How to Stop the Villain from Going Crazy

Polly finally ate her fill.

Her body wasn't used to spicy food, and by the end, she was practically sobbing—sniffling between bites, wiping her nose with one hand and lifting her chopsticks with the other.

Eric, by contrast, showed no reaction at all. As if he'd once eaten something even more potent.

Polly didn't think too hard about it. After all, chili peppers had originated in the Americas.

In the novel, he'd traveled across all of Europe and ultimately mastered his terrifying rope technique in India. With that kind of background, it wouldn't be strange if he'd visited the Americas too. In fact—maybe they were already there.

Polly had never been great at geography, but she vaguely recalled that France didn't have crocodiles… or coyotes.

Coyotes were only found in North America.

She'd assumed they were in France because everyone spoke with a French accent, forgetting that in the 19th century, French-speaking cities existed all over America—like New Orleans, once a colony of both France and Spain.

That would also explain why Richard hadn't tried to keep the hiking pack for himself.

New Orleans was far from Paris. Instead of crossing mountains and seas to claim a reward from Louis Vuitton, it made more sense to work with the manager.

Polly forced herself to remember this lesson:

Always think twice before acting.

She'd assumed the people here were ignorant, easy to manipulate, that with a little nudge, they would act according to her will.

But they were living, breathing humans. No one became a pawn that easily.

If Eric hadn't possessed inhuman strength, she would've died at the manager's hands.

And Eric wouldn't always save her—or even want to.

If she wanted to survive, she had to be cautious. Careful. Calculated.

The hotpot was far too much food. Polly made it through a third before she couldn't eat another bite.

Eric, on the other hand, had an impressive appetite. His chopsticks barely paused.

His fingers were long, flexible, and incredibly precise—almost unnaturally so. Most foreigners fumbled awkwardly when first trying chopsticks, but he handled them with effortless grace, mirroring her movements exactly.

Then she remembered—he wasn't just a master illusionist, but also a rare musical prodigy. Both skills demanded extraordinary dexterity.

Of course he could use chopsticks.

This was the first time he'd eaten in front of her—energy bar aside.

Just like then, his mask tilted ever so slightly, revealing the sharp, clean lines of his jaw. His movements were small and composed, chewing with an elegance that felt… trained.

Considering his past working for royalty and planning political assassinations, it wasn't surprising.

Polly didn't dare stare too long at his face and quickly averted her eyes. She searched for something to say.

"…You're too thin. Eat more."

He didn't respond—but didn't stop eating either.

That was probably permission to keep talking.

Polly saw it as a rare chance to grow closer to him.

Since they weren't in Paris, and he hadn't met the heroine yet, his personality hadn't spiraled into madness. It might actually be a good time to bond.

After a moment of thought, she picked an easy subject—one she could ramble about freely.

"Do you know how to build a circus?"

No reply.

She hadn't expected one.

"I just think… however a circus is built, it can't treat performers like the manager did. Disposable, like exhibits. Once the audience sees them once, they lose interest. That kind of thinking hurts the performers—and burdens the circus."

Still no response. He just kept eating.

"People get bored of deformities," she continued. "If Emily were my performer, I wouldn't have sold her off or turned her into a specimen. That's a crime—and short-sighted. I'd give her a reverent backstory, something to make the audience see her as a human being, not just a four-legged girl."

Eric finally glanced up.

Polly offered a small smile. "You might think it's pointless. That learning her past wouldn't change how she looks. People would still be afraid, still mock her, still treat her like a circus freak."

"But what if…" She tilted her head. "What if they saw her as a devout Christian beneath that appearance? Someone who could love—and deserved to be loved?"

"I'd write her a script. One that made her pitiable. Tragic. Worthy of sympathy."

"People would sympathize. Everyone has some sympathy they don't know where to put. The rich feel for the poor. The poor feel for beggars. And even able-bodied beggars feel for the disabled."

"Sympathy isn't just a virtue. It's a privilege."

"When the fortunate see the unfortunate, it makes them feel more fortunate. When the whole see the broken, it reminds them they're still whole. They'll pay to feel that."

"And most importantly… Emily was pregnant." Polly frowned. "The manager was an idiot. He could've used that fact to tell a story full of emotion. But instead, he made her miscarry and turned the fetus into a specimen…"

A voice spoke beside her. "What story?"

Polly froze.

It was only the third time she'd heard him speak.

But this time, he was sitting right next to her—and she heard it clearly.

It was like something cold and weightless had slipped into her ear, soaking into every nerve, creating a strange resonance in her brain.

