Chapter 7
1465 Words
Lyra returned home just before Mrs. Smith finished her work.
Summer didn’t tattle, and Justin had no intention of acting as a “traitor,” so everyone silently agreed to keep Lyra’s truancy under wraps.
As usual, dinner was a group effort. According to Mrs. Smith, it was “a perfect opportunity to strengthen family bonds”—though the children present clearly didn’t take it seriously.
Summer lied, claiming she had tripped on the way home, which explained her injury. With her palm treated with medicine, she was excused from chores but still received a stern scolding from Mrs. Smith.
“You’re always causing trouble,” Mrs. Smith grumbled. “Helping patients all day, and even at night you can’t rest. Lyra, stop daydreaming and wash the vegetables! Summer, you mustn’t be so careless again—fortunately it’s only a scratch, but what if something had happened? The social agency would fine me. Go—if you can’t handle the work, at least check the oven. Frank and John, take out the trash, quickly! And Justin, if you have nothing to do, wipe the tables.”
Dinner was simple—roasted potatoes with vegetable and meat sauce pasta—but Mrs. Smith, unable to stand idle children, directed everyone with the enthusiasm of preparing a Christmas feast.
Summer crouched by the oven, silently observing Mrs. Smith bustle about.
When the pasta was ready, Justin portioned it into seven servings and placed them on the table. Only then did Mrs. Smith remember someone missing.
“Matthew? Where is Matthew? Damn it.”
She muttered irritably, “I regret agreeing to the social worker’s request to take him in—raising a ghost who disappears in my own house!”
At those words, Matthew finally appeared.
He slipped silently into the kitchen and seated himself at the table.
Mrs. Smith’s annoyance deepened. “If you’re late again, no dinner for you.”
Frank and John, returning from taking out the trash, washed their hands and sat on the opposite side.
“The little freak… Matthew, what are you doing in the basement?” Frank asked.
Basement?
Summer tensed instinctively.
The basement was Mr. Smith’s private domain, strictly off-limits to children. Mr. Smith enjoyed gardening and supposedly kept only tools down there. With him away on a trip, the basement remained securely locked—Matthew couldn’t possibly have entered.
But…
Recalling how he had tracked Lyra with perfect accuracy earlier, Summer couldn’t help but wonder: if he could enter, what could his purpose be at this precise moment?
Over the past few days, Summer had noticed one thing: Matthew Dennish never acted on impulse. Every action had a purpose. He had never entered the basement before; today he moved toward it for a reason.
Summer’s gaze shifted to him.
A six-year-old was exempt from chores—he only needed to wait at the table until Mrs. Smith announced dinner. Sitting there, Matthew looked obedient and composed, his golden fringe and thick lashes framing a face of serene stillness, like a carefully staged portrait or art photograph.
Yet, that seemingly angelic boy, seizing a fleeting moment while Mrs. Smith retrieved the roasted potatoes and Frank and John squabbled, extended his hand toward the plate to his left.
His pale hand plunged directly into the pasta.
Summer’s eyes widened. What… what is he doing?
The pasta had just been served and was still steaming, yet Matthew showed no hesitation. She watched as he deftly slipped something beneath the noodles, moving with speed and precision completely uncharacteristic of a six-year-old.
By the time Mrs. Smith turned back, Matthew had withdrawn his hand.
He grabbed a napkin and wiped the sauce from his fingers, the tender skin reddened by the heat of the pasta. It looked painful—but still, no expression crossed his flawless face.
To his left sat Lyra.
A chill ran through Summer. Whatever Matthew had placed in Lyra’s food, it was not harmless.
“No, no, no.”
“Lyra, bring the vegetables,” Mrs. Smith instructed, removing the roasted potatoes from the oven. “Summer, come eat too.”
“Yes, Mrs. Smith.”
Summer rose obediently.
As she approached the table, Lyra had just set down the vegetables, preparing to sit. Seizing the moment, Summer stepped lightly, passing behind Lyra and nudging her chair.
Clang!
