Under the cloud-choked midnight sky of mid-autumn, with the crescent moon buried beneath a suffocating sea of grey, I had only the cold wind for company — its bite against my skin carrying a peculiar tenderness.
The burn of "Silver Century" wine — as they so absurdly call it — lingered on my tongue while I occupied my usual throne upon the balcony, my gaze drifting across the dark arteries of my domain.
Another silver evening. Predictable. Dull. Mine.
Until some fool decided to entertain me.
About five hundred meters away, one of the gaslit lamps flickered and died. A ripple of disorder followed in the alley below.
"Oh? Now that is new."
The temptation proved irresistible. I summoned my Silver Sight.
What revealed itself was… unexpected.
A small figure — short, hunched, little more than a dark silhouette — cornered by a gang of thugs. Guns. Knives. Chains. The usual ornaments of cheap street vermin.
And yet… something was wrong.
Despite their clear advantage in number and size, they did not advance. They circled. Hesitated.
The tiny creature, on the other hand, moved with reckless ferocity — hurling itself at this massive pack of filth as though it were the predator.
How strange… Was I more shocked that this thing had taken down men bigger and more numerous than itself? Or that my mouth betrayed me with a smile I hardly recognized? Or that some maniac had the audacity to make a scene in my "Moon Hall"—and that I had even allowed it to get this far?
The little survivor stood, hunched, fists raised in a weak defense. Shadows and bruises carved his face into something almost unrecognizable, yet he had prevailed — just enough to remain upright.
I set my glass down to refill it, only to find the bottle empty. "Oh? Really? Have I already drained an entire bottle of that silver 'luxurious' misery?" I muttered, a trace of amusement flickering as I reached for Fino.
"Seventh Street. At your seven o'clock. There's commotion. Whoever is responsible, bring them to me. Alive."
I changed into a proper gown. No reason to greet such a rude yet amusing little monster in anything less than respectable attire.
Half an hour passed in one of the reception halls. I waited with my eyes closed. The air grew colder by the minute — or perhaps that was simply my patience thinning.
When Fino finally appeared, his face was bruised, one shoulder hanging stiffly at his side. His men looked worse.
The small figure trailed behind them.
Fino forced him to his knees before me. "Mistress Dona… I miscalculated."
"I sent you to fetch a dying street rat," I said, my eyes flashing faintly white, "yet you keep me waiting half an hour — and return looking like this?"
He swallowed whatever excuse he had prepared.
I regarded him coldly. "If your intention was to embarrass your mistress, consider it achieved. It will not be repeated. Report. Briefly."
"Y-Yes, Mistress Dona. When we arrived, this… creature was the only one left alive. The rest—around forty bodies scattered across Seventh, Ninth, and Fifteenth Streets—belonged to a gang calling themselves the Rusted Owls. We found them as though a battle had moved through the streets. Our assessment is that they pursued him. He retreated. And fought at the same time."
He hesitated.
"All bore the same tattoos. Same affiliation."
A pause.
"It appears… he killed them. Alone."
I raised an eyebrow. "Alone?"
Fino rubbed the back of his neck. "Yes. Alone. I thought it impossible… until I saw it up close."
I leaned forward, elbows resting on my knees. "So one of my captains returns battered — over street vermin. Explain."
He steadied himself. "At first, I didn't even see him. He moved like a shadow. Striking from every direction. I had to use my Mass Standard ability to subdue him."
A defeated sigh escaped him.
I leaned back slowly, crossing my legs, folding my arms. A trace of amusement slipped into my restrained displeasure as my gaze fell upon the small creature sprawled across the tiles.
Asleep?
Snoring?
In my presence?
Interesting.
"Wake him," I ordered. Fino stepped forward.
The man did not stir. Another step.
His boot scraped faintly against the tile.
That was enough.
Crimson eyes snapped open.
Not gradually.
Not drowsily.
Instantly.
They did not focus — not quite.
They did not search the room.
They locked onto the nearest presence.
Fino.
The change was violent.
The frail body that had lain limp moments before tensed like drawn wire. Fingers twitched against the floor. Shoulders coiled.
Not conscious.
Not calculated.
Reflex.
Fino froze.
For a breath — just one — the air thickened.
I saw it then.
He wasn't looking at Fino as a man.
He was measuring distance.
Angles.
Escape routes.
Kill range.
My Silver Sight showed tens of possibilities at once. Astonishing.
Fino stepped back.
And just like that—
The tension vanished.
I would be lying if I claimed it did not impress me.
This half-broken creature had forced visible fear into the eyes of a man who rarely flinched.
In my presence.
The disgrace would be corrected.
The potential, however… would be studied.
The tension drained from the small body as though someone had severed invisible strings. The crimson dulled. The shoulders slackened. The fingers loosened.
Weakness returned.
Not feigned.
He struggled, as though only now remembering his injuries. As though the moment of danger had briefly erased pain itself.
Slowly, unsteadily, he pushed himself upright.
Then, in unexpectedly fluent Italian — his voice scraped raw and fragile —
"Warmth… light… a pleasant scent…"
His unfocused gaze drifted toward the ceiling.
"Does someone like me… deserve to enter paradise?"
Struggling to reconcile the brightness with the grimy street he had been dragged from, he squinted at the vaulted ceiling.
He tried to rise.
Failed.
His foot slipped against the polished marble. He winced, rolled onto his back again, and exhaled sharply.
Then, staring upward as if addressing the heavens themselves — his gaze clearer than before — he muttered,
"Well… I expected more from paradise. But it's not bad, I must say."
The audacity of such a creature criticizing my palace.
A faint, nearly imperceptible breath of amusement escaped me.
Insignificant.
Or so I believed.
His head tilted.
Slowly.
Blind eyes searching — not quite focusing, yet unerringly finding me.
The air shifted.
Softer now.
Almost gentle.
"Silviana… Ezvail…"
He smiled.
Not cunning.
Not triumphant.
Innocent.
And that frightened me more than anything else that night.