Margaret jolted as, somehow, Chase was suddenly there—far too close—pulling her into his embrace. Her ears rang with the sound of his voice—the panic, the hurried pace, and that slight tremor—each word hitting her like a small explosion that shattered her entire consciousness.
There were facts being laid out by Chase—new details that began to overpower the bizarre, gruesome, and terrifying thoughts that had just seized her mind, as well as the hasty conclusions she had hurled at him without a second thought.
At first, she didn't know what to say. No response came; no words were capable of weaving together what she was feeling.
The shock was so profound that her body felt as if it were standing in the middle of a thin fog—thin, yet enough to blur her surroundings, making everything hazy even though her eyes remained focused and clear.
Yet, amidst the confusion and the paralyzing surprise, a sliver of awareness began to seep back in. She had to say something. She had to understand. She had to know, with absolute precision and care, exactly what Chase meant by all of it.
"Is… is that really true?"
Her voice finally emerged, laced with hesitation. The tremor was still there—evident in every syllable—but it was no longer as violent as it had been moments before.
"Is it… is it really like that?"
She repeated the question, as if saying it once wasn't enough to pierce through the barrier of uncertainty that clouded the room.
"That puppy… that puppy… is yours, Chase Oppa?"
Chase immediately released his hold upon hearing Margaret's voice, yet his hands remained braced on either side of her, pinning her within his reach. He held Margaret's gaze longer this time.
There, behind the lingering shimmer of panic, Chase could see a cocktail of emotions—pure fear, a horror she refused to acknowledge, yet also a flicker of hope that stubbornly refused to die.
Chase knew exactly what was hidden behind that hope: a desperate desire to banish the gruesome shadows that had haunted her mind for so long—shadows so deeply rooted they had almost become a part of her.
He let out a sigh—slow, incredibly slow. To the untrained eye, it looked like a sign of regret; but to anyone truly reading his body, it was clear that his remorse was nothing but a paper-thin mask. He wasn't truly sorry. Not entirely.
He moved his hand, sweeping his dark hair back over his shoulder before speaking.
"Margaret… I am so, so sorry."
"I was completely out of line this time, and it's unforgivable of me to make you this afraid, to make you tremble like this."
His voice flowed again—low, gentle, nearly a whisper drifting through the hollow space they shared.
Without Margaret realizing it, he intentionally softened his tone, crafting a rhythm and vibration that mimicked someone drowning in a deep, lingering regret.
"I didn't realize my words would affect you to this extent. But please… don't be afraid of me, okay?"
"I won't hurt you, and I will never act like whatever it is you might be thinking right now."
"This is entirely my fault. I'm sorry, Margaret. From now on, I'll be more careful… because—"
He paused for a moment, appearing slightly hesitant to continue.
His eyes drifted to the side, staring at something indistinct, or perhaps at anything other than Margaret—as if he were desperately restraining himself from looking at her.
His hand, as if acting on its own, moved to the back of his head, scratching it with a clumsy, awkward motion that seemed uncoordinated. His face shifted along with it—a sudden look of sheepishness that emerged like a shadow of the vulnerability he was trying to hide, as if the solid ground he had been standing on had suddenly crumbled beneath his feet.
"Yeah… this is also one of my habits,"
His voice dropped low, like someone sharing a dark secret, before he continued.
"I often speak as if I'm the victim of a situation—even though that's not entirely the case."
"I do it because, if I don't, I find it difficult to control the four of them. After all… being a leader isn't easy, especially when the ones you have to manage are grown men who act like children, right?"
"Sometimes they act however they please and end up making everything complicated. Because of that, I have no choice but to act in ways that are… unexpected."
His gaze returned to Margaret, now devoid of its previous intensity—dull and weary, like a sunset obscured by thick clouds. His voice lowered further, dipping into a more silent, somber territory.
"I shouldn't have acted like this with you, to the point where it made you think such unthinkable things."
"So, I'm sorry, Margaret."
"I truly, sincerely apologize."
Margaret's ears caught that tone with absolute clarity.
The frantic edge in Chase's voice, the tremor, the hesitation, and that hint of profound regret—it all blended into one intoxicating symphony.
Her heart, though still wrapped in the lingering remnants of shock and terror, began to feel something strange yet warm—like a steady stream flowing through her veins. She wasn't entirely convinced yet that she was safe, but there was a sliver of inexplicable comfort clinging to her skin.
She gazed at Chase for a long moment, searching his face—a face that looked so sincere, filled with an earnestness that seemed impossible to fake.
Bit by bit, her defensive walls crumbled. Crack by crack, they gave way, allowing that warmth to seep into her, soaking into her bones, her muscles, down to the very center of her most vulnerable heart.
And in that moment, while her voice was still unsteady, Margaret finally parted her lips.
"So, how should I… how am I supposed to…"
The sentence cut off as her throat felt as dry as if a desert wind had briefly swept through.
