Chapter 26: If the mountain won’t come to Muhammad, Muhammad goes to the mountain.

As midnight approached, Eoin quietly returned to the hotel.

He hesitated for a moment outside the suite, then swiped his key card. The room was completely dark, with only a small sensor light by the bed giving off a soft amber glow. It lit the room faintly as he walked past.

The bed in the main room showed the outline of a person, and the sound of slow breathing filled the room. Eoin sat down beside the bed. Cian was fast asleep, his face half buried in the duvet, his expression calm and peaceful.

Eoin watched him in silence for a moment. He was about to stand and leave when his eyes landed on Cian’s hand, and he froze.

The cut hadn’t been treated. It had no bandage and no ointment. Worse, it had been soaked in water, so the edges were puffy and pale, and dried blood had crusted over it. It was a reddish black, a sign it might soon get infected.

Eoin reached out and took hold of Cian’s wrist. He carefully turned it over to look at the cut properly. But he had just come in from outside, and his fingertips were freezing. The cold startled Cian awake. He opened his eyes and found Eoin gripping his hand, his face stern and unfriendly.

Cian was instantly alert. "System? System!"

The plot had turned up in the middle of the night!

While Cian slept, the System was offline, and it responded a beat too late. In that short pause, Eoin had already switched on the light and sat down, still holding Cian’s hand.

He looked down at the cut and said coldly, "I asked the hotel to leave a first aid kit. Why didn’t you treat it?"

He was stunned. He remembered that earlier the staff had tidied the room, changed the bedding and towels, and left a few things. But he’d been so sleepy that he hadn’t paid attention.

Being held by Eoin felt strange. Cian curled his fingers. "Uh, it’s only a small cut. It’s fine if I don’t treat it, right?"

During his years as a troublemaker in school, he’d had plenty of injuries, all worse than this. It was just a scrape from a button. No need for medicine.

Eoin: "Is that so?"

He took the first aid kit from the table, picked up a bottle of liquid, held Cian’s wrist firmly, and poured it straight on.

Cian was shocked. "System, where are you? Is the pain blocking system for the plot ready..."

Before he could finish, the liquid ran down between his fingers. It felt cool on the cut but didn’t hurt. Eoin used a cotton bud to wipe away the blood, put on some ointment, then took out gauze, wrapped it around Cian’s palm, and tied it off.

His face was cold, but his movements were very gentle. His fingers were quick and skilful, and even the way he tied the knot was nice to watch.

When he finished, Eoin stood up and looked down at Cian. "Your uncle asked me to look after you. If something happens to you while you’re with me, it’ll be a nuisance."

Cian was completely bewildered. "Uhm...., okay."

His hair was a mess, and he wasn’t angry about being woken up. He looked dazed and innocent, like a confused big cat.

While he was still in a daze, the System finally showed up, late.

"I’m here, I’m here, the pain blocking system is ready, where’s the plot... huh?"

Cian’s hand was wrapped in gauze, tightly bound, and the air smelled faintly of alcohol and medicine.

It looked at its host, confused. "Is this the plot?"

Cian’s face was blank. "You’re not needed any more. Go and play."

"Ahhhh, how can I not be needed!" The System went wild. "If he doesn’t act, what are we going to do about the psychiatric hospital scene tomorrow!"

According to the script, they were meant to move to the next scene tomorrow and start the psychiatric hospital part. But both of them had stepped out of their roles. How on earth were they supposed to move forward?

The System was wide awake, but Cian was still groggy. He said, "Let’s sleep first. We’ll deal with it tomorrow."

Cian was naturally easygoing and didn’t think much of Eoin’s late night visit. After Eoin left, he covered his head and quickly fell back asleep. When he woke the next day, it was almost noon.

He shuffled into his slippers, got out of bed, and carefully opened the door. The hotel corridor was empty, with no staff or security in sight.

Cian thought, Weird. Didn’t Eoin lock me up?

He had assumed that Eoin, out of respect for Fergal, wouldn’t act against him right away, but also wouldn’t let him move around freely.

He took a careful step forward. The corridor was still empty. He wandered to the lift, and still nobody was there. He pressed the button, and still no one stopped him. He strolled out of the hotel, and still no one.

