The evening air was cool, and the sounds of the city were distant. Inside, the soft glow of the bar created a private, warm atmosphere, accompanied by the gentle melody of music floating through the air.
I watched her across the counter. She was taking a long, slow sip from her drink, a creamy cocktail with a cherry and a slice of fruit.
Then the little voice in my head—or perhaps the echo of her doctor's strict instruction—popped up. "Dr. Astance said you need to stop drinking while you take the supplements she gave you. You'll get an earful from her if she hears about this."
She lowered her glass. "I can't help it! I really needed a drink today."
A tap from my end of the bar, as I gently slid a glass of water toward her.
"That's the last one," I stated firmly. "You won't be able to get up tomorrow if you drink any more."
She looked at the glass, then back at her half-finished cocktail. A smile, a slightly fuzzy, happy smile, started to spread across her face. "Did I already drink that much? The cocktail was so sweet, I didn't realize I had that much."
I could feel my own lips curling into a small smile as I watched her. She's smiling, I can tell she's getting drunk. She gets drunk on drinks that barely contain any alcohol, but she still enjoys having a drink.
The music seemed to move her. She closed her eyes, tilting her head back slightly. "The music is nice," she sighed contentedly.
That's when her real drunk stage started. She laughs like a child and starts acting cute when she's drunk. Her hand waves in the air as if conducting the music, her head swaying just slightly too much, her words tangled and soft. The tips of her cheeks turn faintly pink, and I notice the little quirks I always do—how she tucks her hair behind her ear absentmindedly, how her lashes brush her cheek when she closes her eyes, how her laughter breaks in soft little bursts.
Then, like a flower folding into itself, she slumps a little, eyes fluttering, and finally leans her head gently onto the counter. The quiet surrender of sleep takes her in a way that's entirely unguarded, entirely hers. I propped my head up on my hand, looking at her with a mix of affection and resignation. I hope I'm the only one to see her like this. The world outside could never understand the soft, playful chaos of her tipsy smile, or the fragile, innocent way she drifts off, utterly trusting in this small, dimly lit sanctuary.
"Do you know how smug that—"
I cut myself off, a wave of familiar annoyance washing over me as the memory of him surfaced—his self‑satisfied smirk, his entitled tone, that irritating conviction that the world would always bend for him. I turned slightly, my expression tightening without my permission.
"That's what I'm talking about," I continued, the irritation threading into my voice. "He's furious that they won't be getting an invitation from Serenity this year."
I let out a sharp, humorless sigh. "Well, Serenity's been pretty generous with them. Everyone knows they've been exploiting their title as members of Serenity's Honorary Committee."
The truth was undeniable—open, ugly, and long overdue for consequences.
"How can they be so shameless? Even I can see how bad they are," the man sitting beside me added, his cheeks tinged a faint pink either from the alcohol or the boldness of criticizing them so openly. "At least… that's what everyone says." He was referring to the whispers circulating throughout the social circles, the unspoken agreement on the Eight Families' shameless behavior.
I replied with a sardonic tilt of my lips, "You know his grandfather was a major contributor when Serenity was founded. But don't you think it's even more ridiculous that Serenity is finally revoking those privileges, now that they're doing better?"
The corner of my finger tapped against the table in a silent beat, matching my rising irritation. Silence stretched between us—a thoughtful, heavy, anticipatory silence.
I stood up slowly, leaning one hand on the table for support, my eyes narrowing as my mind raced ahead.
"So now what?" I wondered aloud. "What will they do if they don't get an invitation?"
He leaned toward me, lowering his voice in the kind of conspiratorial whisper that carried more weight than shouting. His breath brushed my ear.
"Listen. Their plan is to… whisper… the Eight Families will get together and…"
His words were barely audible, but their meaning slammed into me like a cold wave.
"Oh… that's interesting…"
My voice dropped, the gears in my mind already turning. The political landscape was about to shift—violently.
The headline forming in my thoughts was unmistakable: Revoking the privileges of the Eight Families.
A different weight settled in my chest, darker, heavier, unmistakably serious. My hand tightened around the document I had been holding—a thick, handwritten agreement, complex enough that my head had throbbed the first time I read it.
"That was the content of the document that Eiser asked me to sign as soon as he got back from his trip. I never signed it…" My voice trailed off, cold realization dawning. "But clearly he went ahead with it anyway."
I glanced up, my gaze instinctively drawn to the far side of the room.
There he was.
Eiser.
Sharp. Composed. Expression carved with focus and gravity, as if he already knew every consequence that would follow.
If what those two are saying is true… then we'll be facing the consequences.
And judging by the look on his face—
Those consequences were already on their way.
