The Snow Queen

A heinous headache. The illness that returned after ten days.

I stared persistently into the darkness. The room felt cold and desolate, like a nest abandoned by birds. I couldn’t sleep. As time passed, only my fear grew, heavier with every moment. On nights like these, I knew exactly what I had to do.

11 PM. I got up, as if pushed by some invisible force.

I threw on my coat and rushed out of the house. The biting cold wind whipped around me, as sharp as if I had bitten into ice. The kingdom’s winters were brutal, especially on a night like January 1st, when snowflakes fiercely poured down.

Even at this eerie hour, 42nd Street was brimming with excitement. A drunk with a red nose brushed past my shoulder. A group of officers in black raincoats walked by, tossing lewd remarks at the prostitutes. In the distance, a neon sign from a strip bar flickered. The sign, glowing red on the old and dark street, looked as lonely as a lighthouse standing guard over a harbor.

The snow had piled so high it sank to my ankles. The snowflakes thickened and then transformed into heavy raindrops. In an instant, the entire street became soaked in gray.

A little farther down, I arrived at 42nd Street Square. Even on the first night of the new year, the square overflowed with violence. Chaos erupted around the bronze statue of Perseus, who held Medusa’s head aloft in the center of the square. Protesters shouted slogans and scattered pamphlets. The shrill whistles of riot police tore through the air. Fierce yells and the heavy thuds of combat boots blended with the wind and rain, creating a whirlwind of sound. Torn scraps of newspapers and pamphlets were scattered into the darkness. A bus, honking loudly, splashed water everywhere as it sped by. Meanwhile, citizens watched the brawl between protesters and riot police from the pubs around the square, sipping vodka as if they were watching a football match.

I pulled my coat’s hood down low and walked quickly. After I left the square, the dark alleyways stretched out again. It wasn’t long before I reached the bar. Inside the cramped space, patrons whispered among themselves, their bodies buried in a thick cloud of cigarette smoke.

I hesitated before sitting anywhere. A newspaper, left behind by someone, lay crumpled on the bar table. Half of the front page was taken up by Wolfzak’s face. A headline under the photo caught my eye.

“Lord Wolfscott declared in his New Year’s press conference that the pathetic governance riddled with incompetence is now over…”

It was an absurd statement, but the tone of the article was full of praise. Of course, it was only natural. No media outlet in this kingdom would dare to criticize Wolfzak, the leading figure among the warrior aristocracy, on the first day of the new year.

Halfway through reading the article, the bartender approached. I tore my gaze away from the paper and ordered a cocktail. Tonight, I was going to leave with the first man who spoke to me, just like always. After all, I didn’t know any other way to rid myself of the illness that plagued me.

Just as the bartender placed the cocktail glass in front of me, a long shadow suddenly fell across the table.

“It’s been a while. Where have you been?”

A polite voice that pierced through my ears.

I turned my head to see

him

standing there. Blond hair. Gray eyes. A faint smile on his lips.

This was the seventh time I’d run into this man. He had also been my first.

My first…

That word doesn’t quite capture it. Yes, it was technically my first time, but that night it wasn’t just the man—his friend was involved too. Still, since he was the first to penetrate me, I suppose the word “first” wasn’t entirely wrong. I fiddled with the cocktail glass.

First, hundredth—what did it matter? Sex would drive away the illness. The only problem was whether my worn-out body could handle two men. While I was lost in thought, the man waited patiently. My head throbbed again.

I set down the cocktail glass.

“Are you alone tonight?”

The man laughed cheerfully.

“No. My friend is with me again tonight.”

A moment later, I stood up and said, “That’s fine.” Two, three—none of it mattered anymore. As long as they could drive away this monstrous pain gnawing at the back of my skull.

His friend was already waiting in front of the bar. I climbed into the backseat of their car. The man started the engine, and his friend, seated in the passenger seat, threw some words my way. “Hey, why’ve you been absent? Do you know how long we’ve been waiting for you?” He went on with meaningless chatter. I stared silently out the window.

