Warning: Mild violent themes.
----
"Come on, Y/N! Where are you?" Asher breathed, voice subdued to not attract the attention of any eavesdroppers outside the enclosed space he stood in. He bit hard on his lip as he pressed his phone to his ear and tapped his foot restlessly.
Why weren't you picking up? It was the sixth time he called. Perhaps you were in the bathroom? Taking a shower? Fell asleep? Did you go somewhere? If you did, you would have told him...right? Anxiety goaded his heart into overdrive, the powerful thumps palpable against his ribcage.
Boris and he had spent the first couple of hours walking around town and held pleasant conversations. Asher got to know about his ailing father and he told Boris about his aspirations of leading a relatively normal life. While the older man laughed at what he perceived was an absurdity, it could not be any closer to the truth. Asher found himself enjoying the presence of the quirky man and was beginning to be thankful that he took this opportunity to create a friendship - an essential element of living a normal life, according to his former psychiatrist - until Boris received a phone call.
By that time, they had stopped by a café and were having dinner. From the serious expression that enfolded the round face once he looked at who the caller was, Asher deduced that it must have been someone important - perhaps the boss he had briefly mentioned. His reasoning was confirmed when Boris blurted "Yes, Boss!" while the raucous static voice on the line kept blabbering on.
If it weren't for how vociferous the caller was, then Asher wouldn't have overheard the entire unsettling conversation. He wouldn't have felt such an intense urge to call you. The conversation exchanged between the boss and the presumed employee was etched into his mind.
"So, are you with the boy now?"
"Yes, Boss." He squeaked, covering his mouth as he spoke into the phone's mic. While other people wouldn't be able to discern a word, Asher was experienced with eavesdropping and could comprehend every syllable. "Now is not the best time to call, so-"
"You don't get to order me around like that! Who do you think you are, huh? Tell me."
Boris emitted a long groan and further decreased his speaking volume, to a point where Asher could barely hear it. "...Fatso Bob."
'Bob?' Asher thought, flabbergasted. 'Was Bob a nickname? Or a shortening of Boris? Or, could it be that Boris was a fake name...?'
"Exactly. Anyway, I called because the girl's shitface brother escaped! One of the goons must have dropped their knife near him, 'cause when they returned to the room after a lunch break, the Cyril bastard had just cut the ropes of the parents."
Upon the mention of 'Cyril', Asher's blood froze and his face drained of colour. 'It must be a coincidence,' he kept thinking to himself. 'There were many people out there who go by the name Cyril, and who were also brothers...right?'
"Crash managed to get both of the parents, though the dumbass..." Asher failed to decrypt the end of the sentence but his hearing picked up the next utterance. "...but that slimy twerp got away!"
Boris looked lost for words. He opened and closed his mouth multiple times before he spoke again, this time his emotions making him forget about staying subtle. Or, at least, trying to. "What did you say? He...he did..."
"Yes yes, the boy got away - keep up! Anyways, this motherfucker might call the girl at any time and our cover might be blown. So get your business done with the boy quickly."
"...Yes, Boss. We'll...we'll be going to the place in just a bit. I'll see you there."
With three beeps, the line cut. Boris - or more like Bob - shoved the cell phone back in his pocket and resumed a serene expression. Without looking up from his plate of food, Asher felt the older man's stare boring into his form. He must've noticed how stiff Asher's shoulders were and how rigid his movements were while he mechanically picked up the loaded fork, chewed, put it back down and repeated the process. As the bolus of food rolled around Asher's tongue, his numbed tastebuds prevented the delectable taste from being processed. His hazel eyes stayed glued onto the creamy fettuccine carbonara on the china plate, the weight of his realisation rendering him unable to focus on anything else.
It dawned on him how much of a massive mistake it was to associate himself with the visitor. No, 'massive' was an understatement. Boris or Bob or whoever the hell this guy was, he was nothing but dangerous. It seemed like the group Bob was working with had kept his precious partner's family hostage and now, while her brother ran away, her parents were still captured.
Asher dug his thumbnail deep into the pad of his forefinger and bit down on his tongue until he tasted iron, all to prevent him from stabbing the fork on his plate into Bob's carotid at that very moment. It wasn't the right time to unleash his wrath. Not yet at least, considering the crowd of people surrounding him and the high likelihood of imprisonment, or even death, if he were to be arrested for murder as an outsider.
Rationality finally seeped into his cognition, after his pain-inducing technique for self-control, as he realised that he needed to warn you.
Asher had excused himself, saying that he needed the bathroom, and rushed to the cubicle where he now awkwardly stood inside. After hearing your voicemail for the sixth time, regardless of how much he loved listening to the sweet melody of your voice, he relented and closed his phone.
