"So, how was it? What did you think of that Cape? Did your heart skip a beat?"
"You're such a gossip, you noodle dragon! Of course not!"
"But from what you said, the two of you seemed to have a pleasant chat, didn't you?"
"So what if we did? Feelings can't be forced. Back then, I was just an ordinary police inspector — a so-called 'young lady' bearing the constant stares and whispers of my colleagues. I didn't have the time or energy for… that sort of thing. And besides, he didn't seem interested either."
"…"
"But he was different. My other suitors always looked bored whenever I talked about my work at the L.G.D. Cape, though — he actually listened. He asked questions, remembered details, even seemed genuinely fascinated by the cases I described."
"…You do realize how suspiciously that sounds right now?"
"I do not!"
———
So how did it all end up like this?
Ch'en lay flat on the soft sand of a quiet, private beach, staring blankly at Mephisto and Faust splashing in the shallow blue waves.
The beach was owned by the Cape Group — reserved for wealthy clients who preferred solitude and privacy.
Only this time, it had been "temporarily requisitioned" by the boss himself.
Alina sat nearby, smiling faintly as she watched the two boys play in the water.
Cape, meanwhile, had changed into swim trunks but hadn't stepped into the sea at all.
Instead, his eyes remained fixed on Mephisto — calm, intent, unreadable.
He even made a point of keeping a polite distance from the two women on the shore.
But somehow, that only made Ch'en more uneasy.
Don't tell me… Cape has some kind of strange fetish—
"Miss Ch'en," Cape said suddenly, turning his head toward her with that smooth, almost too-kind smile. "It's not a good habit to assume the worst of others, you know~"
"…My apologies," Ch'en murmured, embarrassed.
"But I can't help wondering," she continued after a pause, "why you've invested so much time and effort into our little group. The famed Boss Cape surely doesn't go to such lengths for every Infected guest who's been treated unfairly."
"…Miss Ch'en really doesn't mince words, does she~?"
Cape didn't even turn his gaze away from the waves.
Alina, seated beside them, could feel the air between them tighten.
"Of course, you're right," Cape said softly. "It wouldn't make much business sense to treat every guest this way… But you — or rather, he — is an exception."
He nodded slightly toward Mephisto.
"That child is worth the trouble."
At that, Ch'en's hand subtly moved under her chair — close to the weapon she'd hidden there.
As an L.G.D. senior officer, she was never without precaution, especially in unknown territory.
"…Mr. Cape," Alina spoke up cautiously, her voice tight, "what do you mean by that?"
Out in the surf, Mephisto and Faust, exhausted from play, began swimming back toward shore.
Cape chuckled lightly. "Am I really that suspicious to you all? After all, I did just treat you to a rather fine meal."
(Though, admittedly, it had come out of the security team's paycheck.)
Then his smile faded — replaced by a look of solemn seriousness.
"I've been observing that Liberi boy," he said slowly, "and I must say… he has the makings of a secretary."
Meanwhile, inside the Kashchey Estate
"Ishar'mla… eat slowly."
A dining table nearly ten meters long and two meters wide stretched before them, covered from end to end with dishes from every corner of the world —
Lungmen fried rice, Ursus borscht, Laterano egg tarts, even Gaulish bread — a delicacy from a nation long destroyed.
By all accounts, such a feast should have been enough to stir anyone's appetite.
Yet the man seated at the far end of the table, Duke Kashchey himself, could only sigh helplessly as he tried to persuade the woman across from him.
"This method of eating… is efficient."
Ishar'mla sat silently, her posture composed and eerily still. The plate and utensils before her were spotless — untouched.
"Ig, aren't you hungry?"
A tendril slithered up beside Kashchey, lifting a dish toward him.
He glanced at it — the food already tainted by Ishar'mla's spores — and felt his appetite vanish entirely.
"No. I'm not hungry," he replied, gently pushing the slick appendage aside. "Now that we're living on the surface, it wouldn't hurt to learn how to eat as the surface dwellers do."
The sensation of that slimy touch made the Black Snake's skin crawl.
The memory of once being subdued by Ishar'mla… was not a pleasant one.
At his words, Ishar'mla withdrew her tendril with a faint look of disappointment.
The corrupted food swiftly decomposed, breaking down into spore matter that drifted back into her body.
"Ig… hungry. Food."
"Don't talk like that," Kashchey sighed. "Not everything about the surface is worth imitating… But fine, I'll teach you — like before."
He gestured to the waiting servants.
The attendants of the Kashchey estate — butlers, maids, and staff alike — were all unwaveringly loyal.
They had families, faiths, friends, and hobbies of their own…
Yet above all of that, their devotion to Kashchey was absolute.
It was also what made them the most deeply corrupted — and therefore, the most trustworthy.
One after another, the servants wheeled in fresh dishes, refilling the vast table with steaming plates and fragrant aromas.
"Eat, Ishar'mla. Weren't you hungry?"
Kashchey frowned, puzzled. The woman who had just moments ago consumed entire platters through spores now merely stood there, motionless.
Wasn't she just starving?
Then, slowly, Ishar'mla rose to her feet. She picked up the ornate chair beside her — trimmed with gold filigree and intricate carvings along the legs and backrest — and carried it to Kashchey's side.
She stood there a moment, thinking, before gently setting the chair down beside him, adjusting its position with care.
A tendril reached back toward her old seat, retrieving the utensils and placing them neatly in front of her once more.
Then, under Kashchey's uncertain, wary gaze, Ishar'mla leaned against him — close enough that her cool skin brushed his.
"Teach me, Ig… like before."
Kashchey's expression froze. After a tense pause, he sighed, stepped behind her, and reluctantly took her hand in his own — guiding her through the basic motions of cutting and eating, step by step.
Watching Ishar'mla awkwardly take bite after slow bite, Kashchey immediately regretted his decision.
Perhaps her 'efficient' way of eating wasn't so bad after all…
Urghhhh…
The Black Snake loathed physical contact — especially this.
Meanwhile, the servants standing along the walls maintained their perfectly polite smiles, though inwardly, they were seconds away from breaking down.
None of them had ever seen anyone dare behave toward the Duke in such a way.
Still, they were trained professionals, and their faces betrayed nothing.
Is it just my imagination… or does Lord Kashchey actually look a little… uncomfortable?