"Silly girl."
"You really are wild. Anyone would be scared of you. Whenever someone tries to force me to drink, I just tell them I'll let you loose to bite them."
"So really... you're the one protecting Dad."
I pressed my face against the door and wept until I couldn't make a sound.
"Stop talking nonsense."
"Sable, get a dog."
"Why?"
"A dog gets you out of the house! You have to walk it."
"I'm too lazy. Don't even think about it."
"When it grows up, it'll protect you!"
"Like I need protection from a dog."
"Hahaha, you... listen to me."
32
The burned man told me that at first, my dad had actually wanted to buy a dog, and by some twist of fate, he'd found their ramshackle storefront.
It was a pitiful little shop—barely a front, really. No one was ever supposed to walk in.
Let alone my dad, who'd sharp-eyed spotted the truth.
Spotted the truth—that the burned man and his brother were feeding human flesh to dogs, disposing of corpses.
My dad had played it cool at first, breezing through and leaving. But the burned man was even quicker on the uptake.
They chased. My dad ran.
In the end, he died under that truck.
"Your old man was insane, you know. Right before he died, he was actually grinning. He said that after he was gone, there'd be someone who'd chase us to the ends of the earth."
The burned man recalled my dad's exact words.
"Good. I'm dead."
"You two are the bait that keeps her alive."
"Run as far as you can. She's fierce."
33
So...
So my dad had ultimately abandoned the idea of dying together.
The dog he never delivered—that was his second gift. Armor he'd tried to forge to protect me.
Right?
Even though, in the end, he never brought home a healthy puppy.
He still left me a gift.
A gift forged with his life—a gift of vengeance.
That gift gave me a reason to live, completely and utterly.
Because he'd been murdered.
Because his daughter—his reclusive, stubborn, willfully blind, crazy daughter—would give chase to the ends of the earth, to her dying breath, until the true killers faced justice.
When the burned man finished, I realized tears were streaming down my face.
Unstoppable.
Washing away the filth and blood.
I'd finally learned the truth about my father's death.
An unfinished birthday celebration. An accidental night of blood.
But...
Dad.
Your daughter did it.
Thank you. For a clumsy, beautiful birthday present.
34
Dawn broke. Sunlight streamed through the bare-concrete room, painting the blade edges gold.
The siren wailed downstairs.
I looked at the burned man, barely alive. In his eyes, I saw the relief of a rescued man.
I leaned down and whispered: "Thank you for telling me all that."
His eyes widened with even greater hope, and he said in a weak voice: "...It's nothing! It's nothing!"
I continued: "Especially that line."
"A family member's life should be repaid with one's own hand."
The burned man's face filled with horror.
He looked down at his chest in disbelief.
There, embedded, was the knife in my hand.
35
The first person to burst through the door was Detective Shaw.
He took in the scene with complicated eyes, then helped me into the police car, driving toward the hospital at top speed.
In the car, it was just the two of us.
Weak as I was, I asked in a thread of a voice: "Detective Shaw, it's self-defense, right? I'm not going to prison?"
Detective Shaw was silent for a long moment.
Finally, he spoke: "Were you really taken by them?"
I gave a bitter smile and shook my head. "What else?"
Through the rearview mirror, he held my gaze.
"You're sure you didn't seek them out yourself? Like, to avenge your father?"
"Come on. How would I even know they were the killers? Besides, am I that crazy?"
I snapped back at him, my voice too loud, pulling at my wounds and making me wince.
Detective Shaw pressed on: "It's just the two of us here. No recording. You can be honest."
I rolled my eyes. "Stop guessing."
The wind howled as we drove. Only when the police car stopped in front of the hospital and I was being lifted onto a stretcher did Detective Shaw gently tap my arm.
I looked at him, puzzled.
He walked beside the stretcher, lit a cigarette, and asked with what seemed like genuine confusion: "Do you know what kind of car a person who loves speed and never gets caught drives?"
I froze, remembering what that cocky guy on the forum had said weeks ago.
Following his eyes, I looked at the car nearby.
A police cruiser.
So Ryosuke was him?
I swallowed hard, my voice raw.
"Detective Shaw..."
"I thought saying that would make you give up investigating. Never expected it to lead you right to them."
I caught the guilt in his tone and quickly added: "So I'm in this condition because of you, isn't that right? You're going to take responsibility, and you leaked police information—"
"I know, I know."
Detective Shaw stood there, meeting my eyes, then turned and walked into the dawn, waving over his shoulder.
"I'll argue self-defense. I'll try."
36
Over the following days, while my wounds were still healing, the verdict came in: self-defense.
What made the papers, though, was only a brief story about a female victim escaping with quick wits—published that way to protect her privacy.
About a month later, I was discharged from the hospital.
Detective Shaw picked me up.
He wasn't in uniform. He'd brought his personal car and drove me home.
On the way, he asked what I planned to do next.
I thought about it and said I'd live well.
"And your condition? How is it?" he asked casually.
I fell silent for a moment, then told him something my dad had once said.
He said, Sable, there are many people in this world who are allergic to all kinds of things.
Mangoes, wheat, beer, even air.
They spend their entire lives trying to make peace with these fated enemies, just to get through this one life with some dignity.
You have to remember. You absolutely must.
People who are allergic to pollen don't let that stop them from living among flowers.
Detective Shaw chewed on that for a while, then said: "That's a good way to look at it."
Neither of us spoke again. We just listened to the music drifting from the car's speakers.
It was Wu Bai's "White Dove."
Fly, fly across the sky
Blow hard, merciless wind
I won't be afraid, no need to be a coward
The road of wandering, I'll walk it myself
That kind of pride, the sun's abandon
White clouds sweep beneath my feet
Withered body, haggard face
Beating my wings, never looking back
Even with a wound that lasts forever
At least I still have freedom