Romantic Psycho - Chapter 2

Martenly, located about three hours by train from Rosen’s capital, Britt, was until a few years ago a quiet city with only a couple of hotels in the city center.

But that changed when young nobles on their way to Britt for the social season began to stop here one by one.

With two intersecting railway lines and roads wide and smooth enough for cars, Martenly gained growing fame for its views of the Leta Sea that stretched along the coastal road. It quickly became a popular resort destination where young nobles with money gathered before and after the peak of the social season.

A carriage came to a stop in the center of Martenly, where upscale hotels and cafés were clustered.

The coachman knocked lightly on the front window and called out, “Sir, we’ve arrived. This is Hotel Gold Blenheim.”

Soon, the carriage door opened, and a long leg stepped out gracefully to the ground.

Through the dust, the figure of a refined man in a perfect three-piece suit and long coat gradually emerged. Even in the hazy surroundings, his shining blond hair fluttered with each movement, and beneath it, soft hazel eyes sparkled as they glanced around.

As the coachman was unloading the luggage from the rear compartment, he once again found himself dazed by the dazzling sight. In all his years, he had never stared so intently at a man’s face. That’s how flawless the man looked.

At that moment, the man’s previously expressionless face, so composed it was nearly cold, curved slightly into a proper arc.

“Keep the change.”

Good heavens.

It was the first time the coachman had ever felt his heart flutter for a man.

That playboy the newspapers constantly raved about—Captain Julian Harbour, supposedly the most handsome man in the Kingdom of Rosen—surely, this gentleman was a hundred times better-looking.

From a glance at his attire, the man was clearly a nobleman. His face even seemed vaguely familiar. He must have belonged to a very distinguished family.

What must life be like when you’re born with a face like that? The coachman wondered as he set the man’s suitcase down beside his leg and received the gold coin with a deeply respectful gesture.

Just then, an annoyed honk sounded behind them. Several carriages and automobiles had lined up in a long queue, horns blaring in frustration.

“Oh, my! Have a good day, sir!”

The coachman quickly offered his farewell and jumped back onto the driver’s seat, snapping the reins.

The halted vehicles began to move again, and a cloud of dust rose on the road along with thick black smoke. The man, hat tilted to one side, waved a hand in front of his face and slowly turned around.

“Extra edition! Extra!”

“Damn it, watch where you’re going!”

“Oh my goodness!”

Through the dusty haze, the chaotic scenery of Martenly came into view.

The streets were crowded with closely clinging tourists—mostly couples of unclear relations. Between the hotels, street vendors pushed carts selling paintings, fans, postcards, and other trinkets, eagerly vying for attention.

Carrying a simple suitcase by himself with no servant in sight, the man moved to walk past them all indifferently, but then paused.

A postcard had caught his eye—an image of a perfectly symmetrical building, wide white marble steps before a terrace, and a green lawn leading down to the sea.

Involuntarily, he turned his head to look closer. In one corner of the blue sky, the word “Winderbury” was printed in small letters.

Now that he thought about it, Winderbury was close to Martenly.

The moment that thought crossed his mind, a memory he had completely forgotten from when he was seventeen vividly flooded his mind.

That day had been one of the most miserable in his life, and at the same time, the strangest.

He had met a slightly odd girl that day.

“Good afternoon, young sir. I seem to have lost my way, might I trouble you for some help? Oh, I forgot to introduce myself. I am…”

The girl’s face, recalled for the first time in ages, had now faded. Still, for someone who claimed to be lost, she’d been oddly composed, and for a child, her elegant speech had been rather amusing.

Perhaps that’s why, despite being just a brief encounter, her memory remained unusually vivid.

As he slowly pieced together that day, the man impulsively picked up the postcard.

The vendor, who had briefly been transfixed by the man’s looks, now gave him a look of disbelief upon seeing the card he had picked up. Ever since Winderbury had become a symbol of tragedy, no one had bought that postcard—it had been sitting in the same spot for years.

“I’ll take this one.”

Unbothered by such things, the man handed over a large silver coin for a mere postcard. He tucked the card into the inside of his jacket and briskly climbed the hotel steps, as though he couldn’t bear another moment in the noisy street.

The hotel attendant politely greeted him and opened the door in step with his pace, while the bellboy beside him received the suitcase with a bright smile.

The moment he stepped inside, the air and scent changed.

The noise remained, but it was an entirely different kind from that on the street.

His footsteps slowed slightly.

He had chosen a hotel as far from Martenly’s city center as possible, yet the moment he stepped into the lobby, he spotted familiar faces.

