The night sky felt heavy, pressing down upon the old inn. Cold air seeped through the brittle, worn wooden cracks, carrying the metallic scent of recently spilled blood.
The gunshot echoed in the narrow corridor. The dilapidated inn walls seemed to absorb the sound of death with terrifying tranquility. Iago stood rigid. A thin wisp of smoke curled from the muzzle of the pistol in his hand. The dim light of the oil lamp cast fractured shadows across his face.
Iago stared at his hand gripping the pistol as if it did not belong to him.
"My fingers... Who moved them?"
Iago let out a low growl, attempting to suppress his inner turmoil. His memories were a blur. For some reason, he could not recall what he had done moments before.
"Hahaha... I am you."
Suddenly, he heard a voice. It was deep, slow, and hissing, like a viper coiled in the darkness. It wasn't from outside, but from the cold depths of his mind: calm, cold, and eerily identical to his own voice.
"Damn it! You again?!"
"Don't be so dramatic, Iago. We are one and the same. Since you've started this, you must ensure no trace is left. Kill the old merchant!"
"The old merchant? No, he's innocent! He hasn't even left his room!"
A sharp, blinding pain instantly pierced his head. His body weakened, and the pistol clattered to the floor. The metallic sound was deafening, like a death knell echoing. Both hands now gripped his head.
"Damn… Why is this pain back… Arghh… My brain feels like it's being sliced by glass shards."
"That is because you reject me, Iago. I am a part of you. You cannot run from me."
"No… No! You are just… a delusion! A hallucination! Get out of my head!"
"Then why were you willing to kill the innkeeper, but not the old merchant?"
Iago froze. When he pulled the trigger just now, was it truly him? Or his other self?
"Did I kill him?"
"Of course, it was you. Or… me. But we are the same."
The room around him began to constrict. The walls seemed to press in, suffocating his fragile mind. The oil lamp flickered wildly, as if shrinking away from the violence.
"Come on... quickly. Finish this."
Iago picked up the pistol again. His fingers were cold, stiff. His steps were heavy as he ascended the stairs. The stairs creaked under his feet as if lamenting. The clock read one in the morning. The upstairs hallway was silent. But the stillness screamed louder than any human voice. He stood before a room door.
He knocked softly. Knock… Knock…
A sound of the bed shifting was heard. Then a hoarse, old voice, "Yes? Wait a moment…" The door slowly opened. Standing in the doorway was the old merchant, thick with sleep still clinging to his eyelids. His wrinkled face paled upon seeing Iago and the pistol in his hand. "You... you were the one queuing for the bath, weren't you?"
Iago only stared, an unexpected emptiness in his eyes. The lamp light cast a giant shadow over his face, creating a frightening silhouette. The merchant glanced at the pistol. His heart clenched in his chest.
"Y-Young man? What is the meaning of this? Why—why are you holding that pistol?" The old merchant's voice trembled, a terrified whisper.
Slowly, Iago raised his hand. But not to shoot. He offered the pistol. The old man did not take it.
"W-What do you mean, lad?! Why are you giving it to me?!" His steps backed away slowly. His hands shook.
"Shoot me."
"W-What?"
"Disappointing, Iago. Have you forgotten your purpose?"
"I will erase all traces. That includes myself."
"Pathetic."
The old merchant was stunned. His eyes widened. "I won't shoot you! Young man… What are you going through?!"
"See? Letting him live is only wasting your time."
Iago stared at the floor for a moment. Silence.
"You're right."
Without warning, Iago raised the pistol and pressed it against the old merchant's head.
BANG…
The explosion was deafening. Fresh blood spilled once again onto the cold, old wooden floor.
Iago walked slowly toward his room, leaving the old merchant's body lying stiff on the floor. Silence crept into every step, as if the world was holding its breath. He packed his belongings with mechanical movements, like a man no longer concerned with the future.
As he was about to leave, he stopped in front of a cracked mirror hanging in the corner of the room. "My purpose, huh? I don't even know why I'm here anymore." His vacant gaze met the reflection of a stranger, a face that had shot two people in one night.
Exiting the room, he passed the old merchant's body again. On the stairs, the wood creaked softly. The first floor was still filled with the smell of blood and gunpowder.
The innkeeper's body still lay near the exit, frozen in his final expression of terror.
He opened the door. The cold morning wind greeted him, cutting through his bones and clearing his tangled thoughts. It was still the dead of night; time no longer mattered to him.
"What time is it? God, I'm exhausted." His steps were listless, without any certain direction.
His mind was a mess. He had taken two lives, but that wasn't what hurt the most. What gnawed at his soul were the whispers in his head, the voice of his other self.
Iago looked down; his reflection felt foreign. He walked along the deserted street. The trees stood like silent witnesses to his sins.
Finally, after walking quite far from the inn, Iago slumped down by the roadside. He leaned his back against an old tree. His eyes were blurred, half-open. His breathing was heavy.
"Maybe… if I sleep for a bit, the world will stop spinning…" Unconsciously, he fell asleep.
The sun began to carve a faint light onto the horizon. The morning air replaced the night's cold. A rooster crowed in the distance.
"Brother? Are you alright?" A soft voice woke him.
When Iago opened his eyes, he saw a small boy staring at him with concern. Beside him, a young girl stood holding a shopping bag. Her red hair flowed down, and her face was calm and gentle.
Iago's face was pale, his eyelids heavy. "I'm fine…" he answered softly.
"Really? But you look so tired…"
"That's true, are you sure you're okay?" the girl asked, her tone sincere and worried.
Iago nodded vaguely. "Perhaps…"
"Where is your home?"
"I don't have one." His stomach suddenly let out a loud rumble, breaking the awkward silence. The hunger felt urgent and sharp.
The boy looked up at his sister. "You can come to our house. We just bought ingredients for breakfast!"
The girl seemed slightly surprised by her brother's sudden invitation, but she did not object. Her eyes still showed empathy.
"He's right. You can have breakfast with us."
Iago smiled weakly. "Thank you… but I don't want to trouble you. I still have a little pocket money, maybe—" He turned to the side. His gaze was empty for a moment. His bag… was gone.
Damn… Did I leave it at the inn? No, I'm sure I brought it.
His face tensed for a split second before he quickly regained his composure.
"Brother? What is it?" Iago looked at the boy and girl beside him.
"May I… come with you?"
They both smiled simultaneously. "Of course." The girl's face was soothing. There was a genuine kindness there, something Iago hadn't seen in a long time.
"Alright… let's go," the boy said cheerfully.