On the terrace, a Peonielle stretched its branches, swaying gently in the breeze. Crystal-clear dewdrops hung heavily from the tips of its leaves. As the evening wind brushed past, a dewdrop fell and shattered on the ground, while the sheer white curtains inside the room fluttered gracefully like a young girl's skirt.
Cyril sat on the sofa in the side room, his long, elegant fingers gently stroking the hand-drawn sketchbook. The cover featured a colorful chibi drawing of a little figure hiding in a turtle shell, weeping. The figure was incredibly vivid; with just a few strokes, Vivienne had perfectly captured his likeness.
He had recognized himself as the turtle immediately, which was why his curiosity had gotten the better of him and he had opened this survival guide.
If he hadn't looked, it would have been fine, but reading the contents made him laugh out of sheer exasperation.
It chronicled all the major and minor times he had been bullied, even summarizing his internal monologues using different turtle forms.
If he hadn't known Vivienne had ulterior motives, he might have almost been touched that someone in the world was paying this much attention to him.
Though he didn't know exactly what she was plotting, he was absolutely certain she was up to no good. That was why, when she came knocking to demand the book back, he lied and said he hadn't seen it.
He had fully expected her not to believe him. Anticipating her next move, he pretended to be in the shower and had already hidden the sketchbook in the inner lining of his bathrobe.
But he never expected the menace to be so bold. After tearing his bed apart, she actually tried to strip search him. If Lennox hadn't been there to protect him, he really might have capsized in a shallow ditch.
Cyril lowered his eyelids, leisurely flipping the sketchbook open. His mind drifted back to when Lennox dragged the menace out; she was still screaming at the top of her lungs:
"Lennox, let me just take one look! Just one look! Don't worry, I have no interest in a child's physique. I just want my sketchbook! My sketchbook..."
His temple twitched involuntarily. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
*Knock, knock, knock—*
A rhythmic knocking came from the door.

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