It was a cold and desolate night. Streetlights flickered off one by one along the rain-soaked streets. Suddenly, a young man darted out from an alleyway. The man driving slammed on the brakes. The unpleasant screech of tires echoed, and the car shook violently.

“Damn.”

The driver clicked his tongue as he looked outside. The young man dashed across the street, and close behind him, men in black uniforms were chasing him. It was

Geiger

. The young man didn’t get far before he was caught by the Geiger members. As he curled up, protecting his head, they kicked him and struck him with clubs. Blood spilled across the gray pavement. I watched in silence. It was a common sight.

The man glanced into the rearview mirror.

“Did you hit your head?”

I didn’t reply. The man shrugged lightly and started the car again.

“Poor bastards. Don’t they ever get a break?”

The friend chuckled at the man’s remark.

“42nd Street is notorious for being a trouble zone. We’re the lucky ones.”

The men chatting in front of me now were also members of Guiger. Guiger is a political thug group, disguised as a private militia, created by Wolfsack. The very fact that a mere noble had his own private army was already an act of treason and illegality, but the law didn’t apply to Wolfsack. The streets were filled with horror stories about Guiger, who roamed around committing all sorts of atrocities. There was even a joke that went around: “Two degrees of separation from someone beaten by Guiger, three degrees from someone killed by Guiger.”

On the night we first met, at the hotel, they took off their coats and revealed Guiger uniforms.

“In case you’re wondering. An earlier partner got angry and stormed out as soon as she saw these uniforms. If you’re uncomfortable with our profession, it’s probably better for you to leave now. What do you think?”

I told them it didn’t matter. They and I were only in a one-night relationship. Titles and ranks were meaningless on such nights, like light fading after sunset.

“Thirsty? Want a drink?”

In response to the man’s question, I gave a short answer.

“No, thanks.”

In fact, partners like these were rare. Aside from their preference for orgies, they were polite men. It’s funny, but even among perverts, there are different classes. Most of the men I’d encountered so far were violent. Thinking about the guy from a month ago who tied me up and beat me for two hours still gives me chills.

“We’re here.”

The car stopped. We had arrived at the Punica Hotel on 17th Street, a place the men frequented after driving for an hour. Though they picked up partners on 42nd Street, they would have their sessions here, far from there. The Guiger headquarters was right nearby, so it was an obvious choice.

“Care for some wine?”

After entering the room, the man asked. I declined and headed straight for the bathroom. When I returned from my shower, they were drinking vodka. Unlike other partners, they never rushed. However, once they started, they would draw things out for a long time, engaging in hedonistic activities.

We were in a 69 position, with the friend below and me on top. The man lifted my hips and immediately penetrated me. The friend grabbed my head tightly, pushing his member deeper into my mouth. His rough pubic hair and heavy balls smacked against me with a thudding sound.

The friend was lying beneath me, watching intently as I was penetrated. He muttered, “This is intense…” and slid his fingers into the hole being penetrated by the man’s shaft. He added a few more fingers, stretching the area as far as it could go.

“You’ll hurt him if you go too hard this early.”

The man quickly warned his friend. Then he gripped my waist tightly with both hands. My inner walls instinctively clenched around his throbbing shaft. The man enjoyed doing this. Whenever he squeezed my waist like that, my body would tighten up, but it left me gasping for breath. As it was, I was already struggling to breathe due to the oral session.

The man let go of my waist and started caressing my nipples.

“Do you like it when I touch you like this?”

On the first night we were together, as soon as the sex started, they hurled insults at me. I was about to leave the room when they stopped me, asking why I was reacting that way. I told them I didn’t like insults, whether it was during sex or anything else. They apologized immediately, saying they usually found insults arousing during sex, but if it bothered me, they wouldn’t do it. They had kept that promise ever since, keeping the conversation to necessary words or brief comments.

The man came, filling me deep inside with his semen before pulling out. Meanwhile, the friend, who had been holding back by squeezing his balls, positioned himself between my legs. This time, it was missionary. Both of them were always full of energy, but today, they were especially intense. I was already feeling sore down there. While the friend was taking his turn, the man sat on my chest, spreading his legs.

“Can you breathe?”

The man asked. I shook my head.