My temporary drunken stupor vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp anger. I could see that they weren't happy about it, but this—this was absurd.
Do they really think they can join forces to stab us in the back?
My entire body felt electrified.
"I'm so angry that I don't feel drunk anymore...!"
The revelation of the Eight Families' plan tore the fog clean out of my head.
I took a shaky step, my heel slipping for a moment before I caught myself. STAGGER.
I had to move. I needed to hear the specifics of their plotting. I needed to know exactly what they were planning.
Suddenly, a hand shot forward and clamped down on my arm. GRAB.
I looked up sharply to see the man who had been watching me since earlier, his expression carved in steel.
"What are you trying to do?" he asked, his voice low, firm—almost cold.
He didn't wait for my answer.
"Wait for me here and don't get involved."
But I was already thinking ahead of him—two steps, maybe three.
I yanked my arm free with a sharp motion. YANK.
His eyes widened just a fraction, but I didn't give him time to follow.
Just like the Dorothea case…
If I can get even a hint of their plans, even a single thread, I might be able to stop the Eight Families before they even move.
I turned sharply, my heels striking the floor with purpose. CLACK. CLACK.
I'm sure Eiser will be surprised if I take care of this before he steps in.
It's a perfect chance for me to get the upper hand.
The whispers grew louder. Laughter—arrogant, sloppy, self‑satisfied—floated toward me as I approached. My lips curled into a confident, slightly reckless smile.
Good.
I want to see that stony face of his twitch.
"HAHAHA! HAHA!"
The men were still laughing when I reached them.
"Hello there."
I lifted my cocktail glass slightly in greeting, the ice clinking lightly.
One of the men froze mid‑laugh, blinking at me in surprised confusion.
"Haha… hello, Miss. Who…?"
I took a leisurely sip from my drink, letting my confidence radiate like a slow‑spreading flame.
"I heard you gentlemen laughing from all the way over there…"
I tilted my head, eyes sharp, voice deceptively light.
"…and I'm not very good at holding back my curiosity."
"Ah, so you're interested in business," the man in the plaid vest said, his suspicion softening into a greedy, calculating smile. His eyes lingered on me, trying to size up whether I was a threat—or an opportunity. "Here. Have a seat."
I sensed the invitation was a trap wrapped in civility, but I slid into the chair anyway, every movement deliberate.
The man who had tried to pull me away—my protector, though he rarely needed a title—stepped forward, shadowing me. His expression tightened like steel as he addressed the plaid vest man, his voice low and controlled.
"Here. Have a seat," he repeated, the words sharp, not polite. A clear warning, a subtle threat: hands off.
I crossed my legs, folding my arms over my chest, radiating calm control, even as my heart hammered with anticipation. "I'm not one of the Eight Families," I said, my voice even, "but this is closely related to my work."
The plaid vest man blinked, caught off guard. "Do you really work in that field? So… you're an insider?"
"That's what I'm telling you," I replied, meeting his gaze with deliberate steadiness. "How would I know all this if I wasn't involved?"
He studied me like a predator sizing up prey, eyes flicking from my face to my posture to the faint shimmer of my earrings. The gleam in his eyes sharpened—the kind that comes from thinking he's stumbled onto an unexpected prize. A woman who looks rich, confident… and just my type.
"Wow," he said finally, leaning back, a broad, lazy smile stretching across his face. "You must be running a pretty big business. No wonder…"
I cut him off with a sharp, playful nudge, hiding the sting of impatience beneath my tone. "Hurry up and spill the beans. I need to know what that great plan is. I'm starting to feel a little tipsy…"
His gaze flicked to my earrings, slow, deliberate. A possessive smirk tugged at his lips. His hand reached out, tracing the curve of my earlobe with far too much confidence. STROKE.
My eyes narrowed slightly, a flash of steel behind my playful mask. I didn't flinch, but the air around us thickened.
"It appears you have a lot of questions for me," he purred, leaning closer, the kind of closeness meant to intimidate. "This isn't the best place to talk… and since this is such an important topic, why don't we go somewhere quieter to discuss matters more… privately?"
He rose, extending his hand toward me—half invitation, half command. "Come."
Immediately, my protector moved. His presence was sudden, sharp, and unyielding. GRIP. He caught the man's wrist before it could reach me, pulling his hand away in a motion that left no room for argument.
His voice was ice, cold and unrelenting. "It looks like we'll have a lot of business to discuss."
The plaid vest man's smile faltered, his arrogance challenged, but he didn't retreat. The tension in the air was palpable, like the quiet before a storm.
I leaned back in my chair, taking a slow sip from my cocktail. My earlier tipsiness had faded, replaced by clarity, focus, and the dangerous thrill of control. Every move I made now mattered. Every word. Every glance.
