The thought stung more than it should have. Getting emotionally invested in the target’s feelings toward him was not part of the plan. But it was really hard for his resolve not to waver at all.

Neville’s gaze drifted, almost unconsciously, to Grayson’s neck. Something had caught his attention. There was a reddened spot just visible above his collar.

At first, he thought it was irritation, perhaps a reaction to Grayson’s new coat. But when he looked closely with his enhanced eyesight, he realized that it was a mole that was causing it.

A black mole.

On Grayson’s secondary gland.

Without thinking, Neville reached out to check further.

But Grayson moved away so fast that Neville’s fingers closed on empty air. In the same motion, his hand came up to cover the back of his neck, shielding the spot from view.

"Is there something wrong?"

The smile that accompanied the question was wrong.

As rare as they were, Neville had the fortune to have seen Grayson’s smile a couple of times before—and this wasn’t one of them.

For the first time since entering this company, Grayson was showing him a fake smile.

Neville felt the pain upon realization. It felt as if he had stepped into some uncharted territory. Like there was some invisible line that Grayson had drawn between them, a line that he didn’t know existed—until now.

The warm, almost intimate atmosphere of moments ago had shattered, replaced by a cold distance that felt worse than anything he had ever felt before.

Neville felt dejected, hurt in a way, but he couldn’t do anything about it.

What? Would being hurt change the fact that he needed to raise Grayson’s favorability? Who would complete the mission for me?

None. Only me.

Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.

But he couldn’t show it. Couldn’t let his disappointment color his face; he couldn’t give Grayson any more ammunition to distance himself.

Whatever was going on, whatever secret that was, it wasn’t Neville’s place to pry.

He was nothing but an employee.

So Neville stepped back, carefully reconstructing his own mask, and said with forced casualness, "Still, I should give the military—"

"Let them wait." Grayson’s hand remained at the back of his neck, fingers splayed protectively over the spot Neville had almost touched. "That can still be done tomorrow."

As much as Neville wanted to ignore it, the obvious pain that Grayson was trying so hard to hide—he couldn’t.

But what right did he have to say anything?

Pry into anything?

He wasn’t a friend.

He wasn’t family.

He wasn’t a lover or a partner or anyone of significance in the grand narrative of Grayson’s life.

He was a transmigrated soul stuck in a mermaid’s body, working his butt off to try to save a villain who didn’t even know he needed saving. Since the person in question didn’t even know his contributions in the grand scheme of things, he was still nothing.

He hardly had any, if there were even any, qualifications needed to demand answers.

Grayson seemed to take his silence as acceptance. "Bryan can handle the initial sorting. You’ve earned a break for your impressive feat."

Neville wanted to argue. To resist. To tell Grayson that there were too many things to do right now for him to take a rest.

But what was the point? He was just a technical assistant. Barely an employee. What big roles would he need to cover anyway?

In the end, Neville allowed himself to stop thinking about all sorts of things. He let go of the questions, the concerns, the complicated knot of emotions that had been building in his chest.

"Okay," he said quietly, and gave out a slight smile. "Thank you, Mr. Maxwell."

Whether it looked genuine or forced, Neville didn’t care. He was already done for the day.

...

Neville collapsed face-first onto his bed.

The pillow muffled his scream, but only barely.

When he finally ran out of air, he lifted his head just enough to curse. "That—that—I can’t believe—what was I even—"

Neville screamed into the pillow again.

Several minutes passed. His throat grew raw. His pillow developed a suspicious damp spot. Finally, he rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling.

"When I come back to work tomorrow," he announced to the empty room. "I’ll be sure to put the spiciest meal I could make on the menu."

[Host?]

"Let’s see who’s the best at making people cry in agony!"

[Um, host, that seems perhaps a bit—]

"He didn’t want to see me? Fine. He wants to guard that goddamn neck? Fine. But he’s going to do it while his taste buds are weeping!"

Shelly’s form flickered in sympathy. [Easy, host. It must not be easy for your target to act like that, too.]

"Right." Neville’s voice dripped with sarcasm. "Not easy. Because he’s the one who has to deal with mental riots, the clean up, and probably a dozen other problems I don’t even know about."

[Exactly! See? You do understand—]

"But it wasn’t easy for me either!" Neville shot upright, finger pointing accusingly at Shelly. "Am I supposed to feel sorry for him? For a man who almost destroyed my meager percentage today?! Huh?"

[I mean... technically, the percentage didn’t—]

"If I hadn’t stopped it in time! If I hadn’t been mysteriously unaffected by his mental riot! If he really exploded earlier—" Neville’s voice cracked with frustration. "Who am I going to cry to? The system? No! To hell with the system! There’s no way that stingy system would help me with anything! I’ll die while lying down!"

Shelly wisely remained silent.

Neville grabbed his pillow and punched it a few times for good measure. It didn’t make him feel better, but it also didn’t make him feel worse, which was something.

He flopped back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling with a hollow gaze. "I just... I thought..."

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t know how to.

[Thought what, host?] Shelly’s voice had lost some of its usual playfulness, settling into something softer.

Neville pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. "Nothing. Never mind. It’s nothing."

But it wasn’t nothing, and they both knew it.

[Host?] Shelly floated closer after a long silence. [What are you going to do now?]

Neville’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

"The best revenge," he murmured, "is served cold. And I’m nothing if not patient."

[...I love you so much, host,] Shelly said, her voice trembling with something between admiration and terror. [(´;︵;`)]