Jazz led Gilbert into the Great Room.
Gilbert dropped onto the couch without a word. From the doorway to the seat, a trail of faint, uneven bloody footprints marked the granite floor behind him. He didn't notice them. He was too tired to care.
From the balcony above, Daisy had been watching them enter together. The moment she saw the blood on the floor, her expression shifted. She hurried down the stairs, passing through the party room where the DJ's music still thumped faintly through the walls.
Jazz went toward the dining hall instead.
He slid open the glass shelf, pulled out a few empty glasses, then opened a side drawer built into the wooden wall. From inside, he took out a first-aid box. He wasn't rushing. His movements were calm, unhurried.
By the time he turned back, Daisy had already come down with her own first-aid kit in hand. She had seen the bloodstains and panicked. She rushed into the Great Room and stopped when she saw Jazz holding a box too.
"You came," she said quickly, then glared at him. "And don't throw beer bottles like that again."
Jazz raised an eyebrow.
"Beauty," he said lazily, "first look at the wound. Then scold me."
Daisy bent down and looked at Gilbert's leg. The skin was scraped raw, bleeding, but there were no glass shards. No deep cuts. No signs of a bottle injury.
She straightened slowly.
"…Whatever," she muttered. "It's still your fault."
Her cheeks reddened slightly when she realized she'd jumped to the wrong conclusion.
"Alright, alright," Jazz said, smirking. "Beauties are never wrong."
"Tch. Tease," Daisy said, embarrassed. She turned and ran back upstairs.
Jazz laughed.
So did Gilbert.
Then Gilbert coughed once, awkwardly.
"…There was nothing to laugh about," he muttered.
Jazz went to the kitchen and brought back a small basin and a jar of lukewarm water.
"Put your leg in," he said.
Gilbert did. Jazz poured water slowly over the wound.
Gilbert sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth.
"Damn—"
Jazz ignored the sound and kept working, cleaning the wound carefully. Then he started applying first aid.
"Who knew the classroom's arrogant boy is actually a caring person?" Gilbert said quietly.
"So you admit it," Jazz replied, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth.
"No, I don't," Gilbert shot back.
The brief happiness faded from his face. The earlier anger crept back into his eyes.
"Tell me everything," he said. "If you don't satisfy me… maybe this will be our—"
"Understood," Jazz cut in.
He sat down on the same couch beside Gilbert. He stretched his legs out, leaned back, rested his head against the cushion, and spread both arms along the back of the couch.
He let out a long, audible sigh.
"I don't know how to explain this simply," he said. "So I'll explain it my way."
He turned his head slightly toward Gilbert.
"When someone is under a leash," Jazz said slowly,
"and branded with a collar… he barks for the one who branded him.
For the one who marked him."
Gilbert stayed silent.
"But what if the dog has the strength to break the brand?" Jazz continued.
"To snap the leash?"
"To turn around and mark back?"
"That's why he's special."
He shifted his gaze upward.
"If you, me, Jackson, and James look into a mirror," he went on,
"we look like wolves from a pack.
We've got our order.
Our place.
Our rules.
We move like a family."
He exhaled.
"But him?"
"He's not a dog.
He's a wolf too."
Gilbert frowned.
"A lone one," Jazz said.
"A wolf that lost his whole pack.
Lost his balance.
And got collared because everyone thought he was just some stray mutt."
Jazz's voice dropped slightly.
"You went through something close to that too," he added.
"But your ground wasn't fragile.
You had a base.
You survived it."
A pause.
"He didn't."
Gilbert's jaw tightened.
"That's why alpha wolves are always careful around lone wolves," Jazz said.
"But I'm not scared of him yet."
He turned his head toward Gilbert.
"Forget his past.
Forget his family.
Forget his trauma."
He tapped Gilbert's chest lightly.
"Right now, he's our trump card."
Gilbert looked at him.
"He doesn't even know what he is yet," Jazz continued.
"That's the key."
A slow breath.
"We feed him.
We keep him close.
We let him think he's still a dog on a leash."
Jazz's mouth curved faintly.
"And while he hasn't figured it out yet—
we use him."
Gilbert laughed once, short and dry.
"What a great comparison," he said.
"Leash, marking, collar, branding, dogs and wolves, lone wolf and pack.
You're really good at this."
He shook his head.
"But don't repeat it."
"Yo, jerk," Jazz said. "I put effort into explain it like that. Don't laugh at it."
"Really?" Gilbert said. "Try saying this to James. Do you dare?"
Jazz coughed deliberately.
"Ahem."
Then his expression shifted.
"Gilbert," Jazz said quietly, "do you know why I specifically made you check on him?"
Gilbert answered instantly.
"Because you knew I wouldn't agree to let him join after realizing he's such a jerk and coward."
Jazz smiled.
"No," he said. "It's because except for you, no one else can understand him properly. Not even me."
Gilbert stiffened slightly.
"You went through something close to what he did," Jazz continued.
"You can read his mind better.
You can sense danger earlier.
You can guide us away from it without making noise."
He leaned closer.
"You're not just watching him for me," Jazz said.
"You're balancing him for all of us."
Gilbert exhaled slowly.
"Maybe you're right," he said. "But I still can't agree with you in this case."
Jazz didn't interrupt.
"However," Gilbert continued, "I can't let all of you suffer because of him while I'm still here. So I'll stay."
He turned his head slightly.
"But if I feel anything wrong in the way you're manipulating him…
if anything happens to anyone because of your reckless decisions—"
His voice dropped.
"I will squeeze every drop of blood out of your body."
Jazz smiled.
"Then why not join the party?" he said casually.
"With this leg?" Gilbert asked.
"Yeah."
Jazz suddenly slapped his injured leg.
"Aaah—! You—!"
Gilbert swore and lurched forward.
Jazz burst into laughter and ran toward the staircase.
"Jerk! You scum, stop right there!"
Gilbert chased after him.
Jazz sprinted into the party room, weaving between bodies, then jumped up onto the stage.
Gilbert pushed into the crowd of girls.
"Move. Move," he snapped.
Jazz grabbed the microphone and tapped it twice.
"Guys, guys… may I have your attention?"
The music cut.
The DJ lowered the volume.
Every head turned toward him.
"Friends," Jazz said brightly, "our friend Gilbert is here to show all of us a one-legged dance."
The crowd erupted.
"Everyone please encourage him!" Jazz added.
"Make some space for him!"
Girls started cheering, chanting his name like cheerleaders.
"Gil-bert! Gil-bert!"
Gilbert shoved his way through, furious.
Jazz laughed and pointed.
"Look! Our dancer Gilbert is on stage! Everyone clap for him!"
The music started again.
Jazz leaped off the stage and disappeared into the crowd.
Gilbert climbed onto the stage, scanning wildly.
"Come back here, you bastard!"
Jazz ran straight into Daisy.
She stepped in front of him, blocking his path.
Her arms crossed.
Her eyes sharp.
Jazz froze.
He gave her a crooked, guilty smile.
"Daisy… my sweet— I— I can explain."