Chapter 7: Silk Masks and Wolves in the Balcony
[I. The Princely Predator] In Azmareel, money couldn't buy respect, but it could buy the suit that forced people to feign it. Inside the master suite of the Manor of the Forgotten Baron, Alexander Milov stood before a towering, gilded mirror. Two days ago, the frame was choked with grime; now, it shone like a sun, polished by the new servants of the manor.
Alexander adjusted his cuffs. He wore a bespoke three-piece suit of midnight wool, a silk shirt as white as fresh bone, and a cravat of obsidian satin. His hair was slicked back with surgical precision, and his silver pocket watch hung from a chain like a ticking heart.
He looked as if he had been born to a throne, not forged in the gutters. Yet, his ash-grey eyes remained unchanged—the eyes of a wolf draped in the skin of a lamb.
Behind him, Silas tugged at his own collar, grunting in discomfort. He looked like a mountain stuffed into a tuxedo—formidable, terrifying, and dangerously out of place.
"I feel like I'm wrapped in a burial shroud, Boss," Silas grumbled, his thick neck straining against the fabric. "How do these nobles fight while wearing this?"
Alexander offered a ghost of a smile. "They don't fight with their hands, Silas. They fight with their signatures and their whispers. Tonight, your weapons are silence and a lethal posture. Let me do the talking."
[II. The Royal Opera: A Beautiful Cesspool] The Royal Opera House was the only jewel in Azmareel that the soot hadn't touched. A gargantuan limestone edifice topped with a gold leaf dome, its facade blazed with hundreds of modern electric bulbs, turning the night around it into a synthetic day.
Luxury steam-carriages and sleek black automobiles lined the entrance, discharging men in fur-lined coats and women dripping with diamonds. As Alexander stepped out of his vehicle, he was hit by a wave of sensory decadence: expensive Parisian perfumes, the rich aroma of Turkish tobacco, and the underlying crispness of chilled champagne.
Alexander activated his Vision.
He didn't see beauty. He saw Soul-Pollution. The auras of the elite weren't Grey (Fear) or Red (Rage) like the poor. They were Deep Violet (Arrogance and Ego), Viscous Pink (Perverted Desires), and a Sickly, Faded Green (Suppressed Envy).
"What a magnificent cesspool," Alexander whispered as he climbed the red-carpeted stairs.
At the grand entrance, the guards checked invitations. When Alexander presented his black card, the guard's eyebrows shot up. He bowed with an exaggerated, almost fearful respect. "The Vostok Private Box, sir. Please, this way."
Alexander entered the Grand Hall. The ceiling was a fresco of angels and demons locked in eternal combat, and crystal chandeliers hung like frozen clusters of starlight. Every eye turned toward him. A new face. Handsome, mysterious, and walking with a predatory confidence.
The whispers ignited like dry tinder: "Who is he?" "Is he a Duke's son from the South?" "I heard he's the man who bought the Dead Harbor in a single night..."
[III. The Tragedy of the Forgotten King] In the upper balcony, Elena Vostok was waiting. She wore a gown the color of arterial blood and white silk gloves that reached her elbows. She looked like a crowned queen watching her subjects from a divine height.
When she saw Alexander, her Violet Aura flared with genuine intrigue. "I expected you to wear something less... exquisite," she said, offering her hand.
Alexander bowed and kissed her hand lightly, his eyes never leaving hers. "A wolf must blend with the flock before the hunt begins, Elena."
He sat beside her, while Silas stood at the door of the box like a silent iron colossus, his eyes scanning the crowd for threats.
"Look down," Elena whispered, gesturing with her feathered fan toward two prominent boxes on the opposite side. "On the right... that is Don Valero. The Patriarch. They control the high-end vice and gambling, claiming descent from the Old Kings. Their aura is Pure Arrogance."
Alexander looked. Valero's aura was Faded and Eroding at the edges. Power in decline.
"And on the left..." Elena's eyes narrowed. "Your favorite enemy."