And I intended to stay three steps ahead.
---
The grip the man had placed on my arm immediately tightened, his insistence almost suffocating.
"Let's go somewhere else. It's too noisy in here. Follow me if you really want to know." His tone was firm, meant to assert control, to make it seem like I had a choice.
I resisted, pulling back with deliberate force, testing him. "Why? Is your plan top secret? It's no fun if you're playing hard to get."
He ignored my words, irritation flashing across his face. "Let's go somewhere else. I know a place where we can chat in private."
I yanked my arm again. "Never mind. Get your hands off me…!"
That was the moment my protector acted. His patience had been fraying since the man had first touched me, and the subtle, controlled tension in his body finally snapped. I noticed the way his knuckles had gone white around his glass of water. CLENCH. He let out a low, almost inaudible SCOFF, a warning in itself.
The plaid‑vest man, too focused on me to notice, suddenly felt a crushing force on his arm. GRAB.
"H‑huh?" he sputtered, completely taken off guard.
My protector's gaze bored into him like ice, sharp, unyielding, pure, cold fury radiating from every inch of him. "THAT'S ENOUGH," he barked.
With a swift, powerful PULL, he yanked the man from me and sent him stumbling backward.
THUD! CRASH!
The man hit the floor hard, scattering glasses and utensils across the bar. He groaned loudly, clutching his back. "ARGH! UGH! WHO… WHO THE HELL ARE YOU...? ARGH, MY BACK!"
A collective gasp rippled through the patrons.
"Oh my! Are they fighting?" murmured someone, eyes wide, heads turning toward the sudden spectacle.
I stood frozen for a moment, half in shock, half in awe, watching my protector loom over the fallen man. His presence was dangerous, almost predatory. His eyes darkened, burning with silent promise: cross us, and there would be consequences.
A faint murmur of astonishment escaped my lips. The message was clear, delivered with precision and decisiveness.
My protector looked down at the man whimpering on the floor, his voice calm, flat, and lethal in its quietness. "Things will only get more out of hand if the police get involved."
No need for threats. The point was made. Every ounce of control had shifted, and now it was unmistakably ours.
I straightened my posture, smoothing my dress, letting the tension in my body ease ever so slightly. The fear, the hesitation, the arrogance of the man on the floor—all of it had vanished. And in that charged silence, I realized: the game had just changed.
The bar fell into a stunned hush, broken only by the clatter of scattered glasses and the faint groans of the man sprawled on the floor. Every head turned toward us, whispers rippling like a wave through the room.
I took a slow breath, straightening my posture, smoothing my dress, letting the adrenaline settle into a sharp focus. Fedrick's presence radiated a controlled, dangerous energy, and I felt the subtle thrill of having someone so fiercely protective at my side.
The plaid‑vest man tried to push himself upright, clutching his back and wincing with every movement. Pain and humiliation etched across his features, his earlier confidence shattered.
"Is he… going to get up?" a young man muttered from a nearby table, eyes wide with fear and fascination.
I allowed myself a small, almost imperceptible smile, though my heart still thumped in my chest. Every motion, every word, every look had sent a message: do not underestimate us.
Fedrick's gaze never left the man on the floor, cold and unyielding. "Consider this a courtesy," he said evenly, the flatness of his voice leaving no room for argument. "Next time, it won't be so polite."
The man on the floor groaned again, dragging himself backward with difficulty, and I realized that the entire dynamic had shifted. The whispers of plotting, the aura of arrogance that had clung to the Eight Families' representatives—they were gone. In their place was caution, fear, respect.
I turned slightly to glance at Fedrick, feeling a quiet surge of gratitude mixed with a twinge of awe. Calm, lethal, and unwavering, he was the kind of person who could stop a fight before it even began, simply by existing in the right space at the right moment.
The room slowly returned to its hum, the patrons exchanging speculative glances, their conversations tentative now. I knew they were all thinking the same thing: that woman isn't alone, and whatever she's involved in… it's dangerous.
I took another deliberate sip of my cocktail, letting the last warmth of the drink settle. The earlier tipsiness was gone, replaced entirely by clarity, and a dangerous edge settled in my mind.
This wasn't just a warning to the plaid‑vest man—it was an opportunity. The plan of the Eight Families, their whispers, their schemes… I could still uncover it. I just had to be clever, quick, and, if necessary, ruthless.
I leaned back slightly, watching the man on the floor writhe, and allowed a faint murmur to escape my lips, soft but deliberate.
"Now… let's see how far your little plans really go."
Fedrick's eyes froze at my words—I know you're always watching me.
For a moment, the alley felt smaller, the distance between us charged with something sharp and unspoken.
