How to Stop the Villain from Going Crazy

Polly was shaken awake by Erik.

Half-asleep, she instinctively reached out to wrap her arms around his waist, burying her face into his chest, ready to drift back into sleep.

But he paused—just briefly—then pried her arms away without hesitation.

It was the first time he'd ever rejected her embrace.

Polly jolted fully awake.

She didn't know how long they'd been asleep, but the sky was already turning light. A pale mist clung to the forest, and it seemed to have rained during the night. Moss, rotting leaves, and wet earth had turned into a murky green sludge.

Polly groaned inwardly. Mud again.

No matter how much time passed, she just couldn't get used to this wilderness. No bed, no clean water, shoes constantly soaked, trousers forever caked in muck. Even if she lived another ten years, she doubted she'd adapt.

While she was still steeling herself for the day, Erik had already stepped outside the tent.

She was about to follow him when the sound of hoofbeats and creaking wheels echoed from beyond the mist.

That must've been why Erik left first.

He hated being seen. Hated strangers. Like any predator, he thrived in shadow—not the spotlight.

A carriage came to a halt just outside. The door creaked open, and someone jumped down, heading straight toward her.

Polly reacted quickly. She darted to the tent's edge, showing only part of her silhouette, one hand hidden behind her back to mimic holding a gun.

"—Who's there?"

A cheery voice called out, "Thank heavens you're alive! I thought that freak had killed you!"

The stranger sounded like he knew her. His tone was far too familiar.

But she didn't recognize him at all.

Polly's heart tensed.

He clearly knew about Erik. Maybe even about the circus.

She had thought that with the manager dead, all ties to that twisted place had been severed. But now it was clear—she was still very much caught in its shadow.

Someone had followed them. Watched them.

"I don't know you," Polly said coolly.

"But I know you," the man replied. He took off his hat and bowed with exaggerated politeness. "You're Polly Clement, of the Dawes Circus, aren't you?"

"And if I said I wasn't?"

"Then I'd say you're a very dishonest young lady. Do you know Emily?"

Polly's voice tightened. "She's not with me."

"Oh, I know. Because she's with me," the man said casually. "Allow me to introduce myself, Miss Clement. I'm Trickie Tri, a harmless, honest middleman. I don't carry guns or knives—you can come out and talk to me freely."

Polly had no idea what his real agenda was. But after a moment of thought, she slowly stepped outside.

It's fine, she told herself. Erik is nearby. He's watching.

What she didn't realize was just how dependent she'd become on that fact.

The moment she saw Trickie's face, a jolt ran through her body.

She recognized him.

The second morning after she transmigrated—and again at the party that night—he'd been there, laughing and chatting with the manager, standing right next to Emily.

Emily's brother.

Only... he wasn't.

He'd never been Emily's brother.

He called himself a middleman, but what kind of middleman? Who did he work for? Why had he followed them?

Polly didn't dare guess. She didn't want to.

"I don't think I'm important enough for a middleman to seek out," she said slowly, every word deliberate.

"You're cautious. That's good." Trickie pulled a match from his pocket, then lit a cigarette. "It's not a safe world out here. Cops don't care, the Pinkertons only work for the rich—and people like us? If we drop dead, no one gives a damn."

Polly's tone turned icy. "So what, you're saying if I die here, no one will care?"

"God as my witness!" Trickie raised a hand in mock sincerity, cigarette dangling from his lips. "I was talking about them—your old employer, Mr. Dawes."

"Dawes' fate is none of my business."

"So cold," Trickie sighed. "Understandable, though. Dawes was a bastard. A real swindler. I might as well tell you the truth—I'm not Emily's brother."

Polly raised her brows in mock surprise.

"Dawes only asked me to watch over her because he wanted her to 'contribute to science.' You know, four legs and all. The scientists were dying to find out—two sets of organs? How does pregnancy work?"

Trickie smiled as he spoke, like he was discussing a donation drive.

"I was the one Dawes hired to persuade Emily to 'die peacefully.' That way her body could be donated to all those curious minds."

Polly finally understood what people meant by the art of rhetoric.

Human trafficking. Organ trafficking. Murder.

All dressed up in fancy words like sacrifice for science.

"So," Polly said dryly, "did you come to persuade me to die peacefully, too?"

Trickie laughed. "No, darling. Only Emily was selected for the cause."

He exhaled a curl of smoke, then narrowed his eyes. "I came here to recruit your friend—Erik."

There it was. The real reason.

Polly's heart skipped a beat, but she quickly composed herself. With a note of jealousy, she scoffed, "Erik? What's so special about him? He's just a petty thief who happens to steal fast."

"If you'd seen what was left of the manager, you wouldn't say that."

Polly shrugged. "I didn't. My horse got spooked." That, at least, was the truth.