She didn't know how to describe it.

It was suggestion. Hypnosis. A dream you couldn't quite wake from.

Her heartbeat spiked. Her breath came short. For a moment, she felt lightheaded.

It sounded beautiful.

So beautiful it was terrifying.

She snapped out of it with a shudder.

That voice… wasn't human.

It was like the bait in those old, dark fairy tales—an alluring lure meant to lead you to your death.

She'd hoped he would talk more. In the novel, his voice was described as enchanting, and she'd been too nervous to appreciate it the first two times.

But now she regretted it.

This wasn't something anyone should hear for too long.

He should stay silent.

It took her a while to steady her own voice.

"Well, the story would have emphasized her pregnancy. In many religions, creating life is sacred. If she truly was a freak, then how could God allow her to conceive?"

No reply again.

Polly pushed on. "In my hometown, people will pay to hear any story. Say, a wealthy heir who loses everything to gambling…"

"Different people feel different things. The rich see it as a cautionary tale. The poor feel comforted—if even the rich can fall, then maybe everyone's equal. Lucky gamblers mock him. Unlucky ones try to quit."

"Emily's pregnancy didn't mean much by itself. She's human. Humans get pregnant. That's all. But complicated people give simple things complicated meaning."

Still no answer.

"I wonder where she ended up…" Polly murmured.

The one-sided conversation ended there.

She yawned, sleep beginning to weigh down her limbs.

Eric was still eating. His appetite was incredible. After finishing the hotpot, he devoured the entire rabbit as well.

Not surprising, really.

That kind of strength demanded fuel.

Polly told him goodnight and slipped into the tent.

She wrapped herself in the wool blanket. Just as she was about to fall asleep, she sat up again and called out toward the fire:

"…The blanket's big enough. If you get cold, you can sleep with me."

She wasn't being kind—just cautious.

She didn't want him to wake her up with a knife to the throat.

Eric didn't reply.

Still uneasy, she repeated herself. Then lay down and closed her eyes.

She'd done all she could. Whatever came next was in fate's hands.

In the middle of the night, something cold brushed her cheek.

She was so tired, it took her a moment to open her eyes.

The first thing she saw was a white mask—expressionless, hollow as a wax figure.

Eric was half-kneeling beside her, staring down intently.

In his hand, a dagger.

The blade was icy, sliding gently across her skin.

Polly nearly died of fright.

She'd told him in advance—why was this happening anyway?!

Frozen in place, heart hammering, blood pounding in her ears—she couldn't tell if he was about to kill her or just toying with her.

…Probably the latter.

Because she hadn't said anything wrong before bed.

She meant every word. She really did believe Emily was just like anyone else, and it was people's perceptions that made her seem like a monster.

She hadn't spoken lightly.

Every sentence had been carefully measured—gauging his reactions for anger, shock, agreement… or resentment.

She had deployed all her acting skills for one message:

You don't need their sympathy. It's just another form of control.

If he had been offended, he would've killed her hours ago—not waited until she fell asleep and drawn a blade to wake her.

…So what was this?

Polly's mind raced, adrenaline surging through her like a tidal wave.

Was he testing her?

Seeing how she'd react? If she was a worthy companion—or a resilient prey?

Or… was he demanding something from her?

Suddenly, an idea flashed through her mind.

She reached out and hugged him, burying her face in his chest.

Sure enough, the moment she held him, he withdrew the knife.

Polly let out a silent breath of relief.

Every time she'd hugged him before, it was after he'd threatened her.

Maybe that had taught him the wrong lesson—that he had to scare her first, to earn affection.

No, she thought. That can't become a habit.

She needed to rewire the reward.

With that in mind, she hugged him even tighter, practically hanging off of him.

Eric lay down beside her, still within her embrace.

It wasn't just him who had learned the wrong lesson.

She had too.

She'd started to believe that his arms were the only place she felt safe.

Twisted, maybe.

But necessary—for now.

She needed the sense of safety he gave her.

And he… what did he need?

She didn't know.

Polly wanted to think more. But the narrow tent, the warmth of the fire outside, and the exhaustion after fear wrapped around her like a net.

Eric's body radiated heat.

Maybe it was all the exertion, or the high-calorie food, but he felt like a furnace—an efficient machine burning energy with quiet, endless power.

Hot. Safe.

An illusion.

She reminded herself—he may be warm, but he was a lethal machine.

But she was too tired to think anymore.

Polly closed her eyes. Her breathing slowed, softened… and she finally fell asleep.