It seemed Eoin had completely forgotten about him.

Cian sighed and hailed a taxi. "Driver, Glenmore Psychiatric Hospital, please."

If the mountain won’t come to Muhammad, Muhammad goes to the mountain. As long as he turned up at the psychiatric hospital today, half the plot would be done.

He didn’t know that, in the hotel lobby, someone had quietly typed out a text message and sent it.

Cian hopped into the car and rang Dr. Keane, hinting that he wanted to visit. It had been over five years since they last met, and Dr. Keane agreed at once. Within half an hour, Cian was sitting in Dr. Keane’s office.

A few new patients had just been admitted, and Dr. Keane was swamped with work. He handed Cian a glass of water and left him alone in the office.

Cian set the novel’s screen in front of him, exchanged a look with the System, and sighed.

According to the plot, when the original host was brought here by Eoin, he was already hysterical, his voice cracking, in the middle of a full manic episode. So the doctors gave him several sedatives. To drive home Cian’s downfall, the novel went into great detail about the scene where he was forced to take the medication, and even named the drugs.

Psychiatric medication is a controlled substance and can’t be handed out without a prescription. Cian calmly waited for Dr. Keane to come back. Drawing on his past experience with bipolar disorder and his average acting skills, he managed to convince Dr. Keane that he was ill, and he hinted that he needed medication.

Most of the drugs were meant for severe cases. Dr. Keane said carefully, "I don’t think your condition is that serious."

After assessing him, Dr. Keane decided Cian had a mild condition and prescribed some low dose medication. Then he slid a card across the desk.

Cian looked at it. It was a black card.

He was puzzled. Dr. Keane explained, "This is the money you invested back then. But the hospital has been running for many years and is in a stable phase, so there aren’t many expenses. I put the leftover funds into investments, and luckily, I made some profit."

He glanced at his nephew’s rumpled clothes and gently suggested, "If you’re short of cash, you can use this to buy some new clothes."

Yesterday Cian had fought with Rory, and his neat suit was all creased. Then Eoin had taken him away, and he hadn’t had a chance to change.

He turned it down politely. "No, thanks."

Cian had a soft spot for this uncle. He pushed the card back and told him, "You keep it. In three months, you can invest in some Fitzgerald Group shares."

The novel skimmed over the fates of the supporting characters. The only thing that was clear was that none of the Fitzgerald family were decent people. The original Cian was no exception, and both Declan and Fergal had shady dealings. Three months later these would come to light, causing the Fitzgerald Group’s shares to crash and triggering a sell off. Within half a year, Eoin would take over the company, and its profits would rise steadily.

There were still a few million on the card. It wouldn’t buy much stock now, but if Dr. Keane invested in three months, he’d be set for life, even without running the psychiatric hospital.

Cian felt relieved once this was settled. It was around dusk, and the System perched on his shoulder. "Are we going back to the hotel?"

Cian hesitated slightly.

Yesterday, Eoin had taken him back to the hotel because it was late and inconvenient to drive him home. It was a compromise, but he hadn’t said Cian could stay long. Going back now felt a little awkward.

The System hesitated. "Back to Ballybough?"

As a high tech System, it had never stayed in such a run down guesthouse before, and it grumbled, reluctant.

Cian sighed. "Let’s go home."

Cian: "Actually, I own a place in Dublin."

It was even more puzzled. "How did I not know about this?"

Back then, to avoid tax, Declan’s house had been registered under the company’s name. Now that Fergal had taken over the company, the house naturally belonged to him. Cian had never seen that place as home. He had always stayed in hotels.

Cian: "Let’s swing by Ballybough first."

Cian and the System went back. Cian dug through his luggage for a bit and pulled a brown paper bag out of his backpack.

The System recognised it. It had crossed the ocean with Cian to a foreign country and then made its way safely back to Ireland. The brown paper was smooth as new, without a single crease, which showed the owner had taken very good care of it.

The System: "What’s that?"

It had been curious for a long time. The thing looked plain, even shabby, and worth maybe a few euro. The original owner had kept it in a high end safe, and Cian handled it just as carefully.

Cian tore open the seal and laid the contents on the table.

It was a deep red booklet with six gold letters on the front.

"Property Ownership Certificate."

