Chapter 43 Nineteen Days of Working
Since Mr. Francis assured me that I wouldn't have to do anything, I really cooperated and did nothing at the party.
Dazai Osamu only spent a short time with me at the beginning. He came over, greeted me, said a few words, and then left.
After all, this is a Port Mafia party, and as a Port Mafia executive, he can't possibly be here with me as a tool to eat cake.
Meanwhile, my other identity was also quite leisurely.
Fyodor and I went in together, and then he just disappeared and did nothing.
So at this party, my two pseudonyms made a rare appearance together, and they ended up eating cake in different corners.
This gave me a strange feeling of being both schizophrenic and not completely schizophrenic.
"This lady."
"...This lady?"
I was eating my cake in a daze when the silver-haired waiter called out twice and waved in front of my face, making me realize that the so-called lady seemed to be addressing me.
"Huh?" I blinked and glanced around furtively. "Is someone calling me?"
"Yes," the silver-haired waiter replied with a polite smile.
I quickly glanced down at my dress: "..."
She looked up and smiled apologetically: "Sorry, I was just spacing out."
I don't think it's my fault at all, because I really have a hard time realizing when I'm not paying attention that one of the two personas I'm wearing is currently playing a woman.
I asked, "Is there something you need?"
He asked me in return, "Are you Mrs. Morita?"
"Yes." I nodded naturally, but I was actually a little flustered inside.
It's not like I'm the one who runs into the fake Mrs. Morita when I need to find the real one for something, right?
Surely not? It can't keep going beyond the curriculum for no reason, can it?
Fyodor did not mention this item.
“Then that’s it.” He smiled with relief and continued, “Mr. Morita is upstairs. He seems to be feeling unwell and is resting. I came to let you know.”
I:? ? ?
My mind was filled with questions. What could Fyodor be feeling unwell about? Was he underdressed or not wearing a hat?
"How could this happen? Could you please take me there?"
Although I was internally ranting and raving, on the surface I was acting like a loving wife who was worried about her husband.
I also took a look at the conversation with the waiter from another perspective, and I have to say my acting was perfect, not stiff at all.
“No problem, please come with me.” He said, turning to the side and extending his arm, pointing to the entrance of the hall.
Stepping out of the hall almost completely shuts you out of the hustle and bustle of the party and the bright lights. Rows of mafia members are spread out at the entrance, neatly arranged, and in the dim light, they might even look like stone blocks if you don't look closely.
I followed the waiter, my footsteps echoing in the spacious corridor.
Since I couldn't remain silent forever, I had to deliberately ask in an anxious tone, "What exactly happened to my husband?"
God knows how much mental preparation I put into saying "my husband" before I could even say it. After saying it, I didn't dare to think about it or recall it, otherwise I would definitely get goosebumps.
Fyodor, I have really given so much for you.
Of course, you also paid a lot for my embarrassing past :)
The waiter kept moving and replied politely, "I don't know either, ma'am. Don't worry, you'll find out soon."
We went up one floor, and a member of the mafia stopped us and asked what was going on. The waiter gave us a brief and clear explanation.
Then I met Mr. Morita in name only, but actually Fyodor.
He is fine.
At least from the outside, you can't see a single flaw.
My fists clenched tightly at that moment.
But after looking at the silver-haired waiter in front of me—okay, I'll put up with it.
I was originally waiting for the waiter to leave before I started talking to him, but during the brief and tense standoff, it was Fyodor who spoke first: "You've arrived."
As soon as he said that, I had a feeling that something was wrong. I replied with an "Mm" and looked at the waiter who had brought me there.
It's obvious that most waiters should leave now.
But he didn't.
Even Fyodor didn't think there was anything wrong with it.
Fyodor noticed my gaze and said lightly, "That's Nikolai."
The silver-haired waiter turned around and produced a white top hat from nowhere. He put the hat on his head and greeted me with a grin: "Nikolai Vasilyevich Gogol Yanovsky."
I:"……"
I:"???"
There are too many shocking points to mention.
A million questions flooded my head in an instant, like: What the heck? Who are you? Why is your name so long?
There were so many questions that I didn't know what to ask for a moment.