“Then open your mouth wider.”

He slid his shaft into my mouth.

They took turns exploring both my lower half and mouth in every possible way. Though they didn’t leave any serious injuries, they savored rough, indulgent sex. Their dislike of condoms was also a downside. Eventually, my loosened hole started to leak fluids. They insisted that I swallow their semen, which I did as they asked. Had my mind not felt so foggy, I probably would have run out of there long ago. The sex didn’t end until past 3 a.m.

Sleep finally crept over me. The pain gnawing at my head gradually subsided as well. I would be able to sleep peacefully, at least for a while.

The friend went into the bathroom to shower, and the man lay next to me, absentmindedly playing with my chest.

“Aren’t you feeling a little under the weather today?”

He suddenly asked. I didn’t respond.

I did have a slight fever, but it wasn’t enough to call it being sick.

“I’m just a little tired. I haven’t had a proper rest because of work lately.”

“I see…”

The man trailed off. After observing me for a moment, he hesitantly spoke up.

“If it’s not too much for you, can we go one more time? I’ll be quick.”

Despite his polite tone, his member, already pressed against my thigh, was hard. I replied, telling him to do as he pleased. As soon as I gave my consent, he wrapped his arms around my shoulders from behind. Aligning himself, he immediately thrust his penis all the way in. There was a deep squelching sound. I felt my lower abdomen fill up. When he moved his hands to my waist again, I said, “Don’t. It hurts.” He quickly removed his hands, saying, “Oh, okay.”

Moving slowly, he began to thrust while licking my earlobe. After a while, he abruptly asked,

“How deep am I reaching?”

I was distracted, so I absentmindedly replied, “Huh?”

“I’m curious. How far in am I? My dick, I mean.”

The contrast between his polite tone and the crude word made it sound oddly playful. He groped under my navel with his fingers.

“Does it reach this far?”

As he spoke, he drove his shaft in even harder, like a wedge. A moan slipped out of my lips without me realizing it. The man pressed on, asking again.

“I’m asking you how far it’s going in, aren’t I?”

He began feeling around the connection with his fingers, even pressing against my prostate. Having already endured two energetic men, the tension had lessened, so it didn’t hurt as much as before.

“Does it feel good? Can you feel it?”

He kept teasing, thrusting so hard that the sound echoed from my lower abdomen. While doing so, he massaged my nipple with one hand.

“You like it when I touch you here, right? How does it feel?”

I bit my lip without realizing it. Sweat began to drip from my body.

“I guess it’s reaching about that far.”

“I see…”

The man’s pace quickened. After repeatedly pulling out until just the tip remained and then thrusting all the way in, he was near climax. He yanked his penis out entirely, grabbed my hair, and stood up quickly. His shaft pushed into my mouth. Thick semen spurted deep into my throat, not stopping after one shot but spilling out in multiple bursts. I swallowed all of it.

The man, his eyes still filled with excitement, stared intently at me. I instinctively turned my head. In an instant, he grabbed my chin and forced me to face him.

“Why do you keep turning your head?”

He asked sharply.

“Is it because you don’t like me looking at you?”

“…No, it’s not that. It’s just a habit. Anyway… are you planning on going again?”

The man, who had been staring at me without moving, covered me with a sheet.

“No. I think we should stop for now.”

I woke up around noon. The men were gone. I groggily got up and went into the bathroom. I stared at myself in the mirror above the sink. My naked body faintly reflected the light.

I stood there, silently staring into the mirror. My stomach churned.

Even after washing up, I felt weak. It wasn’t until after 2 p.m. that I finally managed to leave the hotel.

Across the street from the hotel, the area in front of Guiger’s headquarters was bustling with activity. Dozens of trailers, trucks, and jeeps were lined up, along with countless strong men. They had taken over the entire road. Guiger members, seated on the sidewalk, were intimidating passersby, flaunting their power. The roar of their voices pierced the sky.

The sight made my head spin. To get on the bus, I had to walk past Guiger’s headquarters and go quite a distance, but I couldn’t muster the will to push through that chaos.

