Chapter 47
“Hey, I didn’t hog the place, okay? It’s just that, for some reason, there aren’t any customers today besides us.”
Cheshire’s protest was met with nothing but a snort from Rabian.
“Who’d walk in when some thug with a face like yours is sitting front and center?”
“Like you’re one to talk.”
Objectively speaking, both of them looked equally rough around the edges.
The difference was in the details.
If Rabian resembled a flashy street punk, then Cheshire was the kind of man whose very appearance could strike terror into someone standing a hundred meters away. His slicked-back midnight-blue hair, piercing lemon-yellow eyes, the tattoo that stretched from his nape to one side of his cheek, and the line of piercings stitched along both sides of his mouth—at a glance, it looked as though his lips were grotesquely ripped open in a perpetual grin.
In short, he looked every bit the part of a “Cheshire,” a man one might mistake for a deranged killer if encountered on a dark street.
And here he was, in the middle of a cute little café, savoring a parfait with a pleased look on his face—an image so out of place it felt like a scene from a horror flick. But like most people cursed with intimidating features, Cheshire himself was the only one oblivious to the effect.
“Throwing personal insults, are we? And since when do you play at being a respectable adult? I heard you’re raising a kid these days—is that true?”
“……”
“Oh? So it is true?”
At Rabian’s sudden silence, Cheshire chuckled low in his throat. Then, scooping up a generous spoonful of parfait piled high with cream, he shoved it into his mouth, eyes glowing with bliss.
“Oooh, a seasonal limited edition, huh? Delicious… By the way, how cute is this kid of yours? If even Ferry says they’re adorable, then they must be drop-dead cute. Say, while we’re at it, why don’t you lend them to me for a day?”
“Oops. My hand slipped.”
Crash!
A plate of chocolate-bomb parfait went sailing through the air and smashed to pieces on the floor.
For a long beat, silence reigned.
Rabian, who had casually sent another man’s precious limited-edition parfait flying, only smiled shamelessly. Cheshire, however, stared down at the splattered remains with a face gone pale.
Meanwhile, Mercy and Ferry—who had been bickering over melon versus strawberry flavors—peered anxiously over the counter.
The poor shopkeeper behind the counter looked ready to collapse, his face the color of ash. He had poured his entire retirement fund into this parfait café, and now it seemed about to become the flashpoint for a gang war. His very soul looked ready to flee.
At last, Cheshire gave a sheepish little grin.
“Ah, I think you misunderstood. I only meant I wanted to invite them over to play with my son.”
“You don’t have a son.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Since when?”
The truth was, Cheshire—barely in his early thirties—had no son.
Nor a daughter.
Nor a wife.
What he meant was a certain boy under the protection of the Lynx syndicate.
“Fine, call him my foster son. Or my cover son.”
Cheshire tossed out excuses without a second thought, earning a glare of pure disgust from Rabian.
“Now what?” Cheshire bristled.
“If you want them to play together so badly, then your brat should be the one begging for it. Who are you to order people around?”
“Well, I would, but I’m being cautious, you see.”
“Cautious? Who the hell would recognize some snot-nosed foreign prince anyway?”
“Maybe, but his aunt’s still got her eyes on him. She hasn’t let go.”
“Persistent woman, that lady.”
Rabian, who could give anyone a run for their money in the matter of holding grudges, clicked his tongue with shameless disdain.
“In any case, don’t expect me to let that arrogant brat anywhere near her. Got it?”
“Arrogant? Our Den is polite and gentlemanly to a fault—”
“Chivalry died a long time ago.”
“Hey, not every man in this world is like you!”
Whether that was true or not, Rabian had no intention of letting some so-called foreign prince loiter around Nina.
It wasn’t just about security. After all, both sides had to hide their true identities.
He simply didn’t like it.
No—that wasn’t it. He hated the idea. Absolutely hated it.
As Rabian stewed on that thought, he suddenly noticed Cheshire watching him intently, and he flinched.
“What?”
“That girl… she’s not actually your daughter, is she?”
“Think whatever you want. If you called me here just to yap about this nonsense, I’m leaving. I’ve got a syndicate meeting to attend.”
“Wait, wait. Sit down. I called you for something important. Are you planning to head to the capital for the Carnival Festival?”
At that unexpected question, Rabian froze halfway to his feet.
“Why?”
“You know how the capital’s in an uproar over Hamelin, right? The whole eastern district’s buzzing.”
At the mention of Hamelin, Rabian’s eyes narrowed dangerously.
Cheshire, after reordering his limited parfait, leaned in with a meaningful look.
“Got anyone in mind who could be the culprit?”
“If I did, would I be sitting here? I’d have turned them in for the bounty by now.”
“Fair point.”
Twelve years ago, a naval war had broken out and dragged on for five years. Its aftermath had swelled the child trafficking market into a monstrous size—something anyone in the underworld knew well.
Even now, child kidnappers and sellers prowled beneath the surface.
But Hamelin was different. Fundamentally different.
Even the heads of the continent’s most notorious syndicates couldn’t guess Hamelin’s identity, and that was precisely why.
Child traders targeted war orphans from defeated nations, or children of the slums—kids no one would miss, or whom desperate parents willingly sold.
Hamelin, on the other hand, struck at the very heart of the Empire’s capital, kidnapping only the treasured children of the upper classes.
And then—returning them alive.
It was as if he were performing some twisted ritual.
He left them in the city square, missing only their fingernails, the whole act stinking of something disturbingly religious.
“Anyway, about this Hamelin business… There’s a big player in one of our dogfighting rings. Lost his daughter six years ago. You heard of him?”
At the word “dogfighting,” Mercy, sitting at the neighboring table with her fresh melon parfait, scowled. Rabian’s brows furrowed as well, though he kept his mouth shut.
In their world, criticizing another syndicate’s money-making operation was tantamount to declaring war.
The only exception was anything involving children—and even that was a relatively new unspoken rule, born only after the dethroned emperor, once a war hero, devoured Anubis.
“That guy came knocking at the office at dawn, asking for a job.”
Cheshire continued, spoon waving lazily.
Rabian raised an eyebrow.
“A job?”
“Yeah. He thinks his daughter might have been taken by Hamelin. Says maybe there are more victims than the ones we know about. Heard today’s newspaper report and started spiraling. Honestly, I doubt it. Hamelin only started last year.”
“……”
“Still, a customer’s request is a customer’s request. We’ve got to at least pretend to look into it. So… could you check it out when you head to the capital? Anything related to the investigation will do. Of course, we’ll compensate you properly. I’ll even send one of our executives along to assist.”
Rabian had already been planning to dig into the Hamelin case, but he replied with his usual cold indifference.
“Your so-called executive would just get in the way.”
“Harsh…”
“And even if it were possible, say Hamelin really did have victims from before last year… What good would that do? You said she disappeared six years ago? How old was she then?”
“About seven, I think.”
“You think her parents would even recognize her now?”
Even if she’d miraculously survived. Even if she were found alive like Lord Doubt had been—would her own parents recognize her after so long?
It was a merciless point, but Cheshire didn’t back down. He only twirled his spoon with a grin.
