Wine and Gun

He doesn't see others as fellows, and probably doesn't even want to be anyone's fellows at all. Does a psychopath really have "feelings"? This is another subject.

—In the final moments, those embers may bring a disastrous end to Herstal.

"I should have killed you," Herstal said slowly.

"Your reason says so, and it does." Albarino hummed softly, as if to him the two "I should kill you" and "I might fall in love with you" There is no essential difference between words. "But what? I think it should be followed by a 'but'."

Herstal took a deep breath, and Albarino waited quietly.

Then Herstal said in a sigh-like tone, "I've never met a man like you."

——Albarino was right in at least one place about those words about the mask: Herstal has been in disguise all his life, hiding himself deeply in the crowd, and it is impossible for anyone to understand. Naturally, no one should know what the lawyer was doing after nightfall, the crimes he really committed.

He left no evidence to testify, but it was so easy for a person to see through - just because he raised his left hand in the face of the shooting. How exactly did this happen? Herstal sometimes really suspects that Albarino smells like a bloodhound some dark, sinful aura that leads him to the pianist.

No one has ever seen through his mask, except Albarino Bacchus.

I have never met someone like you.

If I don't kill you now, I will fall in love with you one day.

And that's exactly the problem.

Albarino snorted, then tried to roll over, twisting himself awkwardly into a face-up position. He was silent for a while, and when he spoke, he changed the subject strangely: "Look, Herstal, the owner of this house has put fluorescent constellation stickers on the ceiling."

Herstal was momentarily confused by the direction of the topic, but yes: Faded stickers on the ceiling were painted with fluorescent green stars, and the constellations were linked by long lines of the same color.

Only the floor-to-ceiling lamps were turned on in the living room, so the stars flickered dimly in places where the warm lights couldn't shine.

"I guess it's the starry sky in the southern hemisphere," Albarino continued with the baffling topic, "because you see that little cross over there," he pointed at the A constellation in the far corner, "That's the Southern Cross, the smallest constellation in the sky, that constellation can't be seen from most of the northern hemisphere."

However, looking at the progress of the constellation stickers against the hairy ceiling seemed too abrupt, Herstal frowned and said, "Albarino—"

As always, Albarino would never give up this topic just because he was stopped by others. His voice was still unhurried, and his finger lightly stroked in the void: "The visible part, the Southern Cross is the A cross of four bright stars, the brightest of which is called 'Cross Two', the thirteenth brightest star in the night sky, and the Portuguese call it 'Magellan'."

He paused a little.

"However, it was actually two stars, a binary star system that couldn't be distinguished because they were too close together." His voice was soft and slow, as if thoughtful, "Two stars, orbiting in their respective orbits. They rotate around the same center of mass. To humans, they look so bright because we think their brilliance is one."

"Albarino," Herstal interrupted softly. He already understood, but wanted to sigh in equal measure. "I'm starting to tire of your endless metaphors."

Albarino stopped looking at the sticker stars. He turned to Herstal, his eyes quiet, dark and unpredictable.

"No," he said with a smile, as he uttered the word as a prophecy, "I know you won't."

Chapter 37 Dance, dance, my doll 01

By mid-November, Westerland also began to snow.

The temperature dropped sharply again and again, and the city had a lot of precipitation in autumn and winter, but this time it was covered with snow that fell from two ends for three days. As a result, the traffic became more and more blocked, and the shelters became more and more full.

It was a cold Saturday morning, and Herstal was standing in the doorway of a small theater with a shabby-looking facade. The snow has stopped, but the people outside still have the illusion of being frozen from the inside out. Everyone's breath is accompanied by a cloud of white air, and there is a layer of frost on the steps of the small theater. Another trampled mess.

Herstal looked at his watch impatiently: he was a little late, and he blamed the poor city traffic after the snow.

The dilapidated building in front of him that he would never enter is the fundamental reason why Herstal could not catch up on a good weekend without overtime:

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