Someone behind me muttered, “Move aside,” while shoving me forward. Stumbling, I began walking. It was easier being lost in the crowd. I moved forward, stopping and starting again. Before I knew it, I was in the middle of the road. The other pedestrians could no longer move forward, shuffling nervously in place.

“Damn thugs.”

Someone muttered irritably. Suddenly, an explosive cheer shook the air. A group emerged from the main gate of Guiger’s headquarters. They were the Guiger commanders. Each of them wore a mask resembling the face of death and a dark red uniformed coat. All of them were towering giants. At the front was a man holding a whip.

As the commanders appeared, the Guiger members parted, making way for them. The commanders climbed onto an open trailer and began organizing their ranks. Wherever they pointed, the members followed en masse. The sudden movements caused pedestrians to fall and scatter in confusion. I staggered multiple times. In an instant, my coat’s hood was pulled back.

“Whoa, what’s that?”

A Guiger member threw me a bewildered look. I hurriedly tried to pull my hood back up, but it was hard enough just to stay balanced. The eyes that turned toward me all at once sent a chill down my spine. One of the Guiger members roughly shoved me.

“Blondie! Don’t just stand there! Get moving! You wanna get trampled?”

I almost lost my balance and fell. Just then, the crack of a whip rang out. The sound was sharp and commanding. The Guiger member flinched. I, too, reflexively turned toward the sound of the whip. Somehow, I had been pushed right in front of the open trailer. The Guiger commanders stood towering above me. Even at first glance, they looked terrifying.

The whip-wielding commander swung his arm to the right, and the Guiger forces swiftly moved in that direction, finally clearing a path. I hurriedly ran, blending in with the fleeing crowd.

꙳•❅*ִ

“That’s Redfox,” Leopard whispered with a chuckle from behind. I responded with a small laugh, “Hmm.”

His nervousness as he fidgeted in the crowd was quite a sight. His reddish-golden hair fluttered wildly outside his coat’s hood. He looked up at us with fear in his wide, empty blue eyes. Stumbling, he quickly straightened himself before sprinting away, disappearing into the mass of people. Despite being exhausted from the night before, it was surprising to see him run like that.

I cracked the whip again, feeling irritated at the sloppy formation today.

“Were they sleeping in this late? Well, I guess we did push them pretty hard last night,” Leopard said, eyeing the retreating figure of Redfox. In the distance, Redfox came to a halt and hurriedly pulled the hood of his coat tightly over his head, wrapping his hair up as if cramming it inside. The sight almost made me burst out laughing.

What an amusing guy…

Recalling last night’s events brought a fresh wave of amusement. Leopard nudged me in the ribs and whispered, “Snake. The formation seems about done.”

“Yeah. Let’s head out.”

I jumped down from the open trailer, and one of the soldiers opened the jeep door, bowing slightly. Leopard and I got into the backseat, and the jeep started moving. Behind us, dozens of trucks and trailers carrying the soldiers honked noisily as they followed. Small snowflakes began to fall from the dull gray sky, swept away by the fierce wind like tiny grains of salt scattering through the air.

The royal square gradually came into view, with black smoke rising from various spots. Protesters were marching in the streets, waving flags and banners. The banners were emblazoned with bold red spray-painted slogans fiercely criticizing Lord Wolfscott. Yet, over 95 percent of these protesters probably didn’t even understand what the slogans meant.

They were the vagrants hired by Manen, Lord Wolfscott’s political rival and the leader of the

Literati Nobles

. These people were addicts, alcoholics, the homeless, gamblers, washed-up gangsters, and delinquents—nine out of ten of them illiterate and societal outcasts with no chance of rehabilitation. The police estimated the protestors to number around 12,000, making it rare for even a high-ranking official like me to be dispatched.

“This is just another form of street cleaning,” Leopard muttered, gesturing toward the square filled with protesters. His remark echoed the general sentiment of the public. But to me, these vagrants were nothing more than a sumptuous feast. The thought of smashing through them all day made my blood race with excitement.

