LUDWIG WAS SO CONCERNED WITH THE ARTICLES THAT he hardly notices the man who provided them creeping steadily behind, coming closer. His eyes are on the photographs, skimming paragraphs he already remembers reading in the papers when they first arrived at his home, and his ears catching every word from the Demon’s mouth – there’s the accent he expected from Zhu Jiang, that face behind the mask, and a hint of distaste that Ludwig doesn’t at all find surprising. He can’t imagine being nonplussed at any attempts to copy his work, but unlike Jiang, Ludwig is intent on leaving no trace of his more significant killings behind. He has at times made publicised mockeries and interesting presentations of killing, as well as all his imitations; but the Golden Demon treats his own murders as art. If Ludwig’s work enjoyed any of the publicity that the Demon’s did ( if it were meant for the stage that the Demon elevated his own work upon ) he’s certain that the appearance of an imitator would perturb him all the same. Especially if said imitator managed to badly BOTCH it.
Khada’s writings detail, in the Golden Demon’s pursuits, an agonising level of perfection and a sense of flawless artistry that Ludwig found, in his attempts to imitate them, nothing short of disastrous. He had left his scenes of crime shaken and feeling terribly unsuccessful.
He clenches his jaw as the Demon’s hand reaches down over his shoulder, snatching the piece of paper from Ludwig’s hand. Ludwig, shoving down the nervous jerk that threatened to seize him at the sudden movement, glances up without thinking; immediately he’s reminded of how he hates to be towered over. He should have stayed standing given the option – he’s always preferred looking down at others, or at the least having equal standing with anyone else in the room. Jiang’s height, coupled with the verbal condemnation, is anything but the control Ludwig carefully seeks to establish wherever he possibly can.
Ludwig’s eyes catch the movement of the Demon’s hand, following the crumpled article as it falls. When the same hand moves to settle on his jaw, he halts, muscles locking up as he’s forced again to look up at the other man. Every instinct tells him to look away, but something ( fear? ) keeps him rooted, unable to tear his gaze elsewhere as the Demon’s trails a finger down his throat – he swallows as it passes, and he knows the Demon can feel it. The narrative doesn’t help his nervousness. He finds himself quickly envisioning the act, his body as the clay to be moulded into the Golden Demon’s latest feat of artistry.
He hisses at the grip digging into the skin of his jaw, turning so brutal that Ludwig flinches violently against the back of his seat. Would it draw blood? he wonders briefly, a moment of sheer and reactionary panic overtaking; if not, it’ll surely leave a noticeable bruise. He might have to call off work, or, no, perhaps he won’t have to call off of work, not if he’s DEAD by morning, he’s still got patients scheduled for tomorrow and for the rest of the week, but he thinks that Maria is intelligent enough to realise that she ought to cancel any appointments for him posthumously once the papers show up and he’s on Freddie Lounds’ website—
Just as soon as it tightened, the Demon’s grip grows lax until the man at last wrenches himself away from Ludwig, leaving the doctor with an aching jaw as he heads instead for the bookshelf. ❝ Yes, ardour, preciseness, ❞ he gasps once he’s assured himself the Demon is busy enough with the books that he’s forgotten to listen to his host – his guest? Hostage? ❝ I heard it the first time. ❞ His words, stuttering, come in German. Fortunately so, as he’s less than interested in the other man’s reaction at the less than subtle display of resentment … though it’s not as if Ludwig’s visitor has been much less blatant in any way. Ludwig heaves in a breath; for a moment, in the Demon’s hold, he had forgotten he needed to breathe.
❝ An avid reader of your own work, are you ? ❞ Ludwig rubs at his lower face, watching warily as the Golden Demon pages through one of Khada Jhin’s particularly lengthy collections of studies – seemingly with knowledge of what he’s looking for – and returns, book in hand for Ludwig’s taking. ( The comment, slipped nonchalantly and without much thought, is directed towards the work Jhin’s made of all his victims. Ludwig is blissfully unaware, painfully so, of just how close he’s hit the mark with his particular choice of phrasing. ) Though it feels as if he’s been assigned homework in a manner, Ludwig grudgingly takes the book. This time without so much hesitance as he did the envelope.
At least his assignments this time around won’t be tedious.
He listens on as he glances over the first of the pages: one from a chapter that he remembers reading, but one he paid no special attention to relative to all the others. So the Golden Demon finds some truth to Khada’s work, does he? Ludwig will keep that in mind when he rereads over the entirety of the shelf he’s dedicated to the man’s writings. Men have called Khada Jhin obsessed, perhaps to a dangerous degree… but it would seem his fascination has some merit to it, after all. Maybe contacting the author would be to Ludwig’s benefit.
After all ( if he perceives correctly ) this is not only begrudging acknowledgement of Ludwig’s attempts – it’s an invitation to continue. And, while his imitation of the Golden Demon is not a series of killings that Ludwig is particularly keen to revisit, the Demon’s words dictate that this is one invitation Ludwig cannot decline in any respectful manner. Not in a way that this could possibly end well for him.
He would much rather perpetuate the Demon’s work then become one of his newest masterpieces. Graham’s abilty for empathy and for understanding is not one Ludwig has yet managed to master during his more recent imitation killings, nor does Ludwig believe he will ever come close… attempts to draw inspiration as the Golden Demon had resulted in little more than the uncertainty of not knowing. He thought he understood, quite well, when he had finished his reading, had dug through every scrap of information that could be found on Zhu Jiang – thought he might be able to draw up a scene of his own like that of the Demon’s: a killing that so emulated the other man’s work that it might be considered one of the Golden Demon’s very own.
