Your status means nothing in front of the law. You were speeding, mister. That settles it."
Aurelia's tone remained sharp and unmoved, even after learning who I was. Curious. She still addressed me as "mister," refusing to say my name. Was it respect? Or deliberate dismissal?
Not that the station keeper, Kazeki Mikochi, got it right either. My birth name is Saviour Gramwell—mispronounced as "Xavier" by the world. A trivial annoyance, yet another inconvenience I endure thanks to the ability I was cursed—blessed?—with:
I know people. I know strangers by their real names. And one of their deepest, most buried secrets.
"If you were able to catch up to me," I said, a grin crawling across my lips, "doesn't that mean you were speeding too?"
Ah, logic. The great equalizer. In a world dominated by the loud and the blind, those with working brains live longest. That is my creed.
In Japan, even station keepers enforce the law on behalf of the government. So I turned to Mikochi and pointed squarely at Aurelia.
"Officer. Arrest officer."
Mikochi hesitated, caught between duty and disbelief. Aurelia let out a sigh—more weary than angry—and demanded I leave immediately. I didn't need further invitation. My work here was done.
Ten minutes later, I stood before my apartment door. It was nearly 2:10 a.m. My finger hovered above the doorbell when it flew open.
Amel Heather stood there. My housekeeper. My reward from Austria's grateful new regime.
The day I'd helped usher in peace after the assassination of their president, the new leader insisted I choose from a lineup of elite housemaids—each trained to serve aristocrats with mechanical perfection. But I found their doe-eyed obedience off-putting. Smiling, yes—but dead behind the eyes. Like wind-up dolls.
Then I saw her.
A European maid, medium build. No smile. A faded scar under her left eye. She looked at me like I was dirt—and for that, I picked her.
"That one."
The president was stunned. "Oh, you probably meant the one behind her—scarlet hair, yes?"
"No," I said, stepping forward and wrapping an arm around the scarred one's waist, pulling her toward me.
"Are you sure, Mr. Xavier? That one has... a history. Several masters before you. Violent tendencies."
As if on cue, she shoved my hand away with a burst of strength. Her expression was unreadable, but her fury was ice-cold and undeniable.
"Her name is Amel Heather. Raised by a family of contract killers. If you insist on taking her, don't take her lightly."
Perfect.
"Is she a virgin?"
The president choked, his face flushing.
"I—I don't know. Ask her yourself."
Weakling. He was lying. I didn't need my ability to tell. His darkest secret was his habit of sleeping with the staff.
"Are you a virgin, Amel?" I asked.
Silence. Brick wall.
I decided then: the answer would come through... future experimentation.
Part 2
The best housekeeper is the one who secretly wants you dead.
Amel smiled sweetly as she took my coat, her motions delicate. But beneath the hospitality was venom. She wanted me gone. I knew it.
That's why I chose her.
A maid who loathes her master hides it best. She follows the rules to the letter, keeps the house spotless, makes meals on time—all in the hope I let my guard down.
"The bath is ready, Master Xavier. Warm, just the way you like it."
She undressed me with precision, helped me bathe—carefully avoiding... certain areas. I'd never let her near that. Who knows what knife she might have up her sleeve?
At the table, I brought my laptop along. Austria's president had requested my input on a new legislative draft—meant to safeguard his life from being the next to fall.
He trusted me. A whole nation did.
Amel didn't speak as I ate. Just watched. Creepy. But convenient. When she noticed my focus was more on typing than chewing, she sat beside me, tucked a napkin under my chin, and spoon-fed me gently.
When I began choking, she was already holding a glass of water to my lips. Efficient. Calculating. Deadly.
"Master Xavier," she said, dabbing my mouth, "were you expecting a package at midnight?"
My eyes narrowed. "Yes. You didn't open it, did you?"
I never told her about the package. She must've eavesdropped. And I was certain she'd already opened and resealed it.
"No," she replied. Her gaze held mine—firm and unwavering.
Liar.
The doorbell rang.
I heard a man stammering. "S-sorry for the delay. I was pulled over by a female officer..."
Of course you were.
Amel accepted the package and brought it to me. I inspected it carefully, suspicious. She handed me a box cutter before I could even ask.
Always one step ahead.
"May I retire to bed, master?"
"Go," I said, distracted.
Inside the package was a letter.
And a card.
Matte black. Gold-edged. A fiery crimson emblem embossed in the center.
It wasn't from the president.
The Vexley-Ashbourne Syndicate.
I knew that emblem too well. I'd defended one of their heads in court years ago. A family forged in blood and bound by titanium greed.
"We Break What Resists."
That's their creed.
They began as a mining clan—small, obscure. Then they found titanium. Oceans of it. Enough to shake the world. In less than two decades, they owned the global titanium trade. Their wealth crippled competitors and bankrupted entire nations. Even Britannia owed them nearly £3 billion.
Soon, the Syndicate didn't just operate in Britannia—they ruled it. Parliament became their puppet. No law passed without their whisper. Imports were redirected, taxes rewritten. Britannia became a debtor nation in chains.
Then came the protests. Cities burned. People rioted. The president, desperate, signed a fragile alliance with Austria. A last hope to steady the collapsing economy.
But then—the assassination. Austria's leader, dead. The treaty, void. And the Syndicate?
Still watching. Still waiting.
Their card smelled faintly of sandalwood and ash. Inside was a message:
"One of our emissaries assigned to Okinawa has… faltered. We require your expertise once more, Mister Xavier. The Japanese border authorities were less… accommodating than anticipated.
His alias was compromised. He now stands accused of economic subversion, branded a foreign agent undermining national policy. He's in custody at the Haramihama District Police Station.
His trial is set for June 20. You are the only defense we trust.
Check your account. More will follow—should your allegiance remain... profitable."
—Larkvent Ashbourne
I closed the card slowly. My fingers twitched—not for a drink, but for a gun.
When the Syndicate comes calling, there is no "no."
The Japanese authorities were meticulous, brutal, and not easily bribed. Getting their man out would be a nightmare.
But then again, I had a choice.
I could take the money and let the emissary rot in a freezing concrete cell.
It would be logical. Even practical.
But logic doesn't always win.
Not when guilt pays better.