Cross and Conflicts

CHAPTER XLI: A Novice’s Reckoning

Lost in thought, he barely noticed Doctor Dunong approaching from behind. The doctor’s presence was calm and composed, a stark contrast to the chaos that surrounded them.

"Oh, Cross," Doctor Dunong said gently, his tone measured. "How are you feeling?"

He turned to face the aged doctor; his expression troubled.

"I... I'm not sure," he admitted. "I remember praying, and then... nothing. What happened last night?"

The inventor’s eyes held a hint of concern, but he remained composed.

"There was an incident," he began, choosing his words carefully. "You lost control—again. The nun was caught in the middle of it."

Cross was startled, but his face didn’t show it.

"Is she... how is she?" he asked, his tone unreadable.

"She's shaken, but she'll be alright," Doctor Dunong replied. "You were on a rampage. But don’t worry, I stopped you just in time."

Cross ran a hand through his hair, his mind racing. "I thought I could control it, but..." he said, his voice filled with frustration.

"You almost killed her," he informed him. "We’ll just have to be more careful next time. What do you plan to do with her now?”

He looked away. “I need to talk to her again.”

“Alright.”

"Thank you, Doctor," he then said, his voice steady. "For everything."

Doctor Dunong smiled. “You’re always welcome, Cross.”

Her body felt immensely heavy. It felt as if dozens of bricks were blanketed on her entire body. She was aching all over. Her bruises stung, and the sensation left after she was mercilessly strangled lingered. It felt like Cross’ hand never left her neck.

Slowly, she opened her eyes. She saw the same roof, and she felt the same air. She recollected the details of last night. These were still vivid and these were still fresh. Her body almost shook at the thought of almost dying. The dealing wasn’t new to her because several years ago—as she always recounted— that her very own father also almost killed her.

She realized that it was dawn but now closer to the first shine of the glorious sun. She didn’t look forward to the day. She was still horrified. She felt sorry for herself, and she felt hopeless. She couldn’t defend herself. Who was she even kidding when she asked for help from a serial killer?

As if on cue, her tears started to burst, trailing the sides of her eyes, down to her temples.

“Are you sad because you’re hurt?” a voice interrupted her thoughts.

She gasped, her body tensing in shock. She hadn’t noticed that Cross was leaning on the wall to her right, his blue eyes cold and piercing. His presence was both unsettling and commanding, and she felt a shiver run down her spine.

Her eyes widened, her heart racing. She was unsure of how to respond, the events of the previous night still fresh in her mind. She wiped her tears away with trembling hands and attempted to gather herself.

Cross stepped closer, his gaze never leaving hers.

"Answer me," he demanded, his voice low and controlled. "Is it the pain that makes you sad?"

She looked away. She was uncertain about what to respond to him.

“Not really.” It was almost a whisper, but she managed to give him an answer.

Noumenon felt a wave of shame wash over her, the vulnerability of her current state making her feel weaker than ever. She couldn't meet his gaze, her eyes fixed on the floor.

Cross' expression remained indifferent, his voice cold and detached. "If it's not the pain, then what is it?" he asked, his tone almost clinical. "Is it the feeling of helplessness? The realization that you couldn't defend yourself?"

She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. The truth of his words stung, but she refused to let him see just how much it affected her. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself, but her voice still trembled as she replied, "Yes, it's all of that. The helplessness, the fear... everything."

Without warning, he grabbed her hand, his grip firm and unyielding. She gasped, startled by the suddenness of his actions. He reached something on his back and pulled out a knife, placing the cold, metal hilt into her trembling hand.

"Then do something about it," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Avenge yourself. Stab me, if that will make you feel better."

Her heart raced, her eyes wide with shock and confusion. She looked at the knife in her hand, the blade glinting ominously in the dim light. Cross's face remained impassive; his eyes boring into hers with an intensity that made her feel like she was being dissected.

She felt the weight of the knife in her hand, the cool metal pressing against her skin. The idea of actually stabbing him filled her with a mix of fear and revulsion, but there was a part of her that yearned for some form of retribution, some way to assert her own strength.

On the other hand, his gaze never wavered, his expression unchanged.

"Do it," he urged, his voice a low whisper. "Prove to yourself that you have the strength to fight back."

She hesitated, her mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. She tightened her grip on the knife, her knuckles turning white. She knew that she had to make a choice, to decide if she was willing to cross that line.

With a deep breath, she raised the knife, her hand shaking. She could see the flicker of anticipation in his eyes, as if he were testing her, pushing her to her limits. She knew that this moment would define her, would shape the path she would take from here on out.