A muscle in his jaw twitched. "That's not the point," he muttered, but his voice lacked its earlier harshness. The anger was fading, replaced by something quieter… heavier.
"You're drunk," he finally said, though even that sounded like an excuse. "You only touched the glass at the bar because you were desperate. You never drink unless you feel cornered."
I swallowed, the cold air snapping against my skin, making the warmth in my chest more obvious. "I wasn't cornered. I just—"
The ground tilted again for a second, and before I could correct myself, his hand shot out, steadying me by the waist.
His fingers were firm, almost annoyed at how easily I was swaying.
But he didn't let go.
"…You trust me?" he repeated quietly, as if testing the weight of the words.
I blinked up at him. "I said what I said."
Fedrick's breath left him in something between a scoff and a sigh. He lifted a hand to his forehead, then dragged it through his hair, clearly fighting the urge to lecture me again.
"You think trust means you can throw yourself into danger and I'll just… catch you every time?" His voice was tight, frustrated. "You think that's something I can keep doing for you?"
I opened my mouth, but he shook his head before I could speak.
"You have no idea what it feels like," he said softly, "to watch you walk into a room full of threats—knowing damn well you'll do something bold, something reckless—and knowing that if I look away for one second, something could happen to you."
Something warm and painful swelled in my chest.
"…Fedrick."
He looked at me, really looked. The kind of gaze that stripped away every layer of defiance I had left.
"You don't trust people," he said. "You never have. Not easily. That's why I'm asking—"
His hand tightened at my waist, pulling me half a step closer.
"Why me?"
The question hung between us, cold and fragile in the quiet alley.
For the first time that night, my voice lowered, softer, more honest than I'd intended.
"Because whenever I fall…"
My fingers brushed lightly against his sleeve.
"You're always there before I hit the ground."
Fedrick's eyes darkened—not in anger, but in something far more dangerous.
"And that scares me more than anything you did tonight," he whispered.
The wind swept through the alley, but neither of us moved, suspended in that moment of raw truth neither of us had planned to expose.
Fedrick's words struck me harder than the cold night air ever could.
His thumb paused at my cheek, lingering there as if he needed that physical reminder that I was real—alive—right in front of him. The look in his eyes was nothing like the irritation from earlier. It was something raw, old, and dangerous, dragged up from a place he buried long before tonight.
"…what you and I truly are?"
The breath caught in my throat.
I didn't answer, and maybe that silence told him more than words would have.
Fedrick exhaled slowly, his forehead lowering until it nearly touched mine. The alley felt unbearably small. His fingers slid from my jaw to the back of my neck, sending a line of heat down my spine. He wasn't holding me still out of anger; he was holding me because letting go might mean losing something he finally realized he was no longer willing to lose.
"You provoke me on purpose," he whispered, eyes burning into mine. "You put yourself in danger knowing I'll come for you. Because you trust I'll always keep my promise."
I swallowed, the closeness making it difficult to breathe. "Because you always do."
"Yes," he breathed, almost like a confession he never meant to speak aloud. "And that is exactly why you shouldn't test me like this."
His thumb brushed over my bottom lip in a slow, deliberate stroke—STROKE—an act far too intimate for the dark, deserted alley we stood in.
"You think I'm upset because you took a risk," he continued, his voice deepening, "but that's not it."
His gaze flicked down to my lips, then back up.
"I'm upset because you did it knowing I'd follow you to the ends of the earth… even if you didn't call me."
My heart thudded painfully against my ribs.
He was close enough now that his breath ghosted across my mouth, the faint smell of smoke and winter clinging to him. Close enough that every instinct in my body screamed to either step away or lean in—and I knew exactly which one I wanted.
"Just because they say you're my lover…"
His hand tightened slightly at my nape.
"…you think that's all this is?"
I stared back at him, pulse hammering. "Then what is it?"
Fedrick's eyes softened and darkened at once, a contradiction only he could hold.
"It's everything you keep pretending not to see," he said quietly. "Everything you run from by staying sober, staying sharp, staying in control. Everything I've been trying not to put into words because once I do…"
His lips brushed my forehead, barely a touch, a claim more intimate than a kiss.
"…there's no going back."
The alley was silent except for our breathing, the world outside feeling impossibly distant.
His hand slid down, resting at my waist, anchoring me.
"Tell me," he murmured, voice a low command that trembled with emotion he couldn't hide anymore. "Did you really forget us that easily? Or are you afraid of remembering what we were before the promises… before the walls… before the world interfered?"
The truth pressed so close I could no longer ignore it.
Fedrick wasn't asking a question.
He was asking for an answer.
And he was done waiting.
---