Vampire and His Pleasant Companions: Volume 5 - Part 6

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The wind was strong. Overgrown tree branches and untamed weeds rustled noisily in the yard. Though it was only just past 3:30 in the afternoon, the garden of the abandoned hospital felt gloomy and ominous.

Al was peering out from the building, watching the garden. The designated meeting place was an old bench outside. There was a chance he might get shot before any conversation could begin, so for now, he was staying hidden—Kyiv’s advice.

Yesterday, Al had slipped a letter into the mailbox at Richard’s house, addressed to Stan. The message was direct: “Please come to the bench beneath the oak tree in the garden of Saint Broyes Hospital at 4 PM tomorrow. I want to talk to you about Ashley Walker.” If he invoked her name, there was no doubt Stan would come.

[…Doesn’t look like he’s here yet.]

Kyiv peeked out at the garden from behind Al.

[Keep your voice down. If he realizes someone else is here, Stan might leave.]

Kyiv retreated into the room with a casual [Okay, okay.]

When Al had first decided to call Stan out, he’d planned to face him one-on-one. But Kyiv had insisted on coming along.

[Unless he uses a silver knife or bullet, you won’t die. But that doesn’t mean he won’t hurt you. If he uses any kind of weapon, you’re going to get injured. I want to protect you from that—but if you do get hurt, someone has to be there to carry you home.]

It was true. There was no predicting what Stan might do. At worst, he could shoot on sight or even set fire to the place again. They agreed that the actual conversation would be between Al and Stan alone, with Kyiv watching from a distance.

[I’ve heard his voice, but I’ve never met Stan in person. After all that stabbing and arson, I’m really looking forward to seeing what kind of face he has.]

Since waking up, Kyiv had always seemed calm and composed—but judging by his tone, maybe he’d actually been furious. It was just hard to tell behind that poker face…

A shadow flitted between the trees. Fifteen minutes earlier than planned. Was it Stan—or a fellow ruin-and-horror maniac? Al held his breath and strained his eyes.

[Stan’s here. I can smell him.]

Kyiv, with his sharp senses, noticed first. Yes—it was his scent.

Stan appeared, wearing a sand-colored jacket over jeans, glancing warily around as he approached the oak tree. He stopped in the shadows of a tree, not going near the bench. He was clearly being cautious of whoever had called him.

[He’s wearing a jacket. With that on, it’s hard to tell if he’s hiding a gun.]

At Kyiv’s murmur, Al swallowed hard.

[…I’m going.]

Al tightened his core below his navel and stepped out of the building. If Stan recognized him, he might get shot on sight. Even if it didn’t kill him, he didn’t want to go through that pain again. He was scared. He had to yell at his legs not to falter and forced himself to keep moving forward.

Perhaps it was the sound of the grass parting beneath his steps that alerted him—Stan turned around. His expression didn’t look particularly different from usual. He probably hadn’t realized yet that it was Albert Irving standing before him. Al had disguised himself in a way that he normally never would: wearing glasses and a hat, along with leather pants and a leather jacket that Pat had picked out for him. If he could just keep Stan from realizing who he was, he might be able to get close enough.

Stan stared at him intently. And when the distance between them closed to about five yards—around 4.6 meters—he finally seemed to realize who he was looking at. His dark eyes widened momentarily, but only for an instant. Perhaps he’d already considered the possibility that the sender of the letter could be the missing Al. Al removed his glasses and slid them into his breast pocket, then lifted the brim of his hat lightly.

[Long time no see, Stan.]

The devilish man smiled back, saying, [Long time.]

Al had been prepared to be shot the moment Stan realized who he was, but Stan’s hands remained hanging loosely at his sides. For now, he showed no sign of aggression.

[You changed your hair color.]

Al gave a small nod.

[Did you match your eye color to your hair too? Your brown hair always suited your soft aura, but black looks good on you. It’s very dignified.]

[Thanks.]

It was a seamless, natural exchange—something that didn’t feel at all like a conversation between a man and the one who had stabbed him straight in the heart without hesitation.

[Still...]

Stan hunched his tall frame and stared at Al as if observing some rare creature.

[You’re not Al’s twin brother… are you?]

[I’m the real one.]

[Unbelievable.]

Stan shrugged exaggeratedly with a joking expression.

