Chapter 7: You’re the strangest host I’ve ever had.

Hypoglycaemia is miserable when it hits, but it eases fast once the sugar goes in.

Eoin pressed his temples and, after a brief spell of dizziness, pushed himself upright on the soft seat. "Thank you."

The sweet was still in his mouth, so his words came out slurred and thick, a far cry from his usual cold, clipped tone. Cian glanced at him, turned the key, and said, "Don’t you have a meeting? Off you go. I’ll catch up with you later."

He shut the door, locked it, started the engine, and swung onto the main road through the campus.

Eoin watched until the Bentley was out of sight, then lowered his lashes and took the lollipop out of his mouth to look at it.

The unassuming little thing was an expensive import, vanilla and cream flavoured, a soft buttery beige, made with premium milk and real vanilla.

He studied the stick for a moment but couldn’t guess what it had cost.

He hadn’t eaten much sweet stuff as a child, because his family had always been poor. The nearest shop was miles from the townland, and even if he’d wanted fancy treats, nobody would have fetched them for him. Later, when his Nana fell ill, every cent he earned went on hospital bills. He ate in the canteen and thought twice about even adding a side to his soup. He had never tasted the pricey, frivolous snacks of young Mr. Fitzgerald, and he had never thought of trying them.

But now.

Eoin looked at it a while longer, then put it back in his mouth.

It really was sweet.

He drifted off into thought with the sweet on his tongue, going over the evening’s experiment. There was still more than an hour before the meeting, so he planned to go back to the lab for the materials, then get something to eat and change his clothes. Lost in thought, he walked back, swiped his card without noticing, and went into the lab.

The lights were on, and both Niall and Aoife were still there.

Aoife was copying out experimental data and looked up at the sound. "Eoin, you’re back at last. This is today’s run. Huh?"

She stopped short.

Eoin hadn’t thought anything of it, but her sudden reaction made him realise something, and he stopped too.

"Eoin?"

He hummed in reply, feigning calm, took the data, glanced over it, picked up the report, and left.

Aoife was silent for a moment.

Only after he’d walked away did she snap out of it. "Ni Ni Niall, what is he eating?"

Niall said nothing.

He looked suspicious. "A lollipop?"

The usually stern Eoin had walked into the lab with a lollipop in his mouth, the sweet puffing out his cheek into a round bulge. The two of them stared in silence as he left, not daring to say a word.

Aoife murmured, "Was he possessed, or was it me?"

On the M50, the system quietly reappeared in front of Cian.

Its fluorescent blue light flickered. "Congratulations. Major plot point [Racetrack Incident] complete. Key lines 100 percent delivered, character retention 80 percent. The protagonist experienced the emotions [humiliation], [pain] and [dizziness] along the timeline, emotional match 50 percent."

"By the system’s assessment, this performance is a 75 percent match."

Cian said, "That’s quite high."

He’d only been aiming to pass, and sixty was enough, so fifteen extra points was a pleasant surprise.

"Is there anything I need to film tonight?"

System: "No main plot tonight. The next event is the [Weekend Session], where you’ll take the protagonist to Rory’s party."

"So I’m free to do as I like?"

The system scanned the novel. "Hm, your father is going to summon you home."

In the original story, the original Cian had been furious at the protagonist’s defiance. He had not only tormented him in the car but meant to drag him to a hotel to carry on. The protagonist only escaped because Declan rang, demanding that his son come home.

Cian asked, "What’s Declan like?"

He was playing the original’s son, so he needed to know his father’s temperament to avoid slipping up.

System: "By the system’s analysis, he is ’irritable, quick tempered and controlling.’ But he has little contact with the original host, so there’s no need to worry about being found out."

Cian had been fiddling with the radio. He repeated it and sneered. "Why does he sound just like my own father?"

The system explained, "As the selected host, you share certain similarities with the original host. They include name, height, appearance, family background, childhood experiences and so on. So if the ’father’ in this world resembles the one in your original world, it’s possible."

As they spoke, Cian’s phone rang three times. The screen showed Declan’s name.

The original Cian’s overbearing father.

Cian answered. "Hello?"

Declan’s voice came through. "Cian, where are you?"

The voice was deep and stern, laced with anger. It sounded less like a father speaking to his son and more like a boss scolding an employee. Cian didn’t answer for two seconds, and the other end said sharply, "Speak."