No one noticed Summer’s subtle intervention. She settled into the seat to Matthew’s right. Lyra, now without a chair beneath her, stumbled and fell to the ground.
“Ah!” Lyra cried, flailing. In her struggle, her hands slammed against the table, toppling her plate of pasta.
Mrs. Smith froze, exasperated: “Lyra!”
Summer immediately sprang up. “Are you okay, Lyra? I’ll clean it up!”
She dashed to the sink, grabbed a cloth and trash bin, and returned to the table, collecting the fallen pasta.
The food was still scorching, and Summer had to wrap it in the cloth before tossing it into the trash. A cold dread gripped her—could Matthew not sense pain?
When she finally uncovered what Matthew had slipped into Lyra’s food, Summer’s blood ran cold.
Beneath the noodles lay two pellets of rodenticide.
He intended to kill Lyra.
In the original Bloodshadow Killers, Matthew Dennish waited until adulthood to act. Yet now, he was only six.
Why?
Earlier that afternoon, his Dark Index had decreased by two points, and Summer hadn’t even speculated on the cause—yet he had already taken such action.
Her gaze snapped to Matthew, who still sat silently, serene, upright on the chair. His blue eyes, devoid of emotion, were fixed on Summer.
No one had noticed her minor intervention—not even Lyra. But Summer knew Matthew had. He had seen her deliberately tip Lyra’s chair.
Startled, Summer hastily cleared the rest of the pasta into the trash. She dared not dwell further on what might have happened if she hadn’t acted.
The rest of dinner was tasteless, her mind consumed by dread. Even Lyra’s spiteful glare and whispered accusation of “hypocrisy” failed to distract her.
She lay in bed later, unable to shake the chill in her chest.
In the original story, Matthew Dennish was a killer—but his actions had motives. Lyra hadn’t provoked him; she hadn’t bullied him—at least, not yet. Summer had been a bystander, much like her counterpart in the original. Why, then, did Matthew feel murderous toward Lyra?
Only one possibility came to mind.
It wasn’t narcissism—reviewing recent events, only one incident could serve as Matthew’s motive: earlier that day, Lyra and Summer had quarreled in the woods, and Lyra had shoved Summer.
Was Matthew acting on Summer’s behalf?
Was this… a gesture of protection, or something else?
If his motive was genuine, then Matthew’s intent to harm Lyra was paradoxically rooted in “benevolence.”
A shiver ran down Summer’s spine.
“Three points of favor, and he’s willing to kill for me… seriously?” she murmured.
[System Hint: Target has self-learning capabilities.]
Summer groaned inwardly. “I know he observes and learns—but I never taught him to kill—”
Wait.
Her words froze.
Had she not taught him? Yes—she had tried to use normal logic to show Matthew that conflicts could be resolved without violence. But how could a boy incapable of understanding human morality interpret her words?
It was Summer who had shown him: that one could end a life with poison instead of stones.
It was Summer who had set the example—when “retaliating” in small ways, she could place undesired items in someone else’s dish.
It was even Summer who had guided Matthew to the rodenticide—otherwise, how would a six-year-old know it was stored in the basement among gardening tools at Mrs. Peter’s?
She had tried to demonstrate a world without violence or harm, yet he had interpreted it to an extreme.
If Matthew Dennish was born a demon, his coldness and detachment were not the result of neglect—they were innate.
Then, what chance did the protagonist of Bloodshadow Killers have?
Summer slowly lifted her gaze.
Matthew Dennish stood at her bedroom door.
As before, like when he had tracked Lyra, every step on the old floorboards creaked, yet she had heard nothing of his approach. The six-year-old boy watched silently, his clear blue eyes reptilian—devoid of any human emotion or thought.
Their eyes met, and the system chimed.
[Objective: Matthew Dennish Favor –1; Current Favor: 2]
“….”
No emotion in his eyes—but this time, Summer inexplicably understood Matthew’s intent.
He had come to inquire.
To seek the reason why she had stopped him from killing Lyra.
- Writer