[This is going too far, even for a joke. How did you come back to life? Did you make a pact with the devil or something? If so, please introduce me.]

It was probably meant as sarcasm, but it wasn’t far from the truth.

[Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. What matters now is... Stan, please stop trying to ruin Richard.]

The glib, half-mocking look on Stan’s face vanished in an instant. Then, in a tone playing dumb, he said,

[I don’t know what you’re talking about.]

[You’re trying to avenge your lover, Monica Landy—the actress Ashley Walker, right? But Stan, Ashley didn’t commit suicide.]

A hush settled between them, broken only by the rustling of leaves—zasa, zasa.

[…What do you know?]

His voice, usually light and mellow, had turned low and curt.

[I know everything. Ashley didn’t take her own life. And I wanted you to know that too.]

Stan’s shoulders trembled, and he let out a quiet, stifled laugh—kukku, kukku.

[Ah, yes. Ashley didn’t kill herself. Richard did—indirectly.]

[You’re wrong. The one who killed Ashley was Edward Ings.]

He said the criminal’s name aloud. Stan tilted his head.

[Who’s that?]

[A member of Peaceful House. The hijacker. He’s the one who claims he’s innocent…]

With all the recent media coverage, it must have triggered something in his memory. Stan let out an absentminded [Ahh] and sighed.

[Cut the crap, Al!]

[It’s true!]

Stan spread his arms wide like a magician revealing his final trick.

[Why the hell would Ashley have to be killed by Edward Ings in the first place?]

[Angel Sachs, the leader of Peaceful House, used to be an actress. She was probably close friends with Ashley.]

A twitch ran across Stan’s cheek. Angel had shown up at Ashley’s funeral. He must have known they were close friends.

[Ashley was invited to join Peaceful House by Angel. She refused, but when she did, she kind of mocked the cult. Angel got furious and ordered her subordinate, Edward Ings, to kill her.]

[Liar!]

Stan clenched both fists and shouted. Al shook his head.

[It’s not a lie. Edward Ings murdered Ashley and made it look like a suicide. Angel spread a story at the funeral that 'Ashley killed herself because Richard dropped her from the role'.]

[No! No, no, no, no, no, no!]

Stan repeated it over and over. Watching him unravel, Al realized—maybe he did suspect something. If they’d truly been lovers, maybe Ashley had once vented to him: “A friend is trying to recruit me into Peaceful House.”

[Stan, you believed the story Angel made up. And then you used me to try and destroy Richard—his whole reputation along with him.]

Stan dropped his head and rounded his back. Like a collapsing building, he slowly sank to his knees and sat heavily in the weeds. Al looked down at him in silence. Stan understood what had happened. All he needed now was time—to accept it.

As the silence stretched on, Al began to think. Maybe it had been for the best that he was the one chosen as the pawn in the plan to ruin Richard. Even though he’d nearly been killed, he had survived. If it had been Akira or anyone else, they probably would have died. Richard would’ve been devastated. If he hadn’t stayed in America, he never would’ve noticed the danger creeping up on Richard. Knowing that he’d been able to protect someone Akira cared for like family—that meant everything.

Stan lifted his face. There was no sharpness or calm in his expression. His face was like a mannequin’s—completely devoid of emotion. He had stabbed someone. He had set fire to a house. And the only reason he wasn’t a murderer was because his target had been a half-vampire. If he could truly regret what he’d done, Al thought he could forgive him.

[You don’t have to hate anyone anymore.]

Stan blinked slowly.

[Edward Ings and Angel Sachs, the ones who killed Ashley, have already been arrested. Let’s go to the police and ask them to reopen Ashley’s case. Then the law will judge them properly. They’ll pay for everything they’ve done.]

Stan turned his gaze away from Al and looked blankly up at the dilapidated hospital, now half-lit by pale sunlight. Silence followed. Al had no idea what Stan was thinking. Maybe he was still lost in confusion after being told the truth. After all, when you've hated someone enough to want them dead, being told “it wasn’t them” doesn’t mean you can just flip a switch and move on. Al understood that.

Then Stan stood up. His eyes bore into Al with a sharpness that felt like they’d pierce straight through him. The hatred in his stare made Al instinctively take a step back. He hadn’t done anything wrong. So why was he being looked at like that?

