Alfred's anger has been growing since he was just a little boy.
His family, his nanny, his teachers always praised his behavior and personality. Alfred Jones is such a sweet, cheerful child. He's always so happy, isn't he, dear? So bright. He never gets upset at his mistakes, he just keeps moving forward. A hard worker just like his dad, aren't you, son? Good boy.
But this is only what others see. In fact, this is mostly what he sees, as well. He never felt much anger when he was younger. He just had a mindset of, Oh, something went wrong. Oh well, I'll fix it. He didn't realize, back then, that he did have anger within him, he just never had the chance to feel it. His subconscious tucked bad feelings away for him, putting them in what Alfred now pictures as a huge glass jar. The anger and sadness and jealousy and contempt he's felt over the years has filled the glass jar to the very top. He can see through the glass, and he can see those feelings in there, writhing over each other malevolently.
He did get angry at Arthur, that last morning before his husband ran away. Well, that was more irritation than anger. Because Arthur was being foolish, saying those disgusting things. Talking about becoming some different person. Some perversion. Breaking up their marriage. How could he do such a thing?
That poured anger into the glass jar. Anger and sadness and betrayal.
And then Alfred begged Ivan Braginski for help. The payment for assistance that was never given: ravaging Alfred's body. A rape he couldn't afford to say no to. Rage overflowed in the jar.
And now his assistant brings him the news. "Your father thought I should let you know," says Toris, eyes slightly worried. "Ivan Braginski has been killed, and his house partially burned down."
Alfred stares out at his office's window at the business parking lot below. His hands tense on the top of his chair's leather back. "Oh," he says quietly. "What a shame. Do they know who did it?"
"Uh . . . yes, they do. One of the guards traded us information for a handsome payment. The man who killed Mr. Braginski was Gilbert Bielschmidt. Um, also known as the Prussian."
Alfred has not heard the Prussian's real name, but he knows the nickname. The title. An albino killer who only comes out at night, supposedly.
"He was not the only one there, however. Berwald Oxenstierna was also there." Alfred gives no response; he's never heard the name. "And . . . Arthur was there."
Alfred's glass jar cracks, one delicate fissure slowly branching over the glass like crystal veins. "I see. Where is he now?"
"We don't know for sure, but he has apparently been staying with the Prussian."
Alfred's shoulders stiffen under his suit jacket. The leather of his chair bunches in his fingers. "Do we know where the Prussian lives?"
"Yes, but they haven't been spending much time there. Arthur has been staying at a . . ."
Alfred turns his head to look at Toris. "At a what?"
His assistant's green eyes are more than slightly worried now. "A transitional clinic owned and run by Domink Héderváry."
The glass jar explodes, shattering and letting horrible beasts of emotion escape. They cascade through Alfred, at once burning hot and biting cold. Two decades of being a good rich boy go up in flames as Alfred picks up his leather chair and hurls it at the window. The glass breaks, a sound that should be satisfying but only serves to agitate Alfred further. The chair falls, falls, crashes against the concrete below, breaking into three pieces.
Toris stares, terrified. He's never seen his boss like this before. No one has. A tiny part of Alfred shares that terror.
The majority of him just smiles like murder. This is anger, huh? Feels good. Think I like it.
"Cancel my meetings," Alfred says, straightening his tie. "I'm going to pay a visit to that clinic."
Toris nods, hurriedly tapping away at his phone. "Yes, sir. Will you be back today?"
Alfred stops in the doorway of his office, considering the question. "No, Mr. Laurinaitis," he replies. "I won't be back."