For thirty years of his reign, King Terrence VII presented himself as a reformist. Yet, the so-called

Golden War

—a centuries-old blood feud between the kingdom’s nobles over wealth—had raged for over two hundred years. The external relatives of the royal family had wielded power for even longer—over three hundred years. The majority of the nobles never followed the king and instead mocked him openly.

In his final years, the king found himself cornered. The decisive blow came with the mysterious deaths of the princes. Plunged into despair, the king soon met an unexpected end. Much like the suspicious deaths of his sons, the king’s sudden passing also raised questions (though, having personally orchestrated the princes’ demise, I can say with certainty that the king simply died of a heart attack).

Regardless, Lord Wolfscott and Manen wasted no time celebrating their good fortune. They hurriedly enthroned a puppet king and began their long-awaited power grab. Lord Wolfscott assumed the much-coveted position of

Japonica

(the military-noble representative in the

Orchis

council, alongside the civilian

Orchis

representative and the

Lotus

of the literati nobles). Manen, on the other hand, married off his daughter to the new king and became the

Lotus

. After several bloody purges, the political turmoil gradually subsided.

This was all a year ago.

Lord Wolfscott’s next move was to purge

Lotus

Manen. While the two had been as close as lovers during the reign of Terrence VII, they had since turned on each other, snarling like wild beasts. It was inevitable. Lord Wolfscott was a

Martial Noble

, while Manen was a

Literati Noble

, meaning they were born into entirely different worlds. The kingdom’s founding heroes had been Literati Nobles, and, as a result, the kingdom had always revered the literary arts, even enshrining the distinction between the two noble classes in the legal texts penned at the time. The alliance between Lord Wolfscott and Manen was always a temporary one, much like the proverb “hospitality only lasts for today, with no regard for yesterday or tomorrow.”

It was two months ago.

“Have you ever heard of

Soul

?” Lord Wolfscott summoned me to ask.

Ah, here we go again…

I clicked my tongue.

“Isn’t that the person you sing about all the time? Manen’s favorite advisor and shaman,” I replied.

Soul.

Lord Wolfscott called them ‘Souls’—figures as elusive as the ghost stories that had circulated through the city for ages. They were said to possess knowledge and power beyond human reach, dealing in mysteries few could fathom. The true identity of these so-called chosen ones was shrouded in deep secrecy.

Lord Wolfscott lit his pipe.

“Something’s definitely wrong. Manen’s been holed up at home recently, and I suspect it’s because of a tip from one of those Souls. Even that proposal he submitted a while back—it was as if he knew our strategy beforehand and evaded it like a ghost.”

“I apologize for the tiresome question, but may I ask one more thing?”

“Go ahead.”

“Do Souls even exist?”

Lord Wolfscott smiled, as though I had just asked if two plus two equaled four. But I was serious.

These beings were mere rumors, figments of imagination. No one had ever seen them, no one had ever encountered them. Even the legend of the ghost ship had more clarity than this. Manen’s claim of having one of these Souls as his advisor was something only Lord Wolfscott had ever asserted. My skepticism seemed perfectly reasonable.

Lord Wolfscott turned toward the window.

“I believe they exist. Seventeen years ago, during the ‘26 Days of Blood,’ the former king summoned Manen to wipe out his political enemies. But instead of coming himself, Manen sent one of his men disguised as him, tricking the king into killing the decoy. He even turned the ambush into an opportunity. Later, Manen boasted, while drunk, that it was all thanks to a Soul’s advice.”

“Manen is a cunning schemer. Perhaps he saw through the king’s plans on his own.”

“Manen told me directly.”

“With all due respect, as long as I’ve served as commander, I’ve never received any intelligence suggesting Manen is in contact with a sorcerer. And I also remember you mentioning that for the past fifteen years, Manen hasn’t even spoken of Souls.”

“That’s exactly what makes it suspicious. Would you flaunt a treasure map in front of your mortal enemy?”

“I understand. Let’s assume they do exist. But is it not possible that the Soul is already dead?”

“That’s unlikely.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“My intuition. My gut is telling me.”

Lord Wolfscott tapped his temple with his finger, in all seriousness.

Ugh…

That tiresome refrain of his.