She cleared her throat with a small, soft sound, then tried again, reweaving her scattered thoughts.
"I mean… which part do I need to fix… and which do I not?"
"That little puppy belongs to… to you, Chase Oppa? And… how… how… I mean…"
She stopped again.
This time, it wasn't because her throat was dry, but because the words that were supposed to come out had simply vanished—disappearing before they could even take shape.
Chase, observing her reaction, allowed his lips to curve slowly into a gentle smile—the very smile he had always used whenever he wanted to soothe someone's troubled heart.
He understood perfectly why Margaret couldn't finish her sentence; he understood the silence that hung between them. He knew exactly what had caused it.
Without saying a word, Chase reached into his trouser pocket. His thumb ignited the phone screen with a quick touch, the artificial light reflecting dimly against his features.
A few seconds passed before he finally tilted the phone toward Margaret, displaying an image on the screen.
"Look at this, Margaret."
Margaret's eyes immediately locked onto the image displayed on Chase's phone screen. Within seconds, her pupils dilated, and she instinctively caught her breath.
It was the little white puppy.
She pulled the phone closer to her face. Too close—until the glare of the screen reflected sharply in her eyes.
Her fingers brushed the screen nervously, beginning to move—opening and closing the image repeatedly, zooming in, zooming out, tracing every corner with breath that grew shorter by the second. She studied those tiny ears, the position of the eyes, the curve of that small snout. Every detail etched deeply into her memory resurfaced, one by one.
"I named him Chase."
Her head snapped up the moment Chase's voice reached her.
Her eyes immediately locked onto his smile—a cheerful, proud grin, like someone showing off a prize worthy of a grand celebration.
"C.. Chase?"
Chase smiled again, acknowledging the faint yet clear note of doubt lingering in Margaret's voice.
Slowly, his hand rose. His index finger pointed toward the image still displayed on the phone screen.
"That's right. His name is Chase. Just like me."
"You can swipe the screen to the side if you want to know more, Margaret."
Margaret's finger followed his lead. The screen swiped, and the next frame presented a sight that made her breath hitch—the injured front paw of the puppy.
Seeing that, Chase spoke up quickly, as if caught off guard.
"Ah, that… I forgot to delete that one. So the picture is still there."
The awkwardness in Chase's tone made Margaret look up again, her expression completely transformed—a mixture of anxiety, worry, and restlessness.
"Is he okay?"
"The wound isn't deep, is it? If it was just a scratch from a tree root, it should only be a minor injury—unless there were splinters stuck in his paw."
"You took him to the vet, didn't you, Chase Oppa? You didn't just let him suffer like that, right? Can I know what the doctor said about his wound?"
The urgency in Margaret's voice was unmistakable.
There was a palpable fragility tucked between her words, as her mind immediately pictured the pain in the puppy's paw, even though she wasn't the one feeling it.
Chase gazed at Margaret, whose face was trembling slightly—not from the cold, but from the fear that whatever she heard next might collapse the last of her strength to stand—and he smiled again.
He didn't answer Margaret's questions directly; instead, his finger swiped the screen, and the image changed once more.
Now, a different scene appeared.
The little white puppy, small and fragile, was fast asleep in a mini bed, covered by a pink blanket patterned with leaves. Margaret's eyes immediately caught one thing—one of the puppy's front paws was wrapped in a clean white bandage.
"He's doing fine, Margaret."
"The doctor said the wound wasn't severe. But you were right—it was quite painful for him. All the way back to the agency, Chase whimpered and complained several times; he even gripped my shirt tightly with his little paws."
"That's why I decided not to attend practice that day… or rather, I arrived very late. Chase clearly needed me more at that moment."
"You don't need to worry. He's much better now—he can already walk normally again. That's why I came here today—to let you know."
Chase's smile widened, blooming until it caused his eyes to narrow into crescent moon shapes.
Margaret didn't react immediately—no sound, no movement, not even the ghost of a breath was audible as her entire focus remained anchored to the phone screen in her hand. Her thumb moved softly, stroking the image of the little puppy. Her expression was unreadable, too complex to be labeled with a single emotion.
Chase tried to guess: was it relief, a lingering anxiety, or something else—something deeper and more baffling?
But secretly, her silence gnawed at him. The smile that had been plastered on his face slowly faded, replaced by a flat, cold expression. A flicker of something he couldn't entirely hide surfaced: jealousy. It wasn't explosive, but it was enough to tighten his features, turning his warmth into tension.
"So, you'd rather I be a dog than a human, wouldn't you, Margaret?"
"Isn't that unfair, Margaret? That you prefer me as a weak animal rather than in this human form."
"Do I have to remain a dog forever just so you'll keep liking me and paying attention to me?"
His hands clenched into tight fists at his sides.
"No…"
"I must have you, and you must like me as a human—not as a dog."
"Or… perhaps as both?"
His clenched fists slowly relaxed, letting his fingers hang loose at his sides once more.