The Last Whisperer

4 | The White-Stripped Haired Maniac~

It was dark. And quiet.

Atticus' head was spinning like a cartwheel. It throbbed, too. It throbbed too much.

Was he drugged? Poisoned?

No. It was that bastard.

Just by thinking about it made his head thrum in madness. He could not even open his eyes. He felt sick and feverish. Did he drug me? Most likely... He could not have been knocked out so easily. He would have been dead a long time ago if that were the case.

His head lolled up and down. It hit the backside of the chair he sat on with a thud. Ow.

After a few more attempts, he finally got to split his lids open. The first thing he saw was the chandelier. It was not lit, but it reflected on an orange hue from somewhere. Then the next thing he saw was the red wallpapered walls. Heavy red curtains covered the windows. Brown marble floors. Fancy furniture. Empty flower vases. Paintings of women on the wall...

This place looked like the type he would barge into and find bags of gold. He was in a noble's house.

"You are awake, I see."

He gasped at the sudden broken silence. The stranger that knocked him back in the tavern stood right in front of him. He wore a clean white dress shirt and a dark vest, matching pants and brown leather shoes polished to the shimmy. A bowtie was on his collar. Atticus wished to punch him in the face, but then found that he couldn't. His arms were tied to the chair. What the fuck?

Am I being held hostage??

"Bastard! Untie me right now or you'll pay!" he said with pure venom.

His words rang true, because his eyes started to turn red and his skin started to draw black veins.

A bucket of ice-cold water was thrown at him. Atticus was freezing. "What—?!"

The stranger, holding an empty pail, said, "Oops, my apologies. Your kregglin counterpart was acting up."

Atticus froze.

Then he sneezed.

"So, you knew?" The water spread on the floor.

The stranger put down the bucket. "If you are referring to the fact that we know about you having a kregg, we have known for quite some time now."

Atticus scoffed. "Are you with the Garrison? Or are you perhaps a hired man from a noble I stole from? Which is it? You can tell me."

The stranger smiled gently, and it was by far the most unnerving sight Atticus had ever seen. "We are neither," he informed Atticus.

"We?"

"Don't bother with pirates, Sergei. They are delinquents, thieves, and murderers. They are scum. Just get to the point."

The voice belonged to neither Atticus nor the bowtie man. It came from a third party, sitting on a sofa before a fireplace with his back to the rest of the room. He appeared to have been reading something as the sound of a page turning was heard.

"Hey," Atticus called for his attention. "Are you the man behind this?"

The man ignored him.

Sergei, the bowtie man, blocked his line of sight. "I have a few questions to ask you, and it would be to your benefit if you answered them."

Atticus scoffed. He glared at Sergei as if he were trash. "Did you somehow forget I had a kregg with me? Or are you just suicidal?"

"I remember pretty well."