“None of your business.”
Bo Li: “……”
She needed something from him, so she did not argue further.
But come to think of it, could her recent unease be because he had been hypnotizing her?
Bo Li knew very well that hypnosis was not that powerful, it could not achieve such an effect.
Generally speaking, to hypnotize someone, one must first gain the other’s trust, then use psychological suggestion to lead them into a deeper state of relaxation.
The reason she had been hypnotized just now was, first, because she believed Erik possessed the ability to control her, and second, because he had snapped his fingers.
Just like the pocket watch that constantly swings in the hand of a hypnotist in a film.
Before her very eyes, he had lit the candles in the bedroom out of thin air, further strengthening her trust in his power.
That was why she had relaxed and allowed him to manipulate her limbs.
Her recent wild and erratic thoughts were more like—
Bo Li cut herself off in time.
Too dangerous.
She must not continue thinking down that path.
Yet, she could not help but shift her gaze back onto him.
In this period of time, he seemed to have grown taller, surpassing one meter ninety, no longer as scrawny as before.
The muscles of his arms, waist, and thighs gradually became firm and well-proportioned, brimming with a strong masculine allure.
Even stronger than when he hypnotized her.
He was no longer that frighteningly thin youth, but was growing into a robust and powerful man.
Suddenly, she had the feeling of having no way of retreat.
As though she was being besieged by the aggressive aura radiating from him.
At that moment, he suddenly reached out, pinched her chin, and turned her face to the other side.
He did not like being looked at by her.
Bo Li snapped back to her senses, cursing herself inwardly for being bewitched, for staring too intently and almost forgetting her true purpose.
She cleared her throat and took a step forward: “That… do you still remember that I once said I wanted to form another circus?”
As always, he gave no response.
Bo Li went on: “The preliminary preparations are more or less complete now… but the most crucial element is still missing—”
He glanced at her: “Money?”
“You.”
He paused for a moment, then released her chin: “Continue.”
Bo Li did not know how to describe a haunted house to him. After pondering for a moment, she asked, “Do you know about the Illusion House? The kind most common in circuses—”
Before the words had fallen, a shadow suddenly pressed down before her eyes.
Without warning, he closed in on her, one hand clamping around her throat, forcing her chin up harshly.
“Who told you that?”
“What?” Bo Li was stunned. “I…”
He scrutinized her eyes. “Why did you bring up the Illusion House?”
“I was only giving an example…” The indifference and wariness in his eyes sent chills down her back. For a moment, it felt as though they had returned to the very beginning of their relationship. “I want to create something similar to the Illusion House… but a haunted house with content far richer than the Illusion House… cough, let go, I can hardly breathe.”
He stared at her, then slowly loosened the grip of his palm.
Bo Li collapsed to the ground in an instant.
As she struggled for breath, she forced herself to recall any mention of the “Illusion House” in the original story.
She could not remember any such mention.
Then why had his reaction been so intense?
—No.
Bo Li’s pupils tightened slightly, a sheen of cold sweat seeping down her back.
She remembered.
In the original work, in the Mazandaran palace, he had once used the “Illusion House” as a prototype to build a terrifying torture chamber.
The torture chamber was a perfect hexagon, its interior containing iron trees, blinding lamps, electric heating devices, and all manner of mirrors—plane, concave, convex.
Once the mechanism was triggered, the distorted mirrors would begin to rotate on their axles, light refracting and crisscrossing, the air becoming oppressively hot like hell itself.
Prisoners locked inside would, within half a day, fall into madness and despair, ultimately hanging themselves upon the iron trees.
…No wonder his reaction had been so violent.
He thought she had come into contact with the Persians.
She had to think of some way to cover it up.
Bo Li’s mind raced. She said, “I told you, I will not treat the deformed performers as disposable exhibits… I want the audience to remember each and every one of them, to buy tickets for their stories, not for their unusual appearances.”
A few seconds passed before Erik regained his calm. “How do you intend to do that?”
“Marbelle’s ‘large feet’ are indeed rare, but rare as they are, they are not unique. What is truly rare is her experience.”