It was enough to convince the media to draw up a story. Some, for various reasons, remain unconvinced, others uncertain, and Ludwig is among their numbers. The job he’s done is subpar, and he at least is aware enough to know his shortcomings. The Demon’s visit doesn’t improve his confidence very much; he suspects Jiang is a harsh taskmaster, and the few personal writings that Ludwig could uncover from the hospitals Jiang has been through are no encouragement. The Demon is flawless in his own art, diligent to such excruciating standards. Ludwig, despite himself, finds that he’s unsure if this situation is improved beyond death. If Jiang found his own craft ‘ taxing ,’ as he wrote, how does a doctor who holds little association with anything artistic live up to the quality that the Demon has established for his pieces?
❝ I hope, ❞ says Ludwig, with much less humour in his response now than any before it, ❝ that whatever you find, then, doesn’t disappoint too badly. ❞
The mention of his birds draws his attention away from where it’s been firmly affixed to the book, unmoving. ( Much easier, he found, than maintaining eye contact while he contemplates the mess of a situation at hand. )
❝ They’re very well-behaved. They do have their moments of mischief, but they don’t cause me much trouble, ❞ he says slowly, eyes lingering on the Demon where he sits, cross-legged, on the couch. The startling silence of the garden comes suddenly to mind, and Ludwig, despite attempts to remain unaffected, shifts nervously in his seat, his face turning even whiter than its typical pallor. ❝ You’ve – met them? ❞ he goes on, voice peaking ( cracking a bit, even ) with a mounting agitation he can’t quite mask behind formalities.
KHADA JHIN IS VERY OBSERVANT WITH HIS COMPANY. Very few details slip past him, and he is ever diligent in both his work and research. Color him unsurprised, and even more interested, to find how little he could of the doctor’s past. Obscurities and shrouds linger over information yet to be uncovered, and it’s his natural desire to want to uncover them. To tear away the veil and let every secret claw at his skin.
It’s the TENSION between them that excites him. Jhin knows both of their positions, knows how deep he’s waded into enemy territory, only to parade about as though he owns it. The way he sits is polite, PERFECT POSTURE, despite the obvious addition of something new. He does not have the cane he is known to have, rather a small sheath sits at his lower back. He’d come prepared for potential close-quarters combat, no doubt, a rarity in the Demon’s methods of murder. Zhu Jiang’s father, after all, ran a martial art’s school. It would be unlike him to lack proper knowledge of weapon handling.
The elevated leg, heel tapping against his thigh in a rhythmic manner, fingertips following in silent song, Jhin is thoughtful as Ludwig gathers himself. ❝ How refreshing it is to finally meet someone so readily accepting of their FAILURES. ❞ He speaks with intent to leave a sting, emphasis particularly on the end of his sentence and letting it settle in the moment of silence between them. The once tapping hand lifts, traces fingertips along the mask’s front, against sculpted teeth and chilly face. His face.
❝ I would suggest the addition of mythological impression into your murders. You should be familiar with Nordic folklore. Commonly spoken and practiced within Germany, I’d imagine. ❞ Or perhaps not. He wasn’t too knowledgeable on mythos outside of Japanese, choosing to keep his choices simple. ❝ You must be attentive to detail. Take your time, never rush the art. It is a PERFORMANCE. If they refuse to dance, you must make them. ❞
And oh, how he’s particularly avoidant of Ludwig’s concern for his birds. He knows how unnerving the silence is, how the other man’s posture and voice falters with the possibilities of harm done to them, and Jhin drinks it in. He notices, and he lets it simmer. Why ruin it? Head tilted up the slightest, there is a glimmer of light that reflects off his eye from behind the mask, but only the left catches it. The right? Darkness, pure and unblemished. He nods.
❝ Briefly. In passing. ❞ It’s all he says, leaving interpretation up in the air. Amusement paints the edges of his words, the smile evident, but he’s quick to dismiss it and his response. ❝ What I’m interested in is you. What inspired you to try and reimagine my work? ❞ His leg uncrosses, and the Demon leans forth, as if expectant of an answer that would please him. There is some anticipation in how he waits, how his foot newly planted on the floor taps with the same rhythm previously halted. It’s how he anchors himself, keeps him at a balanced center so he doesn’t act on impulse.
If he did, the man across from him would likely be dead already, in the process of being properly displayed. How he would love to use the roses he brought with him.
❝ And what of your previous talents? Did you desire to copy my methodology, or had you hoped I would help your own imagination blossom? ❞ Like the lotus flower, petals unfurled and pointed at the tips. This was his flower. He had crafted them of metal, like bear traps that would close when stepped on. All of them would explode with passion, akin to landmines. Secretive, beautiful, loud, and expressive: just like the man who crafted them.
There’s a particular cruelty to how the Demon carries himself. Uncaring of Ludwig’s concerns, insistent on ignoring them for the time being. Jhin is selfish in the way that he only wants what he seeks, what he initially approached the other man for. He wouldn’t be here without reason, and it would be a detriment to let anything get in-between the focus of their meeting. Their very one-sided meeting. Jhin’s jaw sets, and he finds himself staring past Ludwig and to the rest of the space. An artist admiring his work. Not uncommon, but he knows now isn’t the time either.
❝ And do not lie to me. I don’t find humor in dishonesty. ❞
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