"Are you done yet in there?!" There was a bang on the cubicle door as a rough masculine voice shouted. To Asher's annoyance, the café only had two cubicles, one for each sex. "I'm just about to burst and this entire place will be covered in shit if you don't come out soon!"
Vexed, Asher thrust the phone into his trouser pocket and opened the door. The bearded man outside shoved past him, pushed the young man out and locked the door. Asher rushed back to his seat and saw that the table was empty of their dishes.
"Oh, you're back! They took up the plates just before. Also, you don't have to worry about the bill, because I paid for it." Bob beamed, radiating a deceiving cordiality. Asher wanted to wipe off that stupid grin so badly, preferably by slicing off his plump lips and shoving it down his throat.
"If you insist." He pulled a polite smile of his own. "It's getting quite late now, so I best be heading home."
"No, wait! There's one last place I want to take you to." Asher's breath hitched as he detected the desperation in the croaky voice of the charlatan.
It was a no-brainer that Bob wanted to do something to Asher in this particular "place", possibly to get to his Y/N. Sensing the impending danger, a part of him wanted to run back to the hotel and gather you in a tight embrace. But he knew that would be fruitless, since it would likely heighten the felon's suspicions that he discovered his true intentions and nothing good could come out of that. Besides, if the man was planning on taking him to an isolated place away from the eyes of authorities, then it gave Asher a chance to attack and get away with it.
With the new plan of action in mind, he smirked to himself. 'If only I knew things would end up like this, I would've taken more tools along with me. Hopefully, a pocket knife would do.'
"Really?" Asher teemed his voice with curiosity, masking his malice. "Well, as long as it doesn't take too long."
"It won't, trust me. Come along~."
Bob led the way out of the café and into different streets, finally strolling through a quiet alley. He stopped in front of a clammy steel door, produced a key from his back pocket and unlocked the deadbolt. The door opened with an abrasive creak at the rusted hinges, revealing a room inundated with pitch black. He entered through and turned on a switch, where a puny bulb, hung from the ceiling by a thread, flickered on. Dim incandescent rays pooled in the centre of the concrete floor, forming a narrow spotlight and throwing shadows onto the walls of the small room.
Once Asher walked in, Bob shut the door and locked it.
"Nice room," Bob heard Asher say behind him. "Is this all you wanted to show me, or...?"
'I'm sorry, Asher, for what I'm about to do.' Bob licked his bottom lip as he slipped a hand into a hidden pocket inside his jacket, grabbing the towel and chloroform. Guilt nagged at his heartstrings as he discreetly poured a strong dosage of the liquid onto the white towel. 'You seem like such a good kid too.'
Just as he turned around, a cold edge poked at the tender skin under Bob's jaw.
"Not so fast, Bob." Maddened with bloodlust, wide hazel eyes stared down at Bob while Asher held the knife to his fleshy throat. After he sniffed the air, a smug smile marked his lips as he spoke in a harsh, venomous whisper. "Chloroform, huh? Bad choice. You do know that it takes five minutes to knock someone out with that alone, right? It was a rookie mistake I made at the start, so you must be new to this."
Relishing in Bob's cowering form while Asher forced him into a corner, the latter didn't hear the soft footsteps skulking behind him until a force struck the back of his knees. Asher yelped and dropped onto his shins, his pocket knife clattered onto the sullied tiles. A sharp pain swiftly invaded his neck before Asher fell limp and sank into unconsciousness.
"B-boss, you're here," Bob stuttered, observing Wellington yank out the hypodermic needle. Now out cold, Asher's body plummeted onto the despotic man's feet.
"You can't do anything right, can ya?" Wellington kicked the floppy figure off his black derby shoes and hurled daggers at the stout thug through a mordant gaze. Said thug shakily stood up and kept his eyes down in shame.
"Sorry, Boss." Bob chanced a glimpse at the young boy's body, the sight unnerving him more than he wanted to admit. "He's...not dead, right?"
"Of course not! Now grab him and move him to the other room, while I go and get Y/N."
"...Yes, boss."
----
Bumps in the road rattled the sturdy carriage wheels as you fumbled with your bag to keep its contents from spilling. Hugging the accessory to your chest, you stared at the seat opposing you. A thick velvet trimming covered the sitting area, chocolate in colour and an elegant pattern embroidered over it. Above the seat in front of you was a small window, through which you could see the back of the coachman's head.
