Dead Trigger (3)

So the crazy bitch came all the way out here.

She might have come just to torment and tease Karsein, given how Flora usually was—but this? This I never saw coming.

I had no idea why the lady of the house herself would deign to visit a space meant for the maids' laundry, but it was none of my business either way.

This scene got skipped in the playthrough, which is why the choices only popped up a little later.

Until the scripted scene triggers, there are no restrictions on my choices. And where would I find any reason to back down?

All I had to do was keep doing what I'd been doing.

—Slap. Slap.

"Karsein, you...!"

The moment I dunked my bare hands back into the icy water and started scrubbing soap into the fabric again, Claire ground her teeth and barked at me.

"What do you think you're doing right now?! Answer me!"

"What does it look like? I'm doing laundry."

"That's exactly the problem—why are *you* the one doing it, you idiot!"

"Come to think of it, should I go see Mother dressed like this, then?"

I held up a garment, visibly stained with grime that hadn't washed out, right in front of her face.

"I can't exactly pay a visit in these clothes. At the very least, I'd have to wash them today and let them dry until tomorrow."

"Ha, damn it. Hey, Karsein."

—Slam!

Finally losing her patience, Claire snatched up a piece of laundry and hurled it to the floor.

"Stop playing word games and tell me straight. Why aren't you making your maid do this? Why are you doing it yourself? You were bedridden with a cold just days ago, so why the hell are you pulling this?"

Her piercing blue eyes radiated a quiet, oppressive pressure. Her face, twisted in exasperation, couldn't contain its irritation any longer—and open fury began to seep through.

If a choice prompt had appeared at this moment, I had no doubt I would have died right here for saying something careless.

But right now, no such restraints existed for me. My body and mind were both in perfect condition to face Claire Bagrand head-on.

Oh—there it is, right in front of me. If I pick this up and show it to Claire, then... hmm?

But then, a subtle discrepancy caught my eye.

...What is that?

Wondering if my eyes were playing tricks on me, I rubbed them.

They weren't. It wasn't sleep haze, either.

There, floating above Claire's head, was a small mark etched onto that white box.

2...%?

It was the Intimacy Box.

What the—why is it going up?

Shouldn't raising Claire's affinity have been a long way off? Or was there something I didn't know about?

...Don't tell me—that's it?

The Status Window's message about succeeding in producing an outcome *beyond* the choices. That was the only explanation that came to mind.

After all, not a single choice had appeared yet that would raise Claire's affinity for Karsein.

Apparently, something in my behavior had influenced it somehow—though for the life of me, I couldn't figure out what she'd found so appealing.

Whatever. That's a problem for later.

Right now, I needed to shut Claire's mouth.

—Ring!

The scripted scene had arrived—that was why.

Without a moment's hesitation, I chose number 3.

"I have no exclusive maid to wash my clothes. That's why."

"What are you even saying? Arina went all the way to your room and told you to hire one yourself!"

"Which is exactly why there isn't one. No maid to wait on me."

What was there to hide or spin? There simply was no maid, and so I washed my clothes with my own hands. That was all I'd laid bare.

Hearing that there was no exclusive maid, Claire seemed to piece something together, a flicker of suspicion crossing her face.

"Karsein. Don't tell me you actually refused to hire a maid out of sheer pride?! Is that why you're hand-washing your own clothes right now?"

"That's right."

"You insane bastard! There's a time to be proud and a time to swallow it—which one is this?! Refusing to hire a maid?!"

Cursing under her breath, Claire worked herself into a full temper.

"You are a noble. A noble of House Bagrand, the highest-ranked house in the Empire, no less! And you're telling me, in all seriousness, that you're doing your ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠own laundry while the servants sit idle?!"

A noble washing clothes with his own two hands? The very idea was unthinkable.

Even the weakest, most powerless noble would sooner lord his pride over the servants than touch a washboard himself—and in the bitter depths of winter, with bare hands? Impossible.

For this to be happening in the Bagrand Ducal House of all places, no one could have blamed the servants for their eyes rolling back in their heads.

"The maids are scattered all over the grounds just a short walk from here. Don't be ridiculous—order one of them to do it right now."

Having pressed her attack ferociously, Claire turned to march off toward where the maids would be. I stopped her in her tracks with a single sentence, sharp as a nail.

"Order the maids to do it? You're telling *me* that?"

