MDCR 19

My Record of Taking Charge of the Dark Mastermind

Chapter 19

Irix reached out, but it was too late. Our hands grasped at empty air.

The snake flew in, coiling tightly around my waist, its wings beating furiously. Thanks to that, I didn’t fall and managed to grab the curtain.

“Venom, hold on! Senior, I’ve got you! Hang on!”

Irix rushed over and grabbed my wrist. The snake beat its wings, pushing me upward.

But then—
KWAANG—

The train car lurched violently upward.

Irix lost his grip on me again.

“Senior!”

My body wobbled and tipped backward.
There was nothing left to hold me.

I reached out, but there was nothing to grab.

What should I do?

If I disappear like this…
will everything just flow the way Room 301 created it?

Irix will fall.
The world will be destroyed.

I won’t be in this world anymore, so will Venom be the one left to watch that ruined world?

Why did you write such a story, Room 301?
You should’ve written something nice—like a tea party with tons of delicious food. Or a treasure hunt, at least. Something boring, trivial, childish. Something age‑appropriate.

No.
That was impossible.

Because there was nothing age‑appropriate that Room 301 was allowed to do.

It was my fault for saying it was fun.

An excited Room 301 wrote diligently, and before long, the story became several volumes thick.

I had to read all of it. It was practically mandatory.

Still, maybe writing helped with Korean studies—his spelling gradually improved, and his word choices became more appropriate.

It wasn’t exactly good writing, but compared to the bizarre vocabulary of the early drafts, it was a massive improvement.

Then a problem arose.

Room 301’s numbers began to drop rapidly.

A bad sign.

Even slight changes are fatal for him. Inside that frail body, almost none of the organs function properly.

In the end, I confiscated all of Room 301’s notebooks and writing tools.

Restoring his condition came first.

“Get better first.”

“Give them back!”

“Get better, then write.”

“You know I’m not going to get better!”

“You could improve a little, at least. Don’t you want to be even slightly more comfortable?”

Room 301 growled, like an angry beast guarding its prey.

“I don’t need it! Whether I get better or not—whether I die or not—no one cares! They’d probably be happier if I died! Then they wouldn’t have to worry about me anymore! And you think that notebook is the only one? I can just buy a new one!”

It was the first time he’d ever said something like that.

Until now, Room 301 had always taken being alone for granted.

“If your numbers drop, I’ll search this entire room and find it.”

“This whole room?”

Room 301 pointed around the spacious hospital room and sneered.

“When are you ever going to search all of this?”

He had no guardian and no visitors, yet his hospital room was wide and luxurious.

The daily cost of staying here exceeded my monthly rent.

I couldn’t help but wonder—who was paying for this?

“Just accept treatment quietly. And this is confiscated.”

“I told you this isn’t what’s making me worse! I’m going to die soon anyway! I’m getting worse because it’s time to die! What’s wrong with doing what I want before I die?!”

It felt like something grabbed my collar and pressed down hard.

“…Shut up.”

When Room 301 saw my eyes, he went quiet.

I glared at him and said,

“Confiscated means confiscated.”

He didn’t resist anymore.

Until I left the room, he stayed curled up, silent.

Once the books were gone and treatment resumed, his numbers recovered quickly.

No—
they became even better than before.

I felt bad for snapping at him. I finally had some breathing room.

While Room 301 was asleep, I returned all the notebooks.

Just as I was about to leave, I heard a small voice.

“…Sorry.”

Sorry for what?

There were so many things—
I didn’t even know which one he was apologizing for.

A few days later, when I came to work, a junior nurse greeted me with an awkward expression.

“What’s wrong?”

“Room 301 is acting up again.”

I knew immediately.

Treatment refusal.

It used to happen occasionally, but it stopped completely once he started reading novels.

Now it was back.

And worse than before.

Before, he would just whine and complain.

Now he was violently rejecting everything.

No injections. No medication. No temperature checks. No blood draws. He refused it all and caused a scene.

“Did you add any new medication?”

“Why do you ask…?”

“Wondering if being an asshole is a side effect.”