You diverted your attention to the window beside you, which exhibited an extensive view of the surrounding scenery. Brick-laden buildings, humble stalls, blossoming flower beds and gawking onlookers were what you most commonly observed. In the far distance, a glimmer of the gargantuan council building peeked through the clouds and fog, further obscured by the darkness of the never-ending night sky. A day hadn't gone by when you didn't miss daylight.
'Maybe he'll know something about that. Aah, so many questions!' You yawned and stretched your arms. 'I can only hope to remember all of them-'
"Ow!" Momentum made you hit your head against the window as the coach pulled to a stop. Shortly after, your carriage door was opened and the coachman stepped aside for your exit.
"We've arrived at your destination, m' lady," he said, bowing his head.
Your desire to stretch your legs overpowered your sense of common courtesy, causing you to jump straight onto the road, skipping the petite steps hung under the door. In doing so, you splashed into a shallow puddle and made your boots wet. Slightly perturbed by your careless attitude, the coachman closed the door and hopped back onto the perch. He didn't waste a second before lashing the reins on the two horses, which galloped away into the distance.
You were dropped off at a rather deserted part of town. Despite all the tall buildings that were erected shoulder to shoulder on the side of the street opposite to where you stood, there was no sign of any inhabitants. Within your current field of vision, there was not a single living being other than yourself. The aberrant flickering of the lamp posts and the pin-drop silence gave the street an unsettling atmosphere. Remnants of last night's rainfall dwelled in the partially filled gutters and storm drains, as well as the small lagoons filling the recesses between the stones embedded in the pavement.
As if in rebellion against the gloomy ambience, light splashed onto the area encircling you and you swerved around to see the source.
In front of your eyes was a glass window that spanned the front of the building, from the roof to the floor, where golden hues emitted out. However, the warmly lit backdrop was all you could see regarding the specific contents on the other side. It must have been tempered to be akin to a one-way mirror since you could only see yourself and the dismal street in the reflection - perhaps for maximum privacy for the patrons inside.
'Was I meant to come here? That coachman wasn't extremely clear about what exactly my destination was.'
Your hands hovered over the door handle before you opened it. Immediately flooded by the outpour of light beams, you squinted and blinked until your pupils adjusted to the scene.
Your jaw dropped.
Silk white tablecloths swathed the assortment of vintage tables, each with a set of two antique padded chairs. Chatter buzzed in the air from the guests, who all adorned attire so elegant that looking down at your own apparel embarrassed you. Poker-faced waiters and waitresses navigated through the obstacles while holding multiple dishes along the entire length of both arms. Gentle romantic strums of a grand piano accompanied the dialogue. You closely examined the guests and realised most pairs at a table exchanged lovestruck looks.
'Did he really take the 'date' thing seriously?! I swear he was joking or it was a slip of the tongue.' You gulped, tightening the hold on your bag strap - out of determination or nervousness, you didn't know.
Scanning the place, your [e/c] eyes finally landed on a table in the dead centre. A broad back of a tuxedo faced you, presumably belonging to a young male, as he kept checking his watch every few seconds.
"Excuse me, madam." You jumped, not seeing the waiter approach your side. "Are you on the waiting list?"
"I- um- well, Mr Ga-"
No sooner had those utterances left your mouth than the figure you previously eyed shot up and turned to you. Gael broke into a grin as he waved to you, pale hand becoming a blur as it moved in childlike excitement. Dark brown hair tousled, his cerulean orbs blazed under his forehead bangs and his facial features were soft yet defined. You couldn't help but admit it - he was incredibly handsome.
You returned the gesture with a meek wave of your own. Before you could take a step forward, he made his way over to you and addressed the waiter, telling him that you were with him for the night. The waiter nodded and disappeared into the kitchen.
"Hey, you made it!" Another charming smile. "Come, our table is upstairs."
He guided you by a firm hold on your shoulders to the other side of the restaurant, where a set of wooden stairs stood. Ascending up the steps, where the clack of your boots gradually overpowered the fading instrumentals, your gaze took in a long hallway of closed doors. The two of you kept walking straight forward until Gael stopped in front of one of the far-most doors, which creaked open after the young man unlocked it with a small key.
Inside was an exquisitely designed room, furbished with antique carpets, an expensive-looking painting and a single set of two chairs and a table in the dead centre. A gramophone, that stood on a coffee table, was positioned against the far corner and played the same romantic strums that you heard downstairs. On the wall opposite of you was a large window that displayed a stunning view of the town. Remembering the dreary nature of the quiet street you were dropped off at, you surmised that this part of the restaurant faced the opposite direction.
"I figured we might need the privacy," Gael chuckled beside you. "Hope you don't mind."
"No, no, thank you. Don't want any eavesdroppers now, would we?"
"Exactly."