I said nothing further. There was no use arguing beyond this point. When it came to Souls, Lord Wolfscott was strangely sharp.

He ran his hand down the velvet curtain by the window.

“Check out 42nd Street. It’s a place Manen frequented when the former king was at his most oppressive. I was too busy protecting myself back then to track down the Soul’s whereabouts, but that’s the only lead I have. Don’t forget, before we can take down that thorn in our side, Manen, we have to deal with the Soul first.”

Reluctantly, I began scouting 42nd Street every evening. It was a district filled with prostitutes beckoning from every alleyway.

A Soul… here?

Ridiculous.

I scoffed. After an hour of reconnaissance, I concluded that the only reason Manen would have come here was for debauchery.

Nothing came of my scouting. I couldn’t help but sigh at Lord Wolfscott’s extreme security measures, which only involved two people—me and the deputy commander, Leopard—supposedly his best agents. On top of that, his worries were entirely unfounded. Manen’s time was nearly up anyway.

During King Terrence’s reign, three key figures competed with Lord Wolfscott and Manen for power: Duke Ekdal, the king’s uncle, who rivaled Lord Wolfscott in strength among the military aristocrats; Suominen, another military noble; and Edelma, a civil noble who opposed Manen. All three were powerful relatives of the royal family, leading the front lines of the Golden War. But all of this was old news. These three had faded into history two years ago.

Three years ago, Lord Wolfscott made me the commander. At that time, I confidently promised, “I will eliminate Ekdal, Suominen, and Edelma within a year.”

And in just eight months, I fulfilled that promise. Like them, I was confident I could soon send Manen to join the ranks of history. It was only a matter of time.

Leopard, who shared the reconnaissance mission on 42nd Street with me, agreed. Within days, we abandoned the scouting altogether. Our current work with Guiger mainly involved kidnapping the lackeys of the civil nobility or breaking up protests—tedious tasks. We had more than enough time on our hands. 42nd Street was a pleasure district where prostitutes clung to you from every corner. It was only natural that young men like us would eventually get caught up in the distractions.

Tonight, once again, we were hanging around our usual bar on 42nd Street. Leopard poured himself a glass of vodka and said:

“Do you think Souls really exist?”

I immediately replied:

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Yeah, I thought as much.”

I pulled out a cigarette and lit it.

“Lord Wolfscott’s been going on and on about Souls, so I even dug up records from eighteen years ago when Manen first mentioned them. Sure enough, there was a period when he frequented this area—during the eight years he was at odds with the former king. But it’s been ten years since he stopped coming.”

“Whoa, eight years?”

Leopard whistled.

I shrugged and tapped the ash from my cigarette into the ashtray.

“It’s not that strange, is it? Even we come here to blow off steam with a little fun when the pressure from above gets too intense. Anyway, Manen hasn’t set foot here in a decade. Lord Wolfscott even admitted that Manen hasn’t mentioned Souls for fifteen years.”

“He’s either moved or buried in a graveyard.”

“Besides, it’s been over a year since Lord Wolfscott started cracking down on shamans under the pretext of eradicating superstitions. Even if there is a spirit, it’s likely mixed in with the group of shamans that were taken. And yet, we’re supposed to find clues on 42nd Street? Does that even make sense?”

“The conclusion?”

“When a man feels troubled and his body suffers, it’s his basic instinct to seek out a woman. Manen would be no exception. Therefore, there is no spirit.”

“For guys like you and me, we look for men instead, right?”

“Exactly.”

We laughed and clinked our glasses. I started to bring the glass of Leopard vodka to my lips, then set it down.

“Snake, Snake.”

“What? Did you find a nice butt or something?”

“Of course. There goes my Redfox again.”

“That nickname again?”

I clicked my tongue, blowing cigarette smoke toward Leopard. His habit of giving everyone nicknames was pathetic, but I couldn’t really blame him—there was a sad(?) story behind it.

Guiger had been under heavy scrutiny from Lord Wolfscott’s political enemies. Twelve years ago, a group of thugs hired by Duke Ekdal had ambushed a gathering of Guiger executives and slaughtered them all. Since it was a birthday party, the families of the Guiger executives were also present, and no one survived. Among the dead were seven children under the age of ten.