"Oh, for god's sake. What is it now?!"

That's right. You wouldn't understand.

The second sister I knew was exactly the same. So let me teach you.

"You said it yourself. That even the maids were wasted on me."

"...What? When did I ever—"

Snap!

I picked up one of the half-washed garments and spread it out right in front of Claire's bewildered face, holding it up where she couldn't miss it. Water trickled down, but the mark on the fabric remained stubbornly, clearly visible.

"That stain... Don't tell me—that was back then?"

"It's what you said when the maid brought this back from the wash. When I threw a fit about it, you told me I should be grateful a maid even bothered to launder my clothes to that standard."

"Hey. Are you kidding me? That was when you threw one of your tantrums over these clothes. She'd under-washed them slightly, you punished her far too harshly for it—that's why you got told off. And you're seriously twisting that into an accusation now?"

You're right. It probably *was* an unreasonable complaint.

From Claire's perspective, it was nothing more than a garment that had come back from the wash with a bit of grime left behind. Nothing more.

But that's precisely why my logic was airtight.

"It's not unreasonable. You said the maids were wasted on me, so I'm simply doing the washing myself. Is that somehow wrong?"

"Karsein, you..."

"Then which beat should I dance to this time? Should I keep washing by hand, like you told me back then? Or should I follow what you're saying now and hand the work over to the maids?"

Watching Claire freeze in her own contradiction, trapped by her own two statements from the past, I added—almost graciously—

"So you see, it's better that there isn't one at all. Food laced with salt or drugs. Cold water drawn into my bath. None of that can even happen if there's no maid to hire. Am I wrong?"

Claire's mouth, which had been firing off relentless accusations, snapped shut.

She knew it, too. Why Karsein had collapsed that day, what he had endured all this time. Even taking the totality of Chief Physician Shayden's findings, every conclusion pointed to the maids' hands.

Which meant, if there were no maids—

If no maid at all existed to serve Karsein—

Then nothing could happen.

Truly, nothing.

"Do whatever you want, you pathetic bastard!"

The pink-haired lunatic spat out that single line and whirled around to leave. Caught by her own words, she probably couldn't say anything more.

But.

You'll be feeling something entirely different.

Won't you, Flora?

"...!"

The moment our eyes met, the little brat who'd been nattering at my side in annoyance spun on her heel and scurried after the second sister. And the way she bolted—no, that couldn't just be my imagination.

After all, she was the one who had ordered the maid to deliberately ruin Karsein's perfectly good clothes in the first place.

Judging by the information I'd uncovered while playing through this episode in the game, Karsein had actually punished that maid justly for deliberately ruining his clothes.

But no matter what he did, the blame had landed on Karsein anyway. It was an ugly outcome born of Flora's cunning and Claire's gullibility.

Which was why this one counterblow felt so satisfying.

"Ahh. Now I feel a little better."

So I was hand-washing laundry in the dead of winter—who cared? I was satisfied.

The next day.

I felt the clothes that had dried at the wash-yard.

"Oh. They dried nicely after all."

At the laundry yard, any of the servants could have laid hands on them, insisting they belonged to the household rather than to Karsein—but just as in the game, no one had touched them.

Of course, if I'd shown up even a few hours later, those clothes would have been ruined all over again.

The reason they hadn't been: whoever was in charge of preparations for a major event couldn't spare a moment to meddle.

In any case, thanks to that, yesterday's laundry had dried perfectly. Clean enough that I could meet anyone—Arina included—without a problem.

I hurriedly gathered the clothes and carried them to my room.

After that came cleaning time. There was no vacuum, the room was lavish ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and sprawling but hardly practical, and everything had to be sorted and resolved by hand.

But it wasn't so bad. No one barged in unannounced, and outside of mealtimes, no one had any reason to enter.

In fact, as my hours alone grew longer, I found I could now defuse those sudden, random Dead Flags with ease.

"Whew. Done."

Maybe it was all those years of living alone, but cleaning was a breeze.

"Next up... time to pay Isabella a visit, I suppose."

I couldn't forget this. All I'd cleared so far was the tutorial and a single episode.

Countless episodes and chapters still lay ahead if I wanted to see this game's ending—and every one of them would clutch my lifeline and shake it for all it was worth.