Victor Kruger was there. He was a short, stout man with a face so red it looked perpetually on the verge of combustion. He was currently barking at a servant for pouring his wine too slowly. His aura was a Rotten mix of Deep Red (Rage) and Pitch Black (Terror).
Suddenly, the lights dimmed. The Opera began: The Tragedy of the Forgotten King.
As the soprano's voice soared—a sound both mournful and powerful—it happened. The music didn't reach Alexander as sound; it reached him as a Key.
A violent spike of pain hammered into his temple. He closed his eyes, and the Opera House vanished.
[FLASHBACK] He wasn't in a box. He was a small child, running through these very corridors. A tall woman in white silk held his hand. Her face was a blur of light and shadow. "Remember, Alexander..." her voice trembled. "This song... it is our secret. When you hear it, know that you are safe." Then—the roar of gunfire. Screams. The woman shoved him into a dark, velvet-lined closet. "Stay here! Don't come out, no matter what happens!" A pool of crimson liquid began to seep under the closet door... Blood.
"Alexander?"
Elena's voice pulled him back. He was breathing hard, a cold sweat breaking on his brow. His hand was gripping the velvet armrest so hard the wood began to groan.
Elena looked at him with Dark Blue Curiosity. "You've turned pale. Did you see a ghost?"
Alexander wiped his brow with a silk handkerchief, his pulse slowly stabilizing. "No..." he said, his voice raspy. "The music was just... more moving than I anticipated."
But in his mind, a terrifying certainty took root: I didn't come from the streets. I fell to the streets.
[IV. The Golden Foyer: Meeting the Monsters] During the intermission, the "Golden Foyer" became a battlefield of egos. The nobles parted like the Red Sea as Alexander and Elena entered, with Silas looming behind them.
In the center stood Kruger, surrounded by four guards with concealed weapons. Nearby, Don Valero watched with a sardonic smirk, sipping wine as if enjoying a play.
Alexander stood face-to-face with Kruger. The industrialist was a head shorter, but his rage made him look bloated.
"You..." Kruger hissed. "You stole my shipment. You maimed my men. You sent me scrap in a box. Do you think a pretty suit will protect you from me?"
Alexander didn't blink. He kept his hands in his pockets, his posture relaxed. "I didn't steal anything, Victor. I merely collected a transit tax through my territory. As for the box... it was a piece of advice. And my advice is usually very expensive."
Kruger's face turned a shade of purple that matched his tie. "Your territory? You're a sewer rat! By tomorrow, there won't be enough of you left to fill a jar!"
Silas took a half-step forward, but Alexander stopped him with a subtle gesture. Alexander leaned in until his lips were inches from Kruger's ear. He spoke in a whisper that only Kruger and the nearby Valero could hear.
"You scream too much, Victor. Your aura tells me you're terrified. Terrified because the police are asking about your missing funds. Terrified because your workers speak my name more than yours. And terrified... because you know I don't play by the 'Old Rules' of honor."
Alexander smiled, a cold, jagged expression that made the blood in Kruger's veins turn to ice. "Attack me tomorrow if you wish. But remember... I know where you sleep. And I know you love your art collection. It would be a shame if your private gallery suffered a... 'regrettable accident'."
Kruger recoiled. "You threaten me? Here? In front of everyone?"
"I don't threaten," Alexander said, turning to leave as Elena took his arm. "I predict the future."
As they walked away, Don Valero raised his glass toward Alexander from a distance—a silent salute from an old wolf to a young one.
[V. The Realization] On the balcony outside, Alexander breathed in the freezing night air. He had won the round. Valero saw him as a peer. Kruger saw him as a nightmare. And Elena... she saw him as a winning investment.
But the soprano's song still echoed in his mind. The woman in white. The blood under the door.
"Who am I?" he whispered to the wind.
"You're the next King of this city," Silas said from behind, thinking the question was for him.
Alexander looked out at the sprawling, soot-stained skyline. "Maybe, Silas... but I think I've been here before. This city owes me memories. And I'm going to take them back, with interest."