[Um, I… I don’t want to report you to the police or anything.]

The hatred burning in Stan’s eyes didn’t waver.

[I just wanted you to know the truth… and clear up your misunderstanding about Richard…]

After a long silence, Stan muttered quietly, [Why are you able to forgive me?]

[The stab wound’s already healed. And the house… well, it was Akira who bought it, so I do feel bad, but what’s lost is lost…]

Thick clouds gathered overhead, casting the area into even deeper gloom. Stan gave a small chuckle. Then another, and another, like laughter bubbling up in waves. He looked at Al with an appraising stare.

[You should’ve been dead for sure. Are you really even human?]

Al should’ve just answered yes. But he couldn’t. The silence stretched. Stan’s expression softened—returning to that familiar gentle face from the time he lived at Richard’s.

[Guess I just didn’t stab you hard enough, huh.]

Stan let out a sigh.

[You, Akira, Martha… Richard’s surrounded by good people.]

He muttered, then shook his head.

[No… that’s not it. He chooses them, doesn’t he? People like that—honest ones.]

Slowly, Stan spread his arms wide.

[I loved Ashley. She was my sun.]

Al remembered that side profile, watching the same footage of her over and over.

[When Ashley died, the light disappeared from my world.]

Stan slipped off his jacket and let it fall to the ground. Al caught the glint of a small handgun in his right hand and sucked in a breath. The muzzle was pointed straight at him.

[I know Richard’s a good guy. But I never wanted the truth. …You understand that?]

The question aimed straight at Al—one he had no answer for.

[You really are a pain, Al. Why’d you have to go and tell me all this?]

The muzzle wavered slightly. The finger on the trigger twitched.

[That’s enough.]

Kyiv’s voice rang out from behind. At some point during their talk, he’d circled around to Stan’s rear. Stan should’ve been able to see him, but his expression didn’t change. As if he saw and heard nothing, he simply smiled—and brought the gun to his own temple.

Just before he could pull the trigger, Kyiv closed the distance in an instant, grabbed Stan’s wrist, and jerked the barrel toward the sky.

Bang!

A light pop, more like a party popper than a real gunshot, echoed through the air—followed by the sharp scent of gunpowder. The gun slipped from Stan’s hand as Kyiv jostled his arm. It landed right in front of Al, who dove for it reflexively.

Disarmed, Stan turned and bolted. He darted into the ruins of the hospital. That building was unstable—it could collapse at any moment. It was too dangerous for a human like Stan to be inside.

[Wait!]

Al ran after him. The hospital was dim and lifeless, without electricity. In the sparse waiting room, an overturned bench lay on its side. Al caught up and grabbed Stan’s arm. It made him stop—but only for a second. Stan yanked his arm violently, and Al fell backward, landing hard on his butt.

Stan dashed up the stairs. Where was he going? There was nothing in this place. Nothing at all… And then it hit Al. Stan had tried to kill himself earlier. Now he was climbing stairs. Was he planning to jump from a high place…?

No. I have to stop him.

[Stan, wait!]

Crack. Crack. The old hospital groaned with creaking sounds. Al chased him up to the third floor—just in time to see a large crack split across the ceiling above the staircase.

[Look out!]

Stan stopped in his tracks. He looked up at the ceiling, then turned to Al and... gave a faint smile.

[Run... get out of—]

What followed felt like a series of frozen frames. The ceiling came crashing down like a massive wave, engulfing Stan with a deafening boom, and in an instant, the world turned to swirling gray dust. The ground trembled beneath Al’s feet. Pebbles pelted his body. Instinctively, he curled into himself, making his body as small as possible to shield it.

When the shaking subsided, Al lifted his head. Through a break in the dust, he saw Stan lying on the ground, his lower body crushed beneath rubble.

[Stan, Stan, Stan...]

He rushed over. Stan was limp, but still breathing.

[It’s okay. I’ll get the heavy stuff off you.]

As Al stepped forward, his shoe squelched against something wet. Red. A dark red puddle was rapidly spreading beneath his feet.

His head swam, like he’d taken a strong hit of alcohol. Even now, at a time like this, the urge to "lick it" surged within him, and he fought it down with everything he had. He reached for the rubble. It was heavy—immovable.