“Continue.”
Bo Li’s breathing steadied as she went on with composure:
“Tell me, how many people can claim to have lived a life like hers? Born with a deformity, forced into trafficking by Tricky… I plan to rent a villa, or a tavern, and adapt Marbelle’s story into a script. But not the kind of script meant for a stage play.”
“In my vision, people who buy tickets will not come to ‘watch’ the deformed, but to ‘become’ the deformed. They will play the role of ‘Marbelle,’ and personally experience what it is like to be discriminated against, hunted, bought and sold, with nowhere to hide.”
“Of course, Marbelle is only the first story I wish to adapt,” Bo Li said. “Once we have money in the future, I may adapt Emily’s, Flora’s…”
Erik said nothing.
Yet Bo Li saw that he was no longer as wary as before; in his eyes, it was as if golden fire was burning.
He had become interested in her words.
“Human beings are exceedingly complex creatures. They will pay for the sensation of fright,” she said. “Watching freak shows, supernatural exhibitions, horror novels… in essence, all of these are to be frightened. Fear can rouse the most primitive impulses of mankind, such as appetite, the desire for survival, and…”
Her voice faltered.
—Fear can rouse the most primitive impulses of mankind.
Could her own complicated feelings toward him recently also have something to do with this?
“In any case,” she drew in a deep breath, “many people are not aware that they can become enamored with fear… enamored with that rapid heartbeat, that breathless tension.”
“In my vision, the audience will play the role of ‘Marbelle.’ After escaping the pursuit of Tricky and Boyd, they must still face their own inner demons—portrayed by Marbelle herself—before they can truly leave the villa.”
“Through this process, not only can they taste the thrill brought by fear, but also the triumph and joy of escape… If they merely watch a ‘freak show,’ they will never experience such a feeling in their entire lives.”
Bo Li spoke firmly: “I am absolutely certain that once they have played it once, they will wish to play a second time, only to relive that exhilaration born of fear…”
“However,” she turned her gaze upon him, “I came to conceive such an idea only because you are by my side… Only you can bring so complex a vision into reality; otherwise, it would remain nothing but empty words.”
He seemed to fall into thought.
Bo Li felt a little uneasy, afraid he might once again mention the “Illusion House,” or that what had just transpired would affect his attitude toward her.
She did not know how much time had passed when his voice finally sounded by her ear:
“I will help you realize it.”
Bo Li’s heart gave a heavy throb.
“Your idea…” he paused, as though choosing his words with care, “is perfect.”
A subtle tremor rose within her.
It came from the place of her heart.
Her senses seemed rusted, unable to discern whether this was relief at having escaped danger, the joy of being acknowledged by a genius, or simply—
the stirring of her heart.
The question was, was this truly the stirring of her heart?
Or merely a fascination with fear?
When facing fear, a person’s instinct of fight or flight is triggered—the heart races, the pupils dilate, breathing quickens, adrenaline surges.
Almost indistinguishable from the feeling of being moved.
Bo Li gazed at Erik, unblinking.
She no longer avoided the masculine traits upon him, forcing herself to observe him closely, from head to toe, without letting a single detail escape.
His jawline was, in fact, very handsome—well-defined, the contours austere and clear.
His Adam’s apple stood out, the contours of his knuckles and wrists sharp and fluid, carrying an indescribable artistic beauty.
Apart from his face, he was nearly flawless.
The power of hypnosis seemed to descend upon her once more.
She found herself walking toward him, step by step, almost beyond her control.
Yet her mind was clearer than it had ever been.
She thought calmly: if she were to see his face, would she still feel this tremor of the heart?
Would she still have the courage to be enamored with fear?
At that moment, he lowered his head, his gaze shifting downward.
The instant their eyes met—
She thought his eyes were beautiful too, cold, mysterious, the color of a predator’s pupils.
There seemed to be some unknown poison in his gaze; merely meeting it made her body grow warm, grow weak—
“This vision is my greatest secret,” she said.
It was the truth.
