Schism

​"What? What are you talking about?" Sensing Alistair’s deep doubts, John hurried to explain. "No, that won't happen. You're innocent."

​Alistair closed the book with a heavy thud and sighed. "Really? What about the others? Do they think the same? What bothers me isn't being blindsided like this—it's seeing the innocent get entangled in it."

​"Everything changed because we caught wind that Elena altered her plans, I swear!" Frantic to prove he had no choice, John spoke in a hurried, breathless rush. "The medication that helped you doze off earlier is completely harmless. I couldn't inform you beforehand because they were in such a hurry. I only managed to alter your dosage..."

​"And what would you do if Elena decides to sink the entire ship since she’s going down anyway?" Alistair countered, his voice chillingly calm.

​"With you here? She wouldn't dare."

​"So that is your grand plan? Keeping me here as leverage to keep her under control?" Alistair let out a cold, humorless laugh. "Well, I hate to disappoint you all, but she now considers me one of you. Didn't you notice her eyes in the lobby? She realized I didn't just choose to get that operation last year randomly—and certainly not right around the time of the gathering."

​John froze. Shock rippled through him as the pieces clicked into place. That was why Elena had been acting so strange. Her doubts had just been confirmed by Alistair’s uncanny calm.

​But wait...

​"How many times do I have to tell you?" John pleaded, his voice cracking. "I really had no part in that choice! I would never think of hurting you—I'd rather it just be me."

​John pursed his lips, the crushing weight of guilt pressing down on his chest. Remembering how he had used Alistair for years, he realized he could no longer bear the burden of his secrets. Closing his eyes, he made a silent, monumental decision.

​"Actually... I am helping them because—"

​Alistair tapped his shoulder, gently but firmly cutting him off. "That is enough. There is no need to reopen your old wounds for my sake. Go back to sleep."

​John’s eyes widened, staring helplessly into Alistair’s dark, unreadable gaze. Does he... know?

​No way. If he really knows... then what am I? Did he purposely listen to me that year, going against his own will and stepping into that castle—the one that holds his nightmares trapped in its very walls and grass and now even water—simply because I nudged him to?

​Panic and awe warred in John's chest as a terrifying realization dawned on him: How... how can I ever repay this great debt?

​Now, Alistair was the one in danger. Cornered dogs bite the hand that feeds them—even the merciful hand that had pulled them from the darkness to stroke their fur. Even his sister, the catalyst for this entire nightmare, was shunning him now.

And John was, to some degree, complicit in it all. Yet, here was the savior, still speaking to him instead of turning his back. He hadn't screamed or made a scene; he only asked about the fate of the innocents and showed genuine concern for John's painful memories. How could a man who only ever offered solace be subjected to this? Why did they...

​“What about the baby? Are they still refusing to board with my suggestion?”

​Alistair’s voice snapped John out of the turmoil of his own thoughts. John stared blankly, struggling to process the words for a moment before shaking his head. “They’re completely against it," John advised softly. "Don't try to intervene. It will only fuel their repulsion toward you.”

​Alistair nodded, giving the illusion that he actually intended to follow the advice.

​Later, alone in his cabin, Alistair stared up at the overhead lamp, his thoughts scattering like shadows.

​When resentment and wrath stain the soul, there is no stopping the atrocities that follow—not unless that soul is bound by rigid constraints, whether self-imposed or forced from the outside.

Feeling a deep, suffocating grudge over unfair treatment is an uncontrollable human flaw, one that inevitably leads to regrettable actions if left unchecked.

The crimes committed were heinous, yes, but what was the baby's fault?

​The others surely believed that because they had lost their own loved ones, that woman had no right to bring a new life into the world after the slaughter she took part in.

They believed they had the right to torture her, to execute her, and that the innocent life growing inside her should bear the weight of the mother’s sins.

​But they were blind to how closely they were beginning to resemble the very monsters they loathed. They no longer valued human life. In their eyes, by stopping them from personally staining their hands with blood, Alistair was stealing their closure—the justice they owed to the dead.

​He wanted to anchor these people back to steady lives. Their futures might never be entirely free of sadness or the ache of missing the departed, but he could at least steer them away  from the negative feelings feeding on their minds until they turned hollow. A single tragedy had plundered the meaning of their lives, trapping them forever on one dreadful day.

​He had to be the line. He had to draw the boundary, no matter the cost. His sister had already fallen into a vortex of no return; because he had failed to notice her descent early enough, it was now his responsibility to stop the others from being sucked into her wake.

Instead of obediently returning to his cabin, John stealthily headed toward the lobby. He was unbothered by the threat of a "killer" promising a death sentence to a select few; with arrogant confidence, he considered himself one of the innocent souls the killer's vain promise had vowed to spare.

​The absolute quiet of the night only amplified the eerie atmosphere engulfing the yacht. John didn't run into any of the guests, but a steward suddenly materialized from a concealed, flush door at the far end of the corridor. The crew member was holding a few dark plastic bags. They locked eyes for a tense second, mutually decided to pretend they hadn't seen each other, and continued on their respective ways.

​Reaching the lobby, John approached the cabinet anchored to the center wall—the very one where the bowl had been placed during the Choosing–chosing the theme of the performance in ch 13–

He reached inside, tapping the back wooden plank, a hollow sound echoed. Slowly, the plank slid down just enough to reveal the lower jaw of a person standing on the other side, hidden in the neighboring room.

​“Is he okay? Was he upset?” the mysterious person asked, their voice laced with a tinge of worry.

​John sighed. “He’s upset. He might even try to intervene with Margaret's problem.”

The mysterious person said, “Relay to him that I am sorry I couldn't delay things any longer. But I am still stern on forbidding any interference with the kills, so he needs to lay back. As for Margaret… why would he endanger himself for an unconfirmed rumor?”

​“Do you think it would be better for her to be the next target? That way, he won't even have time to try anything,” John suggested.

​Silence stretched between them for a heavy minute before they silently agreed to dismiss the idea. With deep distress, the person on the other side whispered, “He will be disappointed. But more than that, I'm afraid he'll get angry and throw caution to the wind. Say... should I just inform the others of his—?”

​John tried to remember if he had ever seen Alistair truly angry. Hearing the suggestion, he immediately shut it down. “No. I’ll keep a close eye on him. But beware of Elena—she might have caught on to his involvement.”

​“Huh?”

​A sudden voice shattered the quiet. Fear spiked through John. He froze, refusing to turn around as his mind raced to formulate an excuse. He desperately tried to calculate if the uninvited guest had overheard them. The lobby was large, and he had kept his voice low, but in a silence this absolute, every whisper carried.