Afterward, Lord Wolfscott ordered that the personal details of the Guiger executives be kept confidential. They weren’t even allowed to ask each other about their identities, and it became a strict work policy. He also ordered them to wear masks at all times while on duty and forbade them from revealing their occupation to neighbors. Thanks to that tearful consideration, Mr. Kruk, who had lived next door to me for four years, believed I was a young businessman. Even the subordinates didn’t know the faces of the executives. The executives, at least, recognized each other’s faces, but for years now, they had only addressed each other by nicknames.

That’s how Leopard ended up with his annoying habit of giving everyone nicknames. Redfox was the name he’d whimsically given to someone he had fallen for at Leopard’s gay bar, “Snow White.”

I stubbed out my cigarette and said, “It doesn’t suit him at all. How on earth does he look like a Redfox?”

“Because I’m Leopard, so he has to be Redfox. We’re a matching pair, don’t you think?”

“Spare me the lecture; I’m too tired for it.”

“Anyway, hurry up and get him before someone else does. I’ll be outside waiting.”

We met Redfox at the “Snow White” bar, which we frequented once we started our escapades. Thinking back to the first time we saw him still makes me laugh.

It was a few days after we ditched our scouting mission on 42nd Street. We were, as usual, lounging in “Snow White,” drinking vodka.

“Excuse me, would you mind if this guest joined you? There’s no space anywhere else.”

The waiter approached us sheepishly, apologetic. Our eyes shifted toward the figure standing next to him. A dark figure, wrapped in a musty coat that went all the way down to his feet, stood there. Only his chin was visible under a large hood that covered most of his face. He looked like something straight out of a Munch painting. The first thought that popped into both of our minds was, “How utterly dreadful.”

We reluctantly agreed to let him join us, but for the next hour, we didn’t say a word to him. He, too, ordered a single cocktail and remained silent. The atmosphere was so dismal that afterward, we joked about it, saying, “It felt like we were holding our breath in front of a witch, waiting for the results of a fortune-telling.” His first impression was that bleak and desolate. It was unbelievable.

The gloomy aura that radiated from him seemed to wrap around the table, and no one else came near us. Normally, we were the most popular guys in the bar, turning heads whenever we walked in. But that night was a first.

Just as we exchanged glances, feeling annoyed by the whole situation, Redfox, feeling hot, pushed back his hood. The mood shifted in an instant.

A cascade of amber hair tumbled down. It was impossibly long, like a blizzard of snow, reaching all the way to the floor. I was so stunned by this display that I subconsciously set down my vodka glass. He lazily swept the hair over his shoulder and, without a word, fixed his indifferent gaze back on his cocktail glass.

Leopard later joked, “That’s when I finally understood why the bar’s called Snow White,” but what I actually thought of was a famous Chinese beauty who was said to often frown due to heartache. There was something hauntingly delicate about him.

Anyway, we were left speechless for a moment. Munch had transformed into Klimt in the blink of an eye, and it took us a while to recover.

“Ahem. Excuse me,” Leopard coughed awkwardly as he tried to start a conversation with Redfox. But Redfox didn’t respond. He didn’t even lift a finger, simply continuing to gaze down at his cocktail glass. I clicked my tongue, thinking, “Beautiful people really are the most aloof.”

Leopard mumbled awkwardly.

“Since we’re seated together, why don’t we go out together? Hmm, so how about spending the night with us both? Are you not into threesomes? Oh, and we, uh… like it a bit rough.”

I clicked my tongue and laughed into my vodka glass. Leopard’s awkward attempt at seduction was pathetic. Just look at that cold expression. A complete failure, no doubt. Redfox didn’t look like the type to allow two muscular guys, each over 190 cm tall, let alone to go along with rough sex. Definitely a no-go.

My intuition was never wrong… I chuckled to myself, sipping my vodka, when Redfox slowly lifted his head. His eyes were blue.

“Sure.”

I almost spat out my vodka.

“Shall we go then?”