Cian paused, then chuckled, putting on a playboy’s drawl. "Out having a bit of fun. What’s up?"

Declan said coldly, "Come home tonight. We need to talk."

Cian asked, "What’s the matter at home?"

"It’s about the company."

Cian said nothing.

After a moment of silence, Declan lost patience. "Be home by eight sharp."

And he hung up with no further explanation.

Cian hung up and tossed the phone into the holder. He gripped the wheel, silent for a while, then reached over to turn the radio dial, just in time to catch a live opera broadcast. A male singer was pouring out a long, rich aria. He hummed along for a couple of lines, then set the satnav. "Find me the hotel."

System: "Host? The original host’s father has summoned you home. Aren’t you going?"

Cian retorted, "Why should I go back?"

System: "You don’t have to, but the original host feared his father and usually obeyed. Logically, it would be better for you to see him."

His performance was hovering just above the pass mark. Best not to lose points outside the scenes if he could help it.

Cian was quiet a moment, then suddenly sneered. "Honestly, he’s like a ghost that won’t leave me alone."

The voice of the original Cian’s father was exactly the same as that of Cian’s own father.

At eight o’clock sharp that evening, Cian walked into the Fitzgerald home.

It was Declan’s residence in Dublin, a spacious apartment on the Liffey, with floor to ceiling windows in the living room looking out over the river. In recent years, with the redevelopment of the quays, lights had been strung along the high rises on both banks, and at first glance the scene was dazzling and vibrant.

The room was unlit and pitch dark except for the glow through the windows, eerily silent. Cian pushed open the door and went in, and Declan glanced up from the dining table. "You’re back? Put the lights on."

Cian switched them on, and the cold white glare of the downlights flooded the room, picking out the iron grey marble countertop and making the place feel even more desolate.

He sat down at the table and got a clear look at Declan’s face.

His cheekbones were sharp but his cheeks hollow. His brows were thick and heavy, with an extremely narrow gap between his eyes, like two bricks pressing down on them from above. A deep vertical line between his eyebrows looked like a canyon carved open.

Cian sneered inwardly. It really does look about eighty percent like him.

He didn’t believe in fortune telling or face reading, but one look at Declan’s face was enough to tell he was a man of violent temper and extreme character.

The system flashed a line of small text. "The original host was distant from his father and spoke very little. Please handle accordingly."

Cian gave a slight nod and asked indifferently, "What did you call me back for?"

Declan looked him over, then tapped the table, a gesture he used to signal his secretary to fetch him water. But Cian didn’t move, and Declan frowned slightly. "You’re in your twenties now, aren’t you?"

Cian answered, "Twenty four."

Declan glanced at him sideways. "Twenty four already, and you’re still messing about out there like a scoundrel."

Cian smiled but didn’t reply.

He was indeed twenty four, but the original Cian was only twenty two. He’d deliberately added two years, and Declan hadn’t noticed at all.

Declan frowned. "What’s so funny?"

Cian chuckled. "Nothing. You’re right."

As one of the city’s best known businessmen, Declan’s time was precious and he had no intention of wasting it on Cian. He simply said, "You’re my only son, and at twenty four you need to start learning about business. I’ve set aside some seed money for you to test your investing skills."

Cian raised an eyebrow as Declan slid a black card across the table.

Cian picked it up in one hand and examined it. The card had a gold edge, shimmering like diamond under the light. After a long look he suddenly smiled. "So if I used this money to buy a plot for Mam, that’d be fine, would it?"

As he said it, Cian was watching Declan from the corner of his eye, his eyes half closed, the light in them flickering like a deep, cold pool.

Declan was visibly startled. "What?"

"Nothing, just joking." Cian laughed again, pinching the card between his fingers. "How much is on it?"

"Ten million." Declan clearly despised his son’s casual attitude, his brows knitted tight. "Cian, you know my temper. If you can’t show results in six months"

Declan liked to speak in half sentences and leave the rest to be inferred.

Cian smiled. "All right, I know."

In the end, the original Cian had achieved very little and had been packed off abroad to study by Declan.

Studying was no big deal for Cian, but for the original it was a punishment. His whole circle was in Dublin, and he was used to being the centre of attention. Suddenly being sent abroad to study, with no usual entourage and a limited allowance, he’d found it deeply uncomfortable.

