Ray was escorted—not dragged—through a quiet corridor he’d never seen before.

  Stone walls, muffled steps, the kind of place built to keep secrets rather than prisoners.

  When the door opened, warm light spilled out.

  A confined but well-furnished room. A long table. Proper plates. Real cutlery.

  A perfectly cooked steak rested at the center, steam still rising. Beside it: bread, soup, and a bottle of fine alcohol.

  Ray stopped at the threshold.

  “…This feels like a trap.”

  No one answered. He was guided to the chair and released. The door shut behind him with a soft click.

  Moments later, another door opened.

  A man entered—face hidden behind a simple mask. Not ornate. Not threatening. Just… anonymous. He sat across from Ray with an amused ease, folding his hands together.

  “Not going to eat?”

  Ray stared at him.

  “I don’t know where I am,” he said flatly.

  “I don’t know who you are.

  I don’t know why I’m confined.

  And you expect me to eat your food?”

  The masked man tilted his head slightly.

  “Not hungry? It should be dinner time.”

  Ray exhaled sharply.

  “…So you’re not answering me.”

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  “No,” the man replied calmly. “I’m answering what matters.”

  Ray clicked his tongue. Whoever this was, he was good—too good. He never followed Ray’s pace, never reacted to pressure, only guided the conversation where he wanted it to go.

  The man leaned back.

  “Then I’ll be blunt, O Brave Hero.”

  Ray’s muscles tensed.

  “Are you a pedophile?”

  Silence.

  Absolute, crushing silence.

  Ray’s mind blanked.

  “… … …”

  Why is this coming back again?

  Didn’t that child just heal him?

  Is this town cursed?

  “I’m not,” Ray said finally.

  The masked man continued smoothly, as if Ray hadn’t spoken.

  “You carried a minor through town.

  You brought her to your inn.

  You fed her.

  You brought her to your room.

  You ordered warm water.

  You stayed together until morning.”

  Ray’s breath hitched.

  “She returned looking sleep-deprived.

  You returned looking sore, like someone who moved all night.”

  “WHY SO DETAILED!?”

  Ray slammed his hands on the table and stood up, chair screeching backward.

  The masked man didn’t flinch.

  Instead, he calmly pointed at the food.

  “If you don’t want it… may I?”

  “…You’re completely ignoring me!?”

  Ray gave up, slumping back down and waving a hand.

  “Eat it. I don’t care.”

  The man cut the steak slowly, scooped sauce, and tasted it with appreciation.

  “Such a waste,” he said. “I had a first-rate chef prepare this.”

  Ray pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “I’m not a pedophile.”

  “I know,” the man said casually.

  “You tried to visit a red-light district last night.”

  “OI!!!”

  Ray shot up again.

  “THEN WHY ASK!?”

  “Confirmation,” the man replied simply.

  He set the knife down. His tone changed—not louder, not harsher.

  Colder.

  “I have no interest in your taste in women, Brave.”

  Ray stiffened.

  “But not that girl.”

  The air grew heavy.

  “Never,” the man continued, “ever make her cry.”

  For the first time, Ray felt something unfamiliar.

  Not fear.

  Pressure.

  Even he—the Brave—felt his instincts scream.

  “…I wouldn’t,” Ray said quietly.

  The man nodded, satisfied.

  “Then that’s all.”

  He stood, snapping his fingers once. The guards returned, cleared the table, and left without another word.

  As he reached the door, the masked man paused.

  “Farewell, dear Brave.”

  The door closed.

  Silence returned.

  Only Ray remained… and a bottle of fine alcohol left behind like a mocking apology.

  “…What the hell was that?”

  Ray rubbed his face, grabbed the bottle, and staggered back toward his inn—head pounding, reputation in shambles, and a new, unseen shadow now watching his steps.