Chapter 11 — Strings Attached

  The puppet bowed.

  Then it stopped moving.

  Silence filled the room, heavy and expectant.

  Jack stood frozen, staring at the small wooden figure resting on the table.

  “…H-Hello, Mr. Puppet.”

  His voice came out dry.

  “How are you?”

  Nothing happened.

  For a moment, the puppet looked no different from an ordinary prop.

  Then—

  it straightened.

  Slowly.

  Its wooden joints clicked as its head lifted upward, and it began walking toward him.

  Small steps.

  Measured.

  Unhurried.

  Jack blinked.

  “W-why are you coming here?”

  He instinctively stepped back.

  “Please stay there.”

  The puppet ignored him.

  Of course it walks, he thought weakly.

  Why wouldn’t it walk?

  Tak.

  Tak.

  Tak.

  Each step brought it closer.

  Jack quickly moved behind his chair, gripping the backrest like a shield while his heartbeat thundered in his ears.

  Badump.

  Badump.

  The puppet reached the edge of the table.

  It swayed.

  Paused—

  Krakatak.

  —and fell flat onto the floor.

  Silence followed.

  Relief flooded Jack’s chest.

  “…Hahaha…”

  A nervous laugh escaped him.

  It reminded him of a cheap toy robot he once owned.

  Then the puppet twitched.

  Its limbs jerked stiffly as it struggled to stand again.

  Jack immediately raised a hand.

  “…Yeah. Nope.”

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  “That’s illegal.”

  He cautiously stepped closer.

  The moment his hand extended—

  threads burst from his fingertips.

  Thin.

  Transparent.

  Almost invisible.

  They connected to the puppet instantly.

  And the movement stopped.

  Jack froze.

  “What the hell…?”

  A faint drain spread through his body.

  Mental.

  Physical.

  But alongside it came clarity.

  Understanding.

  Control.

  He moved one finger.

  The puppet stood.

  Another motion—

  its arm lifted smoothly.

  He tested further.

  Head.

  Legs.

  Torso.

  Every movement responded perfectly, the joints aligning with unnatural precision.

  Too smooth.

  Too clean.

  Even under control—

  its eyes still felt aware.

  Watching him.

  “…This is Puppeteer.”

  It had to be.

  Jack flexed his fingers again.

  The puppet ran.

  A flick—

  it jumped.

  Punch.

  Kick.

  Spin.

  Every action executed flawlessly.

  No delay.

  No stiffness.

  Jack frowned.

  “This is beginner level?”

  A troubling thought surfaced.

  Quiet.

  Dangerous.

  “…Could I control humans someday?”

  He laughed uneasily and shook his head.

  “Alright… next test.”

  Ventriloquism.

  Without moving his lips, he focused through the threads.

  “Hello… my name is Grim Mirth.”

  The voice emerged from the puppet.

  Hollow.

  Metallic.

  As if spoken through a throat that had forgotten how to breathe.

  Jack blinked.

  He stepped farther away.

  “Hi. My name is Charlie.”

  This time the voice sounded childish.

  Bright.

  Alive.

  The sound traveled along the threads themselves. His throat remained still while faint vibrations hummed at his fingertips—as though the puppet’s wooden chest had become a second pair of lungs.

  Interesting.

  He released the threads.

  The connection snapped.

  Immediately—

  the puppet’s head turned toward him.

  Slowly.

  Deliberately.

  Jack swallowed.

  He tried again.

  “Hello… hello…”

  Only his own voice answered.

  “…So I need a connection.”

  “No strings… no transfer.”

  That made sense.

  He extended the threads again just as the puppet began walking toward him once more.

  Once connected—

  it froze obediently.

  Jack calmly returned it to his inventory.

  Silence reclaimed the room.

  Yet the feeling lingered.

  As if something unseen still watched him.

  Deep inside his mind—

  a sphere pulsed faintly.

  Waiting.

  “Phew…”

  Jack dropped into his chair.

  “That thing actually walks…”

  He rubbed his face tiredly.

  “It’s literally called a Cursed Puppet.”

  What did he expect?

  Next time, anything labeled cursed would require preparation first.

  Hopefully.

  Then he remembered.

  “The costume.”

  Right.

  He pulled it from his inventory.

  The fabric unfolded slowly.

  Jack lifted the crown.

  Black.

  Gold.

  Wrong.

  It wasn’t merely fabric and ornament.

  The dark surface seemed to swallow the bathroom light itself, leaving only faint reflections trembling along its edges.

  At the back, gold curved upward in long elegant arcs.

  Like a scythe frozen mid-swing.

  Or the tail of a sleeping dragon waiting to strike.

  Along the front, jagged golden peaks rose one after another—sharp and hungry, like teeth awaiting an audience.

  Beneath it lay the jacket.

  Black velvet.

  Heavy.

  Buttons shaped like laughing skulls stared upward in silent amusement.

  Beside it rested the dark-gold batik cloth.

  Jack wrapped it slowly around his waist.

  The patterns shifted.

  Not ink.

  Not thread.

  Smoke.

  Thin lines twisting beneath the fabric as if something inside it breathed quietly.

  Watching.

  Waiting.

  And finally—

  the mask.

  White porcelain.

  Pale.

  Almost human.

  Its arched brows curved sharply above narrow eyes that seemed to follow his movement even while resting still.

  The nose stretched long and pointed, casting an unnatural silhouette beneath the light.

  Its lips—

  thin.

  Red.

  Frozen in a faint smile.

  Not joyful.

  Not sorrowful.

  A smile that knew something.

  “…What kind of costume is this?”

  Before doubt could form—

  knowledge surfaced.

  Instructions.

  Natural.

  Instinctive.

  He moved without thinking.

  Crown.

  Jacket.

  Trousers.

  Cloth secured.

  Then—

  the mask touched his face.

  A deep resonance echoed through his skull.

  Soft.

  Heavy.

  Ting… nung… ting… nung… GONK.

  The vibration settled into his bones.

  Jack stiffened.

  His muscles moved against his will, responding to an unseen rhythm.

  Like a performer pulled by invisible strings.

  “What… is this…?”

  The music grew louder.

  Ting… nung… ting… nung… GONK.

  His heartbeat synchronized with the sound.

  Slow.

  Then fast.

  Then slow again.

  Panic surged.

  He reached for the mask—

  and felt resistance.

  For one terrifying moment, he could not tell where porcelain ended and skin began.

  “…And now I’m in danger again.”

  With force, he tore it free.

  Then the crown.

  The jacket.

  Instantly—

  the music vanished.

  Silence crashed down.

  Jack bent forward, breathing heavily.

  The costume lay motionless on the floor.

  Not clothing.

  Not decoration.

  Something else entirely.

  Without hesitation, he shoved it back into his inventory.

  Out of sight.

  For now.

  He collapsed onto his bed and stared at the ceiling.

  “…Damn system.”

  “Why does everything have side effects?”

  No answer came.

  Only silence.