Of course, before he could make any progress, Declan died suddenly of an illness, and the young master was caught by Eoin, by then a big name, who broke his fingers and had him committed to a psychiatric hospital. But there was no need to tell Declan any of that.

They sat across from each other, the atmosphere at the table eerily quiet. Once the main business was dealt with, father and son couldn’t even manage small talk.

Declan had prepared a family dinner, probably meaning to lecture his son over the meal, but Cian had no interest in listening. He simply pulled back his chair. "Right, if there’s nothing else, I’m off."

Declan couldn’t be bothered to elaborate and waved a dismissive hand. "Go on."

Cian chuckled, tucked the black card into his pocket, and strode down the hallway, shutting the door firmly behind him.

As the Fitzgerald door slammed, the system typed a question mark, puzzled. "Do you really hate him that much? He seems to have been quite good to you."

The system counted it off on its fingers. "He gave you money, sent you abroad to study, and brought you back into the company. Isn’t that great?"

Cian replied, "That’s because Declan can’t have any more children, and I’m his only son."

Otherwise I wouldn’t even have been let through the door.

The host clearly didn’t want to elaborate, so the system paused and asked, "What about the black card? What are you planning to do with the ten million? Are you really going to invest?"

Six months wasn’t even enough time to secure funding. Cian knew nothing about business, and six months wouldn’t get him a foot in the door. What reliable project could he possibly invest in?

Cian propped his chin on his hand. "I never planned on making any serious investments anyway."

In a few years I’ll be locked up in a psychiatric hospital. What’s the point of investing?

He mused, "I remember that at the end of the novel I was shut up in a psychiatric hospital by Eoin for over twenty years, wasn’t I?"

The system was confused. "Yes, but what does that have to do with investing?"

Cian said, "Well, then let’s invest in a psychiatric hospital."

The system said, "Huh?"

"What?"

"I won’t have to be inside for the whole twenty years, but Eoin was seriously ill by then too. He often came to check on how I was ’doing.’ Those times I’d have to be there to put on a show, right?"

"Right."

Cian shrugged. "It’s going to be my home for the second half of my life. Might as well spend a few million upgrading the facilities, getting a comfortable bed, doing up the grounds, making it livable for when I’m stuck there."

The system said bluntly, "Host, you’re the strangest host I’ve ever had."

Cian clasped his hands together. "You’re too kind."

He drove back to the hotel and actually fired up his laptop to start researching psychiatric hospitals in the city.

The original book didn’t say which hospital the original Cian ended up in, so he’d have to check them one by one.

There were three psychiatric hospitals in Dublin. The biggest was a public hospital with heavy foot traffic. Locking a healthy person up there would risk leaks, so Eoin definitely wouldn’t choose it.

The other two were private hospitals way out in the countryside. Their websites looked polished, but it was hard to judge their quality. Cian decided to put a little money into both, whichever one he ended up in.

He jotted down the hotlines for the hospitals, planning to ring during office hours the next day to enquire about investment. But as he saved the numbers to his phone, he paused and raised an eyebrow.

The original Cian’s phone already had one of these numbers saved.

He tapped the entry: 1734, Dr. Keane from Glenmore.

And the hospital was called Glenmore Psychiatric Hospital.

He tapped the number and linked it to WhatsApp and found that the original Cian and Dr. Keane were still in touch. Over the past six months they had exchanged dozens of messages, with the original making appointments and the other side confirming times.

They must have a doctor patient relationship, and a long term, stable one at that.

Cian scrolled up, but there were no chats older than six months. It seemed the original had changed phones, so no earlier messages showed.

Cian asked, "System, what’s going on?"

System: "The novel doesn’t cover this. It should be content filled in automatically by the world."

Cian nodded. He imitated the original’s tone and hesitantly sent a message. "Dr. Keane, appointment."

Ten minutes later, Dr. Keane replied. "Saturday night?"

Cian wrote, "Saturday’s no good. I’ve a party in the evening."

According to the novel, Saturday was an important plot point. Rory was rescheduling the bar night to make up for tonight’s no show. He’d invited Cian with great enthusiasm and made a point of telling him to bring Eoin along, followed by a long stretch of censored content.

Cian wrote, "Sunday afternoon?"

The other person replied with an "OK."

The conversation ended there.

Judging by how smoothly the exchange went, the original Cian and Dr. Keane knew each other well. They didn’t need to spell anything out, and their communication was quick and to the point.