow washed away the blood, the soil concealed the stains, and to any onlooker, it looked as if the children had simply enjoyed a lively snowball fight. Mrs. Peet laughed heartily. “Two little angels causing Mrs. Smith more chores!”

“We won’t trouble Mrs. Smith,” Summer replied earnestly. “I’ll use the washing machine!”

Mrs. Peet smiled with approval. “Ah, such a sensible child!”

In the 1980s, pocket money was modest; each task earned Summer fifty cents. Today, however, Mrs. Peet handed her a dollar and gave both Summer and Matthew a bottle of soda.

As they stepped outside, Summer helped Matthew twist open the cap.

“See,” she said, handing him the soda, “if anyone had found out about the vole, there would be no free treats. Let’s enjoy this before heading home.”

Ordinarily, Mrs. Smith would never buy soda for the foster children. Frank and his little gang would have snatched it immediately.

Matthew obediently took the soda and sipped.

“How is it?” Summer asked with a bright smile.

The decades-old soda was a novelty even for her. As she raised the bottle to her lips, a system alert chimed in her ear.

[Objective: Matthew Dennish Affection +1, Dark Index –1; Current Dark Index: 89, Affection: 3]

Her hand froze, holding the soda. Not only had his affection increased, but his darkness had diminished.

The rise in affection was understandable—rare treats at Christmas and New Year had been fulfilled.

But the decline in darkness… could it be that he had absorbed her words?

The only explanation Summer could fathom: by concealing the vole’s death, Mrs. Peet remained unaware, thus granting them reward. Her guidance had proven correct, and Matthew had chosen to accept it.

If true, it revealed a sharp mind beneath his impassive facade.

He observed, analyzed, and assessed the world, drawing conclusions with precision. Matthew possessed an intellect as advanced as any child, perhaps more.

Lack of visible emotion did not imply a deficiency in intelligence.

Summer felt an unexpected surge of hope; perhaps Matthew was smarter than most children—how else could he so consistently outwit Frank, eight years his senior?

Back at home, Summer helped Matthew remove his coat and carried the soiled garments to the laundry.

If he could absorb her words, communication was possible. This was a promising start; with time, they could become family, perhaps even friends.

Yet if young Matthew was so perceptive, why resist expressing himself to the world?

The washing machine hummed to life. Summer pulled a stool and had Matthew sit, then gently patted his damp hair dry with a towel.

“You heard everything I said, didn’t you?” she murmured over the mechanical drone. “I wasn’t speaking to stone—you were listening intently.”

Matthew remained motionless.

“Humans need to communicate,” she continued softly. “When you don’t respond, I feel sad. I thought I had made myself clear, yet you seemed indifferent.”

The tender contact of the towel ended.

Summer crouched to meet his gaze.

“I’m lonely too—Frank’s unpleasant, Lyra’s irritable. I want to be friends with you, Matthew,” she said, locking eyes with him. “If you’ve heard my words… can you give me some sign? Even a blink or a nod?”

Matthew lifted his lashes and regarded her.

“Can I be your friend?” Summer asked.

The six-year-old boy remained perfectly still.

Seconds ticked by—one, three, thirty. Summer exhaled wearily.

Then, just when she believed the silence would persist as it had countless times before, Matthew lifted his hand.

The movement was startlingly swift, almost inhuman for a child. Summer’s heart leapt, fearing an attack—another prank like the pepper incident with Frank, or the brutal crushing of the vole.

Yet his hand merely came to rest atop her head.

The contact was light, so faint she instinctively closed her eyes, only realizing moments later she was unharmed.

She opened her eyes slowly.

Matthew’s delicate fingers brushed through her hair with no pressure, softly grazing her bangs.

Summer stared, bewildered.

Even as he touched her hair, Matthew’s expression remained unreadable.

What did it mean?