She had spoken her thoughts without reservation.
He was so intelligent; with only a little thought, he could easily deduce that she was not Polly Claremont.
People drew closer by exchanging secrets.
She was so ordinary; before his genius mind, this secret was hardly worth mentioning.
But still, she wanted to make a trade with him.
“So… could I…” she said, feeling inexplicably breathless, “see your face?”
The atmosphere froze.
The subtle undercurrent in the air was instantly dispelled.
He seized her cheek in one hand, leaned down, and bore into her with his gaze. “Why do you want to see my face?”
It was the first time he had directly answered this question. Bo Li was stunned for a moment before saying: “…I just want to know you a little better. I promise I won’t—”
He cut her off coldly: “I am not Oliver Thorn. What you said to him has no effect on me.”
Bo Li was struck dumb.
No—that was wrong. How did he know what she was about to say? And how did he know she had once said such words to Thorn?
“Let this be the last time you ask me that question,” he said, looking down at her, his voice chilling to the bone. “One more time, and I will kill you outright.”
Bo Li did not know if her senses were deceiving her, or if it was something else—yet it seemed he would not actually kill her.
Before, every time he had threatened her, he would either menace her with a knife, or grip her throat until her cervical bones creaked beneath the strain.
And through the entire ordeal, he would never utter a word. She had to rack her brains and plead with all her might just to escape with her life.
This time, however, he merely gripped her cheek… and even spoke so many words.
It was almost as if he were bluffing.
Was she the one who had gone mad, or was this truly the case?
For a moment, Bo Li could not tell what she was thinking, nor what she was feeling—was it the stirring of her heart, was it fear, or was it curiosity toward the unknown—
She raised her hand and covered his.
He was wearing black gloves.
What she felt was the cold texture of leather.
Yet he suddenly released her cheek, recoiling a step with an almost violent reaction.
Bo Li felt she could press a step further: “How do you intend to kill me?”
He looked at her coldly, his breathing heavy, his whole body taut, as though she were the one threatening him.
“With a dagger, a rope, a pistol,” she said, fluttering her lashes, “or… with your hands?”
He said nothing, only staring at her with a terrifying gaze, as though he meant to drive her back with his eyes alone.
“If I could choose, I would hope it was with your hands, because your hands are very beautiful—”
As she spoke, Bo Li thought herself a little twisted.
But was he not the more twisted one?
He had stalked her, spied on her, hypnotized her, even slipped into her room at midnight to measure her feet—and somehow, from who knows where, had acquired her body’s exact measurements.
Now, when she merely repaid him in kind, he showed such a look of persecution.
Who, after all, was persecuting whom?
She had once been a sunny, positive adult woman, who neither smoked nor drank, whose greatest indulgence was squatting at home to play games and watching horror films over meals.
It was he who had made her obsession with fear take form.
It was he who had forced her into addiction to the rush of adrenaline.
It was he who had guided her into this distorted relationship.
She was the victim.
What right did he have to show such an expression?
Unknowingly, the roles between them had already reversed.
He turned his head aside, his jaw clenched tight, as though unwilling to meet her eyes, a thick vein standing out on his neck.
Bo Li felt that if she pressed closer still, he would abandon resistance and surrender his arms.
Yet just then, he suddenly seized her hair, yanking her away, and coldly forced the question: “Do you think I would not kill you?”
It was not the first time he had grabbed her hair, but the previous times she had been so frightened she dared not move, cold sweat pouring down.
This time, however, she discovered that the tugging tightness on her scalp could also bring a faint thrill, just like that day—
Just like when she had cut his hair.
He seemed to think of something as well—his arm stiffened slightly, his Adam’s apple bobbed violently, and at once he released her.
Bo Li was about to press her advantage when sudden darkness fell before her eyes—he had, by some unknown means, extinguished all the candles in the bedroom.
By the time she fumbled for matches and, in the dark, lit a candle again, he had already vanished without a trace.
Bo Li began to reflect: had her behavior gone too far?
If, in a fit of anger, he refused to help her build the haunted house, what then?