Cian touched the red booklet. "This must be my mother’s... no, his mother’s house."

He and the original owner were opposites, but both had an abusive father and a kind, loving mother who adored them deeply.

Cian’s mother had also left him the deed to a property, wrapped in brown paper and tucked carefully into his luggage.

Of course, this place was nothing compared to Declan’s spacious house. It was just a modest one bedroom flat outside the M50, but given the circumstances, it was Cian’s best option.

The flat was on the second floor of an old building, with no lift. Cian carried his suitcase up the stairs by hand. As soon as he opened the door, he coughed twice. The place had been empty for a long time, and the floor, the sink, and the peeling paint of the old chest of drawers were all covered in dust.

The System looked around, hesitating. "Should we... hire a cleaner?"

Cian: "Hire a cleaner? Have you forgotten our character?"

A penniless trust fund heir who’d been cheated by his uncle and couldn’t even afford a taxi fare. Where would he get the money to hire a cleaner?

He rolled up his sleeves. "Let’s finish early, and we can still cook dinner."

The old flat was full of old things: enamel mugs from the last century, pillowcases and duvet covers with big floral patterns, yellowed posters, and old calendars. Cian sorted out the things he didn’t want and packed them into boxes. He paused when he came across a calendar and wiped off the dust.

The System was puzzled. "Why bother with something this old?"

Cian ignored it and laid the calendar down neatly. Only then did the System notice a date circled in red. Cian laid out the calendars one by one, and every year, the same date was circled in red, in crooked, childish handwriting, clearly drawn by a child.

January 7th.

Just three days away.

The calendars were from over ten and nearly twenty years ago, when the original owner was only a little kid. After so many years, the ink had faded slightly, and the thick circles on the old yellowed paper looked like patches of old bloodstains.

System: "...What does this mean?"

It was totally confused, but it saw Cian sigh softly, as if he had worked something out.

Cian stood up with the calendar in his hand. "I think I know what’s going on."

He let out a soft sigh. "I should buy some whiskey. I need to go somewhere in three days."

*

Ten kilometres away, Eoin wearily pinched the bridge of his nose.

He had finished his work for the day, but what was on his screen wasn’t financial reports. It was several academic papers. He hadn’t read papers in a long time, not since leaving university.

They weren’t in his own research field either. They were about bipolar disorder, a common mental illness with well known causes, symptoms, and treatment plans.

Cause: the patient may have experienced violence in childhood, which matched the scars on Cian’s back. Symptoms: anxiety and violent behaviour, which also matched.

The papers also mentioned that cramped living spaces could make the symptoms worse.

Eoin wasn’t sure how far Cian’s condition had progressed. Cian had been receiving treatment at Glenmore Psychiatric Hospital, where patient privacy was strictly protected, and on the surface he seemed completely normal, with no symptoms.

At that moment, a special notification chimed. Eoin swiped it open and saw the latest update. "Mr. Fitzgerald didn’t return to the hotel after leaving the psychiatric hospital."

Eoin wasn’t the least bit surprised. He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a self mocking laugh.

Ever since coming back to Ireland, Cian had been trying to keep his distance from Eoin, whether by pretending not to recognise him at the cocktail party or by using formal, polite titles afterward.

He lowered his eyes and typed: "Did he go back to Ballybough?"

Young Mr. Fitzgerald would rather lower himself to a small guesthouse with poor water, electricity, and heating than stay in a luxury hotel suite.

"No, he went to Rathmore Court. Flat 302."

Eoin paused.

Rathmore Court. The name had an old fashioned, last century feel, and it stood out awkwardly among all the luxury mansions and elegant gardens of today.

He kept browsing the papers. "Are there any empty flats to rent in that building?"

*

Meanwhile, Cian had finally finished tidying one room.

Since cleaning the whole flat would be hard, he started with the bedroom, washing and replacing what needed it. He paid the water, electricity, and gas bills, and even bought some spring onions, greens, and a bit of pork ribs from a market stall.

Cian tied on a bear themed apron and started cooking, tossing the ribs into the pot to blanch them. His movements were smooth and practised. In a good mood, he hummed a tune with the window open, completely unaware that the light in the flat next door had quietly come on, and a figure now stood by the window.