A single movement sparking a conversation. A conversation spawning fickle, ever-shifting choices. Choices cascading into one Dead Flag after another—there was nothing I could afford to be careless about.

After one deep breath, I dressed in my freshly laundered clothes, minded my manners, and made my way to the Duchess's study.

Knock knock.

"Who is it?"

"Karsein."

A short silence settled inside the room, then a faint voice bade me enter.

The moment the door opened, the Intimacy Box hovering above her head—three ticks filled—stood out plainly.

"Sit down for now. We'll talk when I've finished this."

"Yes, my lady."

I'd braced myself for it, but what a chilly reception all the same.

The brief silence after my knock. The answer telling me to wait until this was done. A perfunctory exchange with not a shred of warmth or welcome in it.

The attitude of someone grown accustomed to draining herself dry—of habitual tantrums, capricious whining, and theatrical suffering—was plain as day to see now.

—Scrape.

Isabella pushed back her chair and rose. Had she finally finished her work? Not quite.

Her hands still held her documents, and in that state she took a seat across from the sofa where I sat.

"And what brings you here today?"

That frosty voice carried an unspoken undertone: you're interrupting my work, so I'll humor you briefly, and that's all.

The sight was almost unbearably familiar.

The way her gaze drifted elsewhere, valuing her work over her son's words. The dismissive tone, half-listening to whatever he said, just waiting to brush it off. The impatience, as if to say what now?—as if this very moment were a waste of her precious time.

Because it was the spitting image of someone I had watched until I was sick of it—the woman called my mother, who ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠never so much as pretended to listen to a single word I said.

Don't let it get to me. She's not my mother anyway.

I couldn't forget why I'd come here.

I had entered the main storyline of CHAPTER 1 and was now progressing through Episode II.

I was here for one reason only: to defuse the Dead Trigger before it could detonate.

Unruffled, I began in a clear, measured voice—loud enough for Isabella to hear.

"I've come to speak with you regarding the matter of the maids."

"If you mean Camilla, she has already been released."

"...I'm sorry, what?"

For a moment, certain I'd misheard, I asked her to repeat herself.

Yet Isabella answered calmly, her gaze still fixed on her documents.

"Arina and Claire informed me that someone had tampered with your meals. But suspecting Camilla of it doesn't hold water."

I hadn't misheard, then.

She was telling me that the maid who had tampered with Karsein's table had been set free.

"Even if I had looked into it, there was no evidence to be found. Besides, Camilla came to the ducal house for money, and it was for money that she took charge of a master like you. She was prepared to sell her noble family name itself to care for her ailing mother. Everyone around her knows this well. Which makes it all the harder to believe she is the culprit."

Isabella took a sip of tea and continued.

"As I said before, the trust the servants place in Camilla is exceptionally high. They submitted petitions written with their own hands—even staged a collective plea to have her removed from solitary confinement. I understand your grievance this time as well, so I've ordered Arina to conduct an investigation directly. Let that much satisfy you. A noble must know when to extend leniency."

The absurdity of it left me speechless.

Even though it wasn't *my* life—that this was a scene I'd only watched in a game—it irritated me all the more.

Hard to believe she's the culprit? Even though she's the real culprit?

And she'd released her while spouting that nonsense, with no intention of even ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hearing Karsein out?

And what was that—leniency?

Ha. So that's why every desperate cry of innocence ended in a bad ending?

Because choosing those options accomplished absolutely nothing?

Now that I'd confirmed the outcomes of the choices aligned exactly as I remembered, a hollow laugh almost escaped me.

—Ring!

The choices were crueler to Karsein by the minute.

If it had been him, no one would have blinked at whatever damning words and actions spilled out of him, dead flags or not.

But that's not who I am.

I could rage and plead about the injustice of it all—but those would be Karsein's emotions, not mine.

Laying them bare would gain nothing that ever came back. They were nothing but poison, plain and simple.

So I drew the line. Cleanly.

"Ah. Then I came here for nothing, it seems. That was, in fact, exactly what I intended to ask of you."

For the first time, Isabella's eyes, which had been glued to her papers, lifted to meet mine.

"Because Camilla is not that sort of maid, just as you say. Well—the misunderstanding arose on my account, and I only came to say I have no complaint about her release. That's all I... ah. No, one more thing."

I rose slowly from the sofa and finished with my final words.

"From now on, I will not be paying my morning greetings."