Trickie grew impatient. His smile thinned.

"Let's cut the small talk, kid." The endearment had turned cold. "Tell me where Erik is, and I'll make you rich. Filthy rich. Enough to live out your days in comfort. You don't really want to wallow in mud forever, do you?"

The way he looked at her… like she was a clueless idiot hoarding treasure without knowing it.

But what he didn't understand was: if she did hand Erik over, she'd be dead.

Besides, Erik was powerful. Unreasonably so. Everyone wanted to claim him for their own.

Why should she give him up?

Still…

Polly's gaze drifted to the carriage behind Trickie.

No doubt about it—this was a luxury coach. Lacquered wood, silk curtains, painted panels, polished wheels.

Trickie was rich. And he'd crossed Erik.

Erik couldn't be far. He was likely watching everything, lurking in the shadows.

Polly had an unkind little thought: What if I convince Erik to rob this guy?

Then maybe she wouldn't have to wallow in mud anymore.

Trickie seemed to notice her silence. His tone softened again, forcefully polite.

"I mean no harm, truly. I just want to propose a business deal. You have no idea how talented Erik is. He can summon fire from thin air! It's like magic! The last time I was this impressed, it was by Robert Houdin himself."

That name struck a chord.

The original novel had compared Erik to Robert Houdin—the father of modern magic.

Without him, magic might have remained a street sideshow instead of a respected art form.

Polly had never seen Erik perform. She found herself genuinely curious. Was he really that good?

"I don't see what's so amazing," she said, clinging to her act. "There was an Indian guy at the circus who could breathe fire."

Trickie snorted. "Please. That's just spitting alcohol through a flame—any toddler could do it. Erik's different."

He bit back a sharper retort, then handed her a card.

"My address is on this. I'm hosting a party next week—an elegant one. The city's finest will be there. If you have any word from Erik, I suggest you come. Or better yet—bring him. I'll make it worth your while."

The card smelled faintly of his cologne. Rich, smooth, expensive.

Polly couldn't help but lift it to her nose.

Say what you want about Trickie's motives—he'd just handed her a solution to her two biggest problems: money and connections.

A literal lifeline.

If she wanted to survive in this world, the few bills in the manager's wallet wouldn't cut it.

Going back to the circus camp was too risky—there were still people there, likely looting what remained.

But if Erik agreed to let her attend that party… maybe she could find new allies. New friends. Even investors.

Friends. That was what she longed for most.

She wasn't an extrovert. In fact, she was fairly introverted. Back home, she stayed inside gaming for days. Her hiking trip had been her friend's idea—she'd stupidly packed two cans of hot pot and got teased for a week.

Now? She couldn't even make eye contact with people.

Couldn't speak. Couldn't share.

It felt like the world had closed off around her.

So much so that even holding a man who might kill her… felt better than being alone.

Erik was dangerous.

They weren't friends. They were predator and prey.

But at least he was there.

She just wanted someone to hold her.

Anyone.

Just something to prove she was still alive.

By the time she looked up, Trickie had already left.

Footsteps sounded behind her. Erik had returned.

A tall shadow loomed over her as he reached for the card in her hand.

Then, strangely, he dipped his head, bringing the mask's nose close to the card—sniffing it.

Why?

Because she had?

Polly didn't get it.

She pushed the thought aside and said earnestly, "...I want to go to this party."

Erik glanced at her but said nothing.

"I'm serious about starting a circus," she added. "Trickie has connections. That party might be a chance to meet people. Maybe even get investors."

He was still silent. Watching.

Polly, now well-trained, saw the look in his eyes and obediently hugged him.

"Don't worry," she murmured. "I'm not trading you for anything."

Still hugging him, she thought privately: But if you want to rob him, that'd be great.

Not that she expected to convince Erik to do anything. She was just daydreaming.

He stayed silent throughout. But after her hug, he handed the card back.

Polly breathed a sigh of relief. He believed her.

Crisis averted.

Just as the thought crossed her mind, the card in her hand burst into flames.

She gasped.

There'd been no oil. No alcohol. No lighter fluid. Nothing flammable.

But it burned anyway.

It dropped into the mud, still burning—a tall flame rising unnaturally from the wet earth—before finally crumbling into ash.

Polly's heart pounded. She stood frozen.

She knew magic was sleight of hand. Misdirection. Performance.

But witnessing it firsthand like that… was something else entirely.

If her phone worked, she'd be frantically searching YouTube for how it was done.

Staring at the ashes, she whispered, dazed, "...So, can I still go to the party?"

To her surprise, Erik nodded.

Polly blinked. Then why burn the card?

A strange thought crept into her mind:

Was that his way of rebuking her "Even the Indian guy could breathe fire" comment…?