I wrinkled my nose: "Nice to meet you, I am [name omitted]."
Then he asked, "Are you one of the 'Rats in the House of the Dead' that Fyodor mentioned is still in Siberia?"
"Hmm." He tapped his chin with his fingertip, tilting his head to think for a second. "Perhaps?"
"Why is there even a possibility that something like this could happen?"
Hearing me say that, he smiled and said, "I suppose so."
"..."
I turned to Fyodor and asked, "I thought it was just the two of us. Why don't you pretend to be his wife?"
Fyodor was blunt: "He's not suitable."
Nikolai chimed in, "? Maybe it's because I have other things to do."
I asked again, "So you called me here because the matter has already been taken care of?"
“Hmm.” Fyodor nodded.
I complained, "Why didn't they secretly tell me he was one of their own? I even acted with him so seriously." These are all scenes from my embarrassing acting history that I never want to do again.
Fyodor remained silent.
His silence made me subconsciously look at him, and he was slowly walking towards me, stopping in front of me after a few steps. He looked up and patted my head, tilting his head slightly downwards so that his gaze met mine. When our eyes met, I saw those deep, purplish-red eyes.
Then he spoke, his voice light and airy, like spring willow catkins or winter snowflakes, falling to the ground, but almost exploding in my ears.
Fyodor said, "Because they may not necessarily be one of us."
This is not a compliment.
But before I could even think about the specific meaning behind that unpleasant remark, I received a system notification.
[Reporting to the host, ID 16, identity: [Currently a criminal imprisoned in the Special Abilities Department prison], the identity process is complete and can be eliminated. Do you wish to eliminate it?]
[Unexpected: Number 16 has been detected as having lost vital signs and will be automatically eliminated...]
[Number 16, begin elimination...]
[Removing, please wait...]
The system's voice rang out in my mind one after another, and as the second sentence rang out, my world spun around me. The view that was originally shared by the two aliases was now completely filled with the brightly lit party hall.
Clearly, my identity is still that of a representative of Manhasset, but that is all I am capable of.
Now there is a fact that cannot be clearer than it seems—Fyodor killed me, just now.
It may sound incredible, but that's exactly what happened.
"Hold."
I lowered my voice, but I still couldn't help but utter that curse.
Fyodor is truly outrageous.
The system promised to find me an identity that I'd be served, but it turns out I'm a criminal, and to make matters worse, I've run into someone like Fyodor, who's even more difficult to serve than anyone I've encountered with all my other identities.
They don't speak properly, and they don't give people time to react.
Before I could even open my mouth and struggle to defend myself, I was sentenced to death.
I sacrificed so much for this party.
So when I agreed to play the girl, Fyodor told me there wouldn't be a next time, and that meant there would be no next time?
Damn it, the more I think about it, the angrier I get.
In my mind, I cursed Fyodor a thousand times over, from head to toe.
I kept cursing until the system's notification sound after clearing the data appeared.
[Elimination complete.]
[The rewards in reserve number 16 have all been transferred to the host. Please verify.]
Hold.
I'm even angrier now that the reward is still zero.
****
In the quiet room, Fyodor Dostoevsky and Nikolai Gogol stood silently in the same positions they had just been in.
Gogol's gaze wandered; he looked at the floor, then at the window, and finally looked up at the ceiling.
Dostoevsky was much better than him; his gaze was almost always fixed on the ground below, and right at his feet lay a corpse.
Gogol glanced down at him: "I remember you liked him quite a bit."
Dostoevsky did not deny it: "Yes, Nikolai. I said I really like it or."
He bent down and squatted down, reaching out to smooth the long wig that Orikawa was wearing for his role, his voice flat, "It's just that Or doesn't like me."
Gogol seemed to be in a good mood, happily fiddling with his hat. His demeanor, in contrast to that of his companion beside him, truly highlighted that human joys and sorrows are not shared.
He recalled that just ten minutes ago he thought he was just an ordinary waiter, and casually said, "Actually, not necessarily."
"Perhaps." Dostoevsky did not argue with him.
“But whatever,” he said, standing up, then pausing for several seconds before speaking again, “is original sin, Nikolai.”
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