Chapter 7 – That Smile
The word twins lingered in the air like a curse.
Lumian froze. His knife remained pressed against Simon's throat, the steel trembling against the man's pounding pulse. The silence that followed was unbearable—thick, pressing, almost alive. Only the faint drip… drip… drip of water echoed from somewhere in the depths of the apartment, each drop marking time like a countdown.
His mind whirled. If this man isn't Carl… then where is the real one? And why did the system lead me here?
"Twins?" Lumian whispered under his breath, as though afraid the word itself might summon something lurking.
Simon's Adam's apple bobbed against the blade, his breath ragged. "I—I swear, I'm not lying. My name is Simon. Carl is my older brother. He's the one who had a wife… a son… not me."
Lumian's tone sharpened to a blade. "Then tell me everything. About Carl. About the murders. No riddles."
Simon closed his eyes, and a tremor ran through his body. When he opened them again, there was something hollow in his gaze, as though he were peeling open scars he had buried for years.
---
"We were orphans," Simon began, his voice barely above a whisper. "Two or three years old when they left us in that place. I clung to Carl like a shadow. He was my whole world. Smarter, quicker, braver. If he was the sun, I was the moth circling it.
"In the early years, he was… normal. We laughed, played, drew little stick figures together. He even protected me from bullies. But as we grew older… something in him began to shift.
"He stopped caring about games. Stopped caring about people. Stopped caring at all. The only thing he never gave up was drawing. At first, his sketches were clumsy doodles. But over time… they changed."
Simon's eyes unfocused, as though replaying scenes in his head.
"I'll never forget the day I truly saw the change. I was nine, maybe ten. I couldn't find him after lunch, so I went looking. I found him kneeling on the ground behind the orphanage, his hands soaked in red.
"At his knees lay a cat. Cut open. Its organs laid out like neat little ornaments around it, each placed deliberately.
"My brother turned when he heard me. He smiled, eyes shining with joy I had never seen before.
> 'Heehee… Simon, look! Isn't it amazing? This is real art.'
"I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. That smile… it wasn't Carl anymore. It was something else."
Lumian's stomach twisted. He tightened his grip on the knife but didn't interrupt. The story pressed down on him like a suffocating blanket.
Simon continued, his voice breaking.
"After that, I avoided him. But he didn't stop. Crows. Dogs. Squirrels. Each one became a 'project.' He filled his sketchbooks with twisted drawings—animals disassembled, faces stretched and warped. He told me their insides were beautiful.
"And I… I stayed silent. Because despite the fear, he was still my brother."
---
Simon's gaze grew distant. "Then, when we were thirteen, a couple came to the orphanage.
"The man was tall, his hair falling across his eyes. The woman was blonde. She had a small butterfly tattoo beneath her left eye.
"They smiled kindly at every child… but when they looked at us, their gaze didn't even register me. It fixed only on Carl.
"They chose him.
"I remember standing frozen as they signed the papers. At our farewell, Carl smiled at me warmly, like the brother I remembered. For the first time in years, I almost believed he was still human. I forced myself to smile back, though my heart ached.
"But as the carriage pulled away… I felt something strange. Sadness, yes. But also relief. A guilty, gnawing relief. As if part of me was glad… that he was gone."
---
Simon's hands clenched, his nails biting into his palms.
"A year later, he came back.
"A police van stopped at the orphanage gates. Officers led him out. He was thinner, frailer. His shirt was stained faintly with blood. He kept his head down as they walked him inside.
"And then… he raised it.
"Our eyes met across the yard. And he smiled.
"That smile—cold, sharp, gleeful—froze me where I stood. It was the same smile he wore when he gutted that cat.
"They told us his adoptive father had killed his wife. That Carl had been the witness. That the couple were addicts, abusive monsters. They painted Carl as a victim. A poor, broken child.
"But I knew the truth. That smile told me everything. He wasn't just a witness. He had watched. Enjoyed. Maybe… even helped."
Lumian's throat tightened. The story crawled into his bones like frost.
---
"The police decided to return him here, to the orphanage," Simon said, his voice hollow. "Doctors visited often. They gave him pills, asked him questions, told the caretakers to treat him gently.
"And he played along. He smiled sweetly, said he was fine. He painted endlessly.
"One day, he came to me. He hugged me tightly.
> 'I missed you, little brother.'
"I smiled weakly. 'I missed you too.'
"Then he whispered in my ear: 'I want to show you something. Something special. You're my family. Only you can see it.'
"He pulled out his sketchbook. His hands trembled, not with fear, but with… excitement.
"He flipped page after page until he stopped on one.
"And I saw her."
Simon's voice broke into a whisper.
"It was a painting. A woman in blood-red and black. Blonde hair flowing like wild strands of seaweed. Her face twisted in terror, her eyes and mouth dripping crimson. A faint butterfly tattoo beneath her left eye.
"Her head hung at a sickening angle, tilted to the side as though ready to snap off.
"My blood ran cold. I knew that face. She was his adoptive mother.
"I staggered back, stammering, 'Brother… what is this?'
"Carl smiled, calm as the grave.
> 'This is my new art, little brother. Do you like it?'"
---
The apartment fell silent again, heavy with the weight of Simon's words.
Lumian's chest rose and fell rapidly. His knife trembled in his grip.