But just as she was about to make her decision, a sudden realization washed over her. She lowered the knife, her grip loosening. "No," she said, her voice steady despite the turmoil within her. "I won't do it."

His expression remained unreadable, but there was a hint of curiosity in his eyes.

"Why not?" he asked, his tone still indifferent.

"I may be planning to kill my father, but that doesn’t mean I have the need to kill other people," she replied, her voice firm and her gaze fierce.

"I won't ever become like you,” she added.

For a moment, there was silence between them, the tension palpable. Cross's gaze remained fixed on hers, and she could sense a shift in his demeanor. He released her hand, and she let the knife fall to the floor.

Clang! Clang! The clatter echoed in the stillness of the room.

The silence stretched on, the tension in the room almost suffocating. His gaze darkened, and his expression turned menacing. He took a step closer, his presence looming over her like a shadow.

"You do understand," he began, his voice low and chilling, "that I could end your life right here, right now. No one would ever know, and no one would ever know where I’ll bury your corpse."

She felt a surge of fear, but she steeled herself, refusing to back down. She met his gaze head-on, her eyes burning with determination.

"Why?" she asked, her voice unwavering. "Why would you kill me?"

Cross hesitated, caught off guard by her direct question. For a moment, his mask of indifference faltered, and she saw a flicker of something—uncertainty, perhaps—in his eyes. He found himself at a loss for words.

Her voice grew stronger. "What would you gain from killing me? Would that satisfy you?”

His expression hardened, but not because he was afraid of her growing stronger. He realized that he didn't really have any logical reason to kill her. This was in stark contrast to his principle of killing only those who are menaces to the world. This was one the rare occasions that he struggled to reconcile his actions with his beliefs. What happened last night was also beyond his rationality.

"I came to you for help, to learn how to protect myself and to seek justice for my mothers. If you want to kill me, then go ahead,” she continued, her voice steady and resolute.

Suddenly, Cross grabbed her neck.

“Mmhh!” she gasped.

Surprisingly, his touch was gentle. She felt no pain, just the cool pressure of his fingers against her skin. He held her there for a moment, his eyes locked onto hers, searching for something.

Then, just as quickly, he withdrew his hand, letting it fall to his side.

"I almost killed you," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, filled with a strange tone.

His eyes flickered to the bruised marks on her neck, dark and swollen where his fingers had gripped her. The sight of those marks served as a stark reminder of the brutality she had endured, a testament to the fragility of life.

Noumenon remained still, her breath shallow, the weight of his words sinking in. She realized how close she had come to death, and yet here she was, alive and defiant.

Cross stared at her for a moment longer, then stepped back, his expression unreadable.

"Get some rest," he said briefly, his voice returning to its usual detached tone. Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heels and left the room, leaving her alone to process the events of the night.

The room was quiet, the only sounds being the faint rustling of the wind outside and her own ragged breaths. She gingerly touched the bruises on her neck, the pain a stark reminder of how close she had come to death. But there was no time to dwell on it. She had to find the strength within herself to continue.

The morning light filtered through the heavy drapes, casting a soft glow in the dining room. Noumenon made her way to breakfast, her body still aching but her spirit undeterred. She was surprised to find Cross already seated at the table, his usual impassive demeanor firmly in place.

Doctor Dunong joined them, and they ate in silence for a while, the air heavy with unspoken thoughts. The aroma of a rich, savory soup filled the room, and Noumenon couldn't help but notice how delicious it smelled. She took a tentative sip, the warm broth soothing her aching body.

Finally, the doctor broke the silence, his voice filled with genuine appreciation. "This soup is exceptional," he remarked, glancing at Cross. "I must say, you’ve outdone yourself, Cross. I can tell you made this with a special touch."

Cross's expression remained impassive, but there was a subtle shift in his demeanor, almost as if he was slightly uncomfortable with the praise. He didn't respond immediately, but the doctor continued.

"It’s clear that you put extra effort into this meal," Doctor Dunong added, his tone hinting at a deeper meaning. "It’s almost as if you made it specifically because someone here is injured and in need of healing."

Noumenon looked up from her bowl, meeting his gaze. For a moment, she thought she saw a flicker of something—guilt, perhaps—in his eyes. But it was quickly replaced by his usual stoic expression. He could have just uttered a simple apology, but what can we expect from a guy who can’t express his emotions well?

Cross finally spoke, his voice measured. "It's important to regain your strength," he said simply, addressing her without directly acknowledging the doctor's implication. "You'll need it for what you’ll be learning ahead."