The nurse laughed awkwardly.

“…No, nothing new.”

“Then he’s sulking.”

With other kids, sulking is harmless.

For Room 301, sulking is life‑threatening.

I stepped in again.

“Temperature.”

“No.”

Room 301 covered his ears so I couldn’t insert the thermometer.

“There’s also a way to take your temperature by shoving this into a hole behind you, you know? Grabbing you wouldn’t be hard. Your choice.”

His face turned bright red.

“Pervert!”

“You’re the one interpreting that perversely. Haven’t you tried it before?”

“Shut up! Get out of here, pervert!”

“……”

I regretted giving him a dictionary.

That was not the kind of vocabulary I wanted him learning.

“I don’t know why you’re acting like this, but you don’t have the luxury to suddenly do this.”

“I don’t care if I die.”

“When you’re actually about to die, you won’t think that.”

“You don’t know anything, Ina! I’m in pain—always in pain! Every day hurts! I’m going to die! No, I want to die! I don’t want to hurt anymore! It hurts too much! I’ll just die! It’s easy! I just have to lie still!”

I waited until he exhausted himself.

It didn’t take long—his stamina was nonexistent.

He collapsed limply onto the bed.

“Humans have something called empathy. I’m using it.”

I didn’t even need empathy.

I could understand his thoughts just by looking at the alter ego he created—
Irix Berkhardt.

He was filled with rage.
He wanted revenge.

He attacked others constantly, but the one he truly wanted to attack was himself.

He always wanted to kill the broken body he lived in.

He lived like a defeated soldier consumed by rage—
a soldier who had already lost the war of life from the very beginning.

Room 301 spoke softly into the pillow.

“What do you mean… empathy?”

“It means I’m making an effort to understand your feelings.”

“Why bother?”

“Because you matter to me.”

“That’s it? Just because I ‘matter’?”

“That’s an important reason to me.”

And because of that reason, I’d done many things.

It was my driving force.
My reason for living.

Whenever something bothered me and I stayed still, I always regretted it.

So whenever I cared, I acted.

“Are you just doing charity? That’s hypocrisy.”

Why did he only learn words like that?

Is it because he’s fourteen?

Amazing how you can act like a textbook middle schooler without ever going to school.

“Just accept goodwill as goodwill. You’ve got nothing to lose.”

“You don’t mean it anyway.”

“What would you do knowing my true feelings? And does this situation really need sincerity? Just shut up and accept my obligatory, fake kindness.”

A muffled grumble came from inside the pillow.

“You’re cold to me, Ina.”

“I’m not especially cold to you.”

“So I’m not special.”

“Being ‘special’ in a hospital isn’t a good thing.”

It means you have a rare illness.
And the rarer it is, the less likely there’s a cure.

Room 301 turned over.

The look on his face as he stared at me was one of indescribable disappointment.

I had no idea what he was so disappointed about.

“Song Ina.”

I gave up.

Fine. Call my name all you want.

“What.”

“Do you know my name?”

Without thinking, I glanced at the nameplate by the bed—but he was faster.

Room 301 covered it with his hand.

I couldn’t answer.

His gaze dropped.

“Get out.”

“……”

“Get out!”

He continued to refuse medication.

He ripped out IV lines and threw them aside.

All his numbers plummeted.

His body deteriorated, fever raging.

Room 301 was committing suicide—
using the only means available to him: refusing treatment.

After transferring him to the ICU, I contacted the people listed as his guardians.

All they said was that they trusted the medical staff.

Nothing else.

I was certain.

Room 301’s guardians would not appear until his death was confirmed.

Even after that, he continued refusing treatment.

No matter how closely he was watched, the moment staff stepped away, he ripped out the lines.

Sleeping pills and sedatives were useless. They’d never worked on him.

He was critical, yet fully conscious.

Why does his illness refuse to even grant him the mercy of forgetting pain?

There is only pain.
Pain, pain, pain.

Still, clinging to the fact that he was conscious, I went to his room.

“Are you really going to die like this?”

“Leave me alone.”

Room 301 said, turned away.

Yeah.
He was completely sane.