Hell's Actor-Chapter 242: Leash

"How about massive structures? Holograms? Flying cars?"

Director Groux shook his head. "Budget is limited."

"That broke, huh?"

The good director wanted to deny and protest, but Averie wasn’t wrong. They didn’t have the necessary funds for grandiose displays of modern CGI.

The actor found it hard to believe that grouped pixels on a computer could cost more than their real-life inspirations.

"Don’t you regret it?" he asked, subtly glancing at the director. "If you had changed the script a little, the big brothers in Hollywood would’ve rained money on this film—so much money we’d be wiping our—"

"I understand," the director interjected, holding a hand in the air, his eyes closed.

He was trying not to imagine the particular scenario Averie was painting, yet it seemed to invade his mind persistently.

"No, I don’t regret it." The gesture of his head was firm and confident, like a wet dog shaking itself dry. "Even if no one ends up liking the end product, I would be content if I found it beautiful."

Those were words full of conviction.

As the memory faded, his gaze turned sharper. The film was only getting interesting.

It was there—on the fridge door, staring back at him.

The picture.

Charles’s glance did not recede from it even as he stepped out and closed the door behind him.

The silence was soon drowned out by the incessant cheering of gamblers.

A track stretched out before Charles, lit only by lights that looked like—yet oddly out of place to be called—streetlamps.

What sort of horse race could be run under streetlamps?

The horses, too, were unusual. Heavy steroids running through their veins, they often managed to trample their jockeys to death before they even finished the race.

But that too was part of the spectacle. Races without a splash of death felt lacking to those gathered around.

"Three-headed Cock is my bet."

"Charlie wins it all. Always has been; always will."

"A hundred on Colloquial Orthodox."

Uninformed betting was alive and well in The City. The economic ecosystem thrived on it, invited, and embraced it.

There were no illegal betting rackets; the market had long been cleansed. They said it was to reduce crime, but everyone knew it was just another way to monopolize the profits. ’Ethical Betting,’ they called it—as if debauchery like gambling even had such a thing as ethics.

The big man up top—the nobility—did not like money circulating in the wrong direction.

What was this wrong direction? Away from them, of course. That was always the wrong direction.

The lower layers were only the roots—siphoning nutrients for the leaves that were anything but green.

But such a colorful thought process couldn’t take place within the mind of Charles. The only image that swirled within his gray mindscape was that of The Lady.

"A lot of eyes on us today," Marianne casually mentioned.

Indeed, it felt that way. Especially, since random people were handing him money, asking him to be a good fellow and bring them this and that.

It felt oddly targeted.

"An abundance of familiar faces," Marianne murmured, looking at a group of women sneaking glances at the pair.

It was like a large picnic of nobility. Through the eyes of The Photographer, it looked like a murder of crows.

It had been a quarter of an hour since the race began, and if what he had heard was right, then it would last for another three quarters.

Even though it wasn’t hot, Charles was sweating, his eyelashes allowing an occasional tremble.

It felt like all the world’s attention was on him. It was as if he were part of a play, and the audience was demanding to know: what comes after the murder?

"I will freshen up," Charles whispered to Marianne.

He got up and hurried off in the direction of the washroom.

Marianne’s lips parted, but she said nothing. She silently observed his back as he left.

A quarter of an hour passed, but there was no sign of Charles.

Shrugging off the glances, Marianne got up and entered the men’s washroom, the memory of the day when he left her in the abandoned amusement park still vivid.

It was empty. No one was there.

The camera zoomed in on her eyes. They were cold and callous.

The camera zoomed out.

She was in the lobby. A heavy machine was inches away from her face, showing a dot on the move, away from the center of the screen.

Charles may have forgotten about the chip in his neck, but Marianne hadn’t.

A few button presses, and soon, she found out the identifier of the phone booth nearest to him. Leaning against the glass wall, she dialed the number on the telephone, observing the race.

The scene cut to Charles.

In a dimly lit street, he stood in a state of trance.

The phone was ringing.

He could hear it. It was only a few feet away from him. It wouldn’t be hard to answer it.

But he didn’t move.

Pictures were playing in his mind, keeping him from action. And that monotonous ringing only sank him further into this mania. 𝚏𝐫𝚎𝗲𝕨𝐞𝐛𝕟𝚘𝐯𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝗺

Saliva was dripping from his mouth, and the surroundings felt warm.

But Marianne couldn’t feel that warmth. He had ditched her—not once but twice.

Through the glass wall, the heavy beasts running on the tracks caught her eye. Their bridles were taut but not broken.

Their lack of intelligence and ability to harm others was proof enough that beasts needed to be reined in. Whether it was a racehorse or a carriage dog, every beast needed constraints.

Nobody had taught her that; no one needed to. It was the law of society. Every beast needed a leash.

The bulky device in her hands wasn’t much different. It was a leash—the most effective one at that.

She slid the little glass case beside the screen with her thumb and firmly pressed the button inside.

A sudden surge of electricity emanated from Charles’s neck as he fell to the ground.

He twisted and writhed like a creature damned, forcefully ejected from the swirling images of his mind.