Leopard jumped up, ecstatic. We headed straight to a hotel in front of Guiger’s headquarters. Though Redfox had easily accepted the idea of a wild night, he was unexpectedly particular about certain details. But aside from that, he went along with our requests, and we left the hotel fully satisfied. After that, we often ran into Redfox at the bar.

Redfox would always leave with whoever approached him first. To put it simply, whoever made the first move won. He was beautiful, but his pride wasn’t as high as his looks suggested. We often found ourselves watching other guys snatch him away at the last minute, leaving us frustrated. Leopard would complain that it was more thrilling than American football.

However, we were sure that the night with us had been Redfox’s first time with a man. At least, that’s what I felt during our first encounter. Leopard, who enjoyed French-style sex—fellatio—said he had a similar impression. To top it off, when I applied oil during foreplay, Redfox had asked, “What are you doing?” That alone made it a memorable experience.

Redfox was a great partner. His skin was pale, but his body was hot. The way he lowered his gaze and moaned was exquisite. When he tilted his head back and parted his lips, it was simply mesmerizing. He also didn’t cling afterward. Despite our frequent encounters, he never once asked for our names. We figured he wasn’t the type to become an annoyance.

We had good reasons to keep our flings discreet. If word got out that Guiger’s chief and deputy were frequenting gay bars while their subordinates were out toiling in the streets… Lord Wolfscott hearing about it would be the least of our worries. Though unlikely, we hated drawing unnecessary attention.

Today, Redfox was sitting at the bar again, fiddling with a cocktail glass in his worn-out coat. I stifled a laugh, recalling how nervous he looked a few days ago in front of the headquarters. The way he had hurriedly shoved his long hair under his hood, like stuffing a package, was hilarious. He was an unusual beauty, no doubt.

I quickly approached him, briefly admiring his lips under the hood. They were thin and small. The thought of covering them in cum sent a thrill through me.

Cheerfully, I said, “It’s been three days. How about joining us tonight?”

꙳•❅*ִ

“The signs are getting stranger. Accidents keep happening. Just yesterday, the opera house caught fire during a performance. You should take a look.”

The client spoke.

I took a deep breath and focused.

“That person is targeting you again. He’s puffing away on a pipe, lost in thought, almost as if he’s longing for a lover.”

“That bastard again!”

The client exploded with anger.

“As if it could be anyone else.”

“Of course. Just confirming my suspicions. I’m not surprised by his identity. So what should I do?”

“He’s decided it’s not the right time yet. The recent accidents were just a way to test how cautious you are. When was the last time you were in contact with him?”

“A week ago, at the Crown Prince’s coronation.”

“Then he was still undecided a week ago. His thoughts might’ve changed since. You should prepare to confront him soon.”

There was a long pause.

I spoke again.

“You’re scared, aren’t you?”

“To be honest, yes. I’m scared to even leave the house. I’m sick of loitering around parties.”

“But you must go.”

Silence again. Only the client’s fearful stillness filled the room.

After a long moment, the client sighed deeply, like a candle burning low.

“Then tell me what that bastard planned a week ago.”

“As I mentioned, he was waiting to see what would happen, undecided. Let me take a closer look… No, it’s not that he was waiting; he’s more uncertain about what to do next.”

“That makes sense. He can’t simply arrest me and kill me because of my status. But faking an accident? That’s risky, since I’m so careful. Of course he’s unsure.”

“And he’s dealing with another headache right now. He’s plotting something big, but it’s not going well, and it’s stressing him out.”

“A stupid thug trying to think… no wonder his head hurts. Ha!”

“Don’t worry. As long as I’m here, we have little chance of losing. Just like always.”

“Thank you. That’s reassuring. But your voice doesn’t sound good lately. Are you ill?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Cold as ever. Anyway, that bastard’s been cracking down on magic lately. Looks like he’s trying to deal with you, but… ha, not a chance.”

“He did seem quite stressed about that.”

Some notes:- The narrative features two distinct points of view: Ray's and Messara's (if not, more). I’ve used line breaks to separate these POVs to avoid confusion.

- Leopard will refer to Ray using female pronouns (she/her), occasionally mixing them with male pronouns (he/him).