What a nuisance. Perhaps he should have taken the longer route instead of boarding the train in Martenly. The man instantly sensed that his plan to enjoy peace and quiet before arriving in Britt had gone up in smoke.

He slowly removed his hat. Almost immediately, he felt the whispers and blatant stares trailing him. But he was well-practiced at not rushing in such moments.

From the moment he entered the hotel, the manager, who had been standing upright and prepared to receive guests, greeted him with a polite voice.

“Welcome to Hotel Gold Blenheim.”

“I have a reservation. Julian Harbour.”

“We’ve been expecting you, Captain Harbour. Please wait a moment while we confirm your room.”

Thankfully, the manager was professional. Even when faced with one of the kingdom’s most famous figures, often featured in newspapers and gossip magazines, he showed no particular sign of surprise or interest.

Julian, more at ease, crossed his arms and leaned casually against the front desk as he lowered his gaze.

Neatly arranged newspapers caught his eye. As expected of a sizable hotel, they had a wide selection from various publishers, including both weekly and daily issues. A quick glance revealed nearly a dozen different titles—yet strangely, all the headlines looked similar.

[Another young woman found murdered in Britt.]

The capital of the Kingdom of Rosen, Britt, was arguably the most famous metropolis in the world.

Naturally, it attracted many laborers and immigrants. As a result, hundreds or even thousands of crimes occurred there each day. In some ways, it was inevitable.

The chief of Britt’s police had long refused to acknowledge the existence of a serial murder case in the capital. But once the sixth victim appeared, he could no longer deny it.

A serial murder case had occurred in Britt, Rosen’s proud capital. Six victims so far, yet the police still hadn’t found a single clue about the killer.

Now that he thought about it, the hotel guests in the lobby were all talking about the murders in Britt.

“Good heavens, the police are treating this as a serial case now, how terrible!”

“How many victims are there in this latest one?”

“A dreadful six. And there might be more, since the Britt police have already missed so much.”

“My word. Who’d dare go near Britt now? Might be better to stay in Martenly for the whole season.”

“They say he shaves all their heads, it’s horrifying!”

“And he only targets young women with blue eyes, or so they say.”

Someone replied in a voice trembling with fear.

“That could just be coincidence. Isn’t everyone in danger, regardless of appearance?”

People—especially the women—were trembling with fear. Though the police chief had been replaced and a new person had taken charge, the public’s fear hadn’t subsided.

It was a grim article indeed. Julian must have looked serious, because the manager, halfway through handing him the key, asked in a startled tone:

“Captain? Is something wrong?”

Julian, instinctively polite, gave the older manager a practiced smile that suggested concern.

“Nothing at all.”

Relieved, the manager’s eyes softened with a gentle smile. “Then everything is perfect, Captain.”

“Of course it is. Thank you.”

“We’ll have your luggage brought up to your room.”

Julian took the key and responded with the kind of brusque yet sociable smile typical of a soldier. As he turned, he hesitated.

‘Damn.’

Eager stares were waiting for him.

It was only natural. His face was not only well-known—it stood out.

By seventeen, when his features had matured, the handsome cadet in the navy-blue uniform of the military academy had already gathered admirers wherever he went. At twenty, just before his commissioning, he had foolishly leapt into the water to save Sir Hartnett, the ambassador of Midros.

The photo taken by chance that day had ushered Julian Harbour into high society.

Sir Hartnett was a relative of the Rosen royal family, and the photo capturing the dashing cadet’s heroic act became an iconic masterpiece.

Thanks to that, Julian found himself naturally embraced by the upper class—and at some point, he began to enjoy the excessive attention from the world.

But right now, he had neither the energy nor the mental fortitude to hold a conversation with any lady.

Wearing the perfectly photogenic smile of an actor before a camera, Julian pulled out his watch and repeatedly checked the time as he hurried away, feigning busyness. From the corner of his eye, he saw hesitant hands and feet—people unsure whether to stop him. He pretended not to notice any of them.

Just as he rounded one of the lobby’s columns, looking for the elevator—

“……!”

He nearly collided with a woman leaning against the column, staring at the floor.

There had been no actual contact, so neither of them staggered. But his instinct to lean in slightly, placing a hand near her waist and looking directly into her eyes, was something that had become second nature after dealing with countless ladies.

“Oh, pardon me. Are you all right?”

The words came out automatically, like a recording being played.

The woman, who had long straight hair—not in a bob, but at an awkward length that reached below her chest—thrown over her shoulder, lifted her face in surprise.

And the moment Julian saw her youthful, makeup-free face, he instinctively paused.

Her eyes—strikingly blue, like someone had spilled paint—looked strangely familiar.