[Hey, are you alright!]

Kyiv had arrived. As Al turned to him, he cried out—

[Help me! Stan’s trapped—he’s under all this, so...]

He was desperate, and yet Stan’s eyes remained eerily calm. Disturbingly so.

[Al, that rubble... it’s not something the two of us can move.]

[But we have to try—wait, an ambulance. Call an ambulance!]

Kyiv shook his head.

[In this condition, he won’t make it.]

[Just call them!]

Stan trembled, then coughed up a massive stream of blood.

[Stan...]

No... it might already be too late. Al understood then. Stan was going to die. Helplessly, he watched life slip away before his very eyes. How had it come to this?

Stan had wanted to die. So maybe, like this... he was satisfied? Was hatred really what kept Stan alive? He’d believed Richard was to blame, but now he knew the truth—the real culprit had already been caught. With no more target for his rage, did that leave him empty? But death... death ended everything. Al didn’t know what kind of love Stan had shared with Ashley. But if Stan died here, wouldn’t his final moment be swallowed in bottomless despair? Full of helpless sorrow?

Al placed a trembling finger against Stan’s pale forehead.

Kyiv had once taken memories from Ashley’s brother. Al now tried the reverse. He sent Stan the vision of Ashley—the cheerful little girl version. Sweet, happy, gentle scenes. Only the kind ones. If memories could be taken, surely they could be given. Kyiv had done it before.

Cute Ashley, mischievous Ashley, angry Ashley... The beautiful, charming Ashley whose smile always lit up the room.

Stan’s lips twitched. Slowly, they curved upward into a faint smile.

Then—

Everything stopped.

All signs of life… were gone.

[…Al.]

Even when Kyiv called out to him, Al couldn’t reply.

[I… killed him.]

[It was an accident.]

[But if I hadn’t said those things, Stan wouldn’t have tried to die. He wouldn’t have gone somewhere so dangerous on purpose…]

[Al!]

The sharp voice that snapped at him made Al’s body jolt with a start.

[Don’t delude yourself into thinking you can control someone else’s emotions.]

Al clenched his bloodstained hands, biting hard on his lip.

[Stan hated Richard. And I think, deep down, he knew it was an irrational grudge. But even so, he couldn’t stop himself from going after you. Al, no matter what you said or did, unless he truly wanted to be saved from the bottom of his heart, there was nothing you could’ve done.]

Al shook his head.

[I just… I really believed that if I told him the truth, if he learned who really killed Ashley, that everything would work out…]

Kyiv placed a hand on Al’s shoulder.

[You said you forgave Stan. But Al, I don’t believe that everything should be forgiven just because of love. He lost Ashley and never overcame that grief. Instead, he committed crimes and hurt you—someone who had nothing to do with any of it. So no, I don’t pity the man he became.]

Al understood what Kyiv was saying. He did. But it felt harsh. He couldn’t stop the tears from flowing.

[This ending… was Stan’s own choice. For him, maybe the only way to find peace was to forget her—or to die.]

Then maybe, just like with Ashley’s brother, he should have erased all of Stan’s memories of her. If he had, could Stan have lived a happy life?

But that felt unbearably sad. If it were him—no matter how painful, no matter how much it hurt—Al would never, ever want to lose his memories of Akira.

Crack. Crack.

That eerie groaning sound, like a house settling, began echoing around them once more.

[Al, it’s not safe here. Let’s go outside.]

Kyiv grabbed his arm.

[W-We can’t just leave Stan behind!]

[We can’t bring him out.]

[But… but—!]

[Let me be honest. The dead man in there matters less to me than you do.]

Dragged from the building, Al stumbled into the open.

From inside, several loud thuds boomed in succession, and plumes of dust rose into the sky.

Al stared, dazed, as the ruins collapsed inward—as if sealing Stan inside forever.

[Because of a lie told by Angel Sachs, the fates of two men were twisted.]

One forgot his sister and continued living.

The other died with the memory of his lover still in his heart.

It wasn’t Al who had lost a loved one—it was Stan. And yet, his chest ached as if something were being wrung tight.

It hurt because he understood the feeling. Stan, who could see no path but death… was pitiful, and unbearably sad.

…Among the rustling of leaves, the sound of a police siren slowly approached.

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