Adorning a graceful smile, he walked over to one of the chairs and pulled it out, gesturing to you that it was your seat. You nodded in thanks. He waited for you to sit down before he did so himself.
"How is your hand?" You pointed your gaze towards the palm that used to have a gash across it from the party. "Did you remember to book an appointment with your doctor the next morning?"
Pink dusted his cheeks as he peered down at the said hand, now fully healed except for a pale scar. The memory of the event, from the moment the wine glass shattered to the moment you kindly dressed the wound, inadvertently brought a gentle smile to his lips. The mellow feeling in his heart returned and sent a shiver down his torso.
"I did. It's okay now, thank you for your concern." He presented the palm and dorsum of the hand to you, proving his statement. "Really, I'm grateful to have it so well looked after."
"Ahem!" Both of you flinched when the waiter who stood beside your table cleared his throat. "May I take your order?"
"Um..." You peered closely at the menu and marvelled the wide variety of food displayed. Scanning over the options for a third time, a certain delectable dish caught your eye. "Can I get this, please?"
Gael nodded. "I'll have whatever she's having."
The waiter scrambled the food options onto his notepad and, when he finished, nodded to you two before heading back into the kitchen.
"You have a good taste in food..." He trailed off when he saw you lean towards your satchel bag and produce your notebook. You opened to a new page and clicked your pen. "Right to business, huh?" he mused.
"I try to use my time productively," you lied. In truth, the situation and its uncanny resemblance to a romantic date - especially with the other patrons coming here for that purpose - made you feel awkward. So you wanted to get the task done without wasting a minute.
"Fair enough," the young man hummed. "So, fire away with the questions!"
"Wait, before that..." You proceeded to tell him about the blue dress in your possession and asked if he wanted it back, noting that you'll pay for the ripped bottom layer when you could. He laughed and waved you off, replying with how he bought it for you as a courtesy gift for your attendance to the party - which you had all right to say no to - thus urged you to keep it.
"Okay, now then." Gael propped his elbows on the table, interlocked his fingers and rested his chin on them. "Are there any particular questions you want to ask?"
'Too many.'
Your conversation with Randall and images of the disgraceful article flashed in your mind. Looking up at the target of all this harassment, you could only gaze in wonder. You closely observed his gentle smile and relaxed shoulders. Simply taking one look at this man, no one would be able to tell the struggles he must go through every day.
You spared a moment of hesitation, rolling your words in your tongue before you articulated them.
"It...seems like the media isn't particularly fond of you. I mean, I read today's article...a-and..." you stammered, "how they talk about you; it's absolutely atrocious."
"That's not really a question," he giggled, "but if you're asking my thoughts on it, I simply ignore them. They've been happening for far too long that I've just become used to it."
"But..."
Gael eyed your indignant frown and his lips curved upwards, eyes half-lidded.
"You pity me."
"What?"
He let out a chuckle. "I appreciate the concern but it's honestly something that I can deal with. Please, don't work yourself up for something that doesn't directly affect you."
Despite the carefree tone of his answer and his pleasant smile, his eyes spoke otherwise. Traces of sorrow and pain were tangled in the sea of emotion.
"'Doesn't directly affect me'? You are quite wrong." His countenance morphed into one of surprise. "With all due respect, Mr Underwood, this is my field. Not just my occupation, but my passion. These twerps who call themselves 'writers' give a bad name to this profession and a bad name to the rest of the community. Besides, now with today's 'The Still Times' publication, the issue does directly involve me."
"Ah, I...read that section of the article. The disgusting way he talked about you..." His fringe cast an opaque shadow over the top half of his face. "It's unforgivable."
Feeling the heavy air weigh down on your shoulders, you regretted initiating the interview with such a serious topic. In an effort to remedy the mood, you insisted that you weren't personally offended and that, rather, the issue was the writer's embarrassing insincerity and the injustice inflicted on journalism. But his frown didn't budge as he stayed deep in thought.
You twiddled your thumbs and looked out the window beside you. It had started raining again. Small translucent drops streamed down the glass pane as the serene pitter patters dissipated some of your tension.
"Mr Underwo-"
"Oh, would you stop calling me that? It makes me feel old." He leaned his cheek against his palm, his pupils no longer cloudy. "Besides, I don't go around calling you by your last name, do I?"
You blinked. 'Why am I realising this just now?' "Okay..." You outstretched an arm, ready for a handshake. "Nice to make your acquaintance, Gael."
He giggled. "My my, you say it so sweetly." Grasping your hand, he lightly shook it up and down. "The pleasure is mine, Miss Y/N."
"Er...I thought we were now officially on a first-name basis?"
His suave grin faltered as he blinked. "Oh, I, uh...my apologies." He cleared his throat and hastily shook your hand once again. Hesitancy lingered in his voice as he tested vocalising your first name alone. "The pleasure is mine...Y/N."
'Why does my name sound so much prettier when he says it?' you absent-mindedly thought as the two of you retracted your hand. Upon processing what the voice in your head exclaimed, heat tickled your cheeks. You only hoped that red didn't accompany it and make your embarrassment all the more apparent.
Silence once again diffused in the air. To busy yourself, you flickered to the questions inked onto the open page in your notebook and, upon seeing two particular words, you straightened in resolve.
"What can you tell me about the background of this town, namely the Glass Kingdom?"
His shoulders visibly stiffened when you verbalised the last two words. "Um...if you think of the Council as the governing body of the town, the Glass Kingdom is essentially the governing body over the Council. But that's not important. I can tell you about-"
"Bullshit! I keep seeing it everywhere, yet no one cares to explain what it is. Also, why weren't we visitors shown this 'kingdom' during our tour? Is it true they made the town's coins and, if so, how did they make it so that it causes a burning sensation for people other than the one who owns it?"
Gael kept silent for a few moments. It soon extended to a minute, as he scratched his chin and was back to being deep in thought.
"...You wouldn't believe me," he finally muttered.
"Try me."
He flashed you an amused smirk before directing his gaze to the middle of the table. "You see these roses, Y/N?"
You looked down to the centre of the table and saw two petite white roses, sitting inside an exquisite glass vase. A petal descended from the stem of the one that drooped the most and drifted onto the tablecloth, landing with an elegant sway. Strangely enough, it seemed as if the flowers were emitting a light of their own, including the petal that just fell.
"Yeah?"
"Touch them."
Quirking an eyebrow, you hesitated before following through with his order. You brushed your fingers against the tip of a petal and, as it rebounded from the force of your touch, the apparent white light brightened. The luminescence was most concentrated at the exact area contact was made, before the radiance slowly faded and returned to its baseline lustre.
"I..." The ethereal sight took your breath away, rendering you unable to produce a coherent sentence. "How did...wait...I wasn't...um..."
"No, you weren't seeing things. If you were any other visitor, I would have told you that there was a special touch-sensitive technology within the fibres of the stem and petals, and most do buy that explanation. But you aren't. So, Y/N, any guesses?" His eyes twinkled.
"I'm not even going to try."
"Aw, just one teeny tiny guess!" He bit down on his lip, which was curved into a cheeky smile. His expression likened that of an excitable child who knew a spicy secret and couldn't wait to tell all their friends, parents, neighbours and the mailman. "Do you want a hint?"
"Mr Underwo- Gael, I'm not here to play any games." Crossing your arms, you tapped your fingers impatiently. But it was more out of frustration for the fact that you had not a single clue. "What does this have to do with the Glass Kingdom?"
"Everything. Now, since you seem to be struggling, I'll give you a hint. It's a five-letter word and it started with M."
You scrunched your eyebrows. From the wide, toothy grin sprawled across his attractive face, you wouldn't be surprised if he wanted to play 'Hangman' on a napkin the next minute. "Five letters and starting with M...? Muh...music?" He shook his head. "Money?" A breathy chuckle but he repeated his action. "Mm...metal...?" Again. "Pfft, I don't know, magic?"
Gael was about to rotate his head to indicate another negatory response when he stopped. Processing your answer, he gave you an emphatic nod.
After searching for any trace of mischief on his countenance, and evidently finding none, you deadpanned.
"So...you're saying that magic exists here?" Another nod. "Well, the chance I'll believe that is just about the same as the chance of my boss giving me a raise I deserve. In other words, none."
"It's true, believe it or not. Unless you want to humour me with a better explanation? Or, would you rather be kept in the dark, like the rest of the visitors?"
"...Fine." You drew a long breath, forcing your cognition to accept the otherwise implausible justification. "I'll take your word for it. Now, would you care to explain?"
"Gladly. Are you ready for me to start?"
'...This is strange,' you thought, observing his Cheshire smile. 'The fact that he's willing to tell me so much can only mean that he wants something in return. Money? No, he has plenty of that...Information, perhaps? No, what could I possibly know that he'd want to know about?'
Nonetheless, you clicked your pen and scraped the nib against the blank page. Whatever his ulterior motive may be, you weren't going to miss out on an opportunity for valuable, and otherwise unattainable, data. Even if this was all some elaborate joke, which you concluded to be unlikely at this point, surely you would be able to sieve out something useful.
"I'm ready."