“I had something precious. I should have held it tight, should have guarded it with my last breath, but instead I let it go.” — Halvarad Wintar, Echo North by Joanna Ruth Meyer.
The long, slender fingers of revered businessman Felix Agreste tapped the mahogany table impatiently. Intern seventy-five was an obvious failure, late for every meeting he was supposed to attend. The Mac on his desk gleamed under the bright chandelier, the sounds of the makeshift waterfall causing the young man's nerves to calm down. It was still daylight, the flickering lights of the ever present paparazzi of cameras and questions shining from the distance of the ground and the top floor of one of his company's buildings. He took a look at the men and the cameras before turning away and refocusing back to his work. Two more hours. Two more hours to go back to where he really belongs. In the darkness. In the shadows. In legends.
The calmness soothed him a strange sense of calm, letting the young man finally become ready to finish an important letter. He began to type with a speed so quick no one would have been able to see what he actually did. It was strange. In a crowd filled with people, he would feel his palms sweat and the urge of running away becomes apparent. But when he works, it was as if he was in a trance of some sort. He didn't feel anxious anymore. He felt in peace. In his comfort zone. He had just finished the letter when one of his secretaries (Min Lao, he remembered silently) entered his office. She greeted with a tone of monotone before handing him a package and an array of letters. He smiled at the sight of one of the letters. Red and gold was the theme of something important, he reminisced. Something beneath.
The woman nodded at her accomplishment, already heading out to leave. Felix took a deep breath. He must maintain this image, even if things were absolutely terrible. He can barely talk, always silent, always alone. Always waiting for something. That's what Felix does. Always thinking. Always dreaming. The complete opposite of rowdy, rogue Chat Nuit and his empire of criminals. Different from everything he ever wanted. The sun finally went down, the blue moon reappearing once more. He felt the chains of expectation loosen around his neck.
Careful, he warned himself, lest you forget that you’re still Felix Agreste. He took his tie off and slowly lessen the intensity of the light. He grinned calmly, locking the doors with with the correct code. He learnt the lesson of the importance of passwords two years ago when a rival was able to steal one of his designers’ collections when he was on a trip. They were able to settle it in court and even made sure that that rival was to be fined a large amount of euros but his reputation was damaged significantly. Even now, he was still licking that particularly old wound.
The night shift guard bowed at him and he felt the wind rush through his hair just as he noticed the black Lamborghini. He chuckled. Gavaroche. He took his extravagant masquerade mask, a design dedicated to the curious slyness of a black cat, from his inner pocket and felt the mask do its magic. With a click, he entered the car and he knew, like all the nights when he would sneak away from everything, he was no longer Felix Agreste. He was no longer anyone with strings attached. He was Chat Nuit, no more or no less. Melodie laughed with a gorgeous tune, her blonde hair and bright eyes giving Felix a rush of nostalgia. Many years ago, he was her friend and she was his. Now, they were more. Partners, allies. Support. His world is constantly changing and he realized early on that Melodie was one of the few solid relationships he had in his life. He also realized early on that he would do anything to protect those relationships, no matter how big of a situation he is in. Maybe that's why many has chosen to follow him. Maybe he truly was a symbol of something important. Reliable. He gave himself a huff of disbelief. He was not any of those chivalrous ideas. In fact, he was the opposite. To this, he silently toasted.
But even so, even if he was not reliable or to be trusted, he could not deny that he was always a natural leader. He always felt this certain pull, a certain confidence, that made him persuasive and precise. It gave him security, to be able to make people vulnerable, just as they do to him. How else was he able to round up a bunch of rowdy young adults and turn them into a massive underground organization that has shot up fear to the spines of their enemies ? How else was he able to make a prosperous business empire in less than three years of his career ? He honestly thought that if he even lacked one skill that he had back then, he would not have survived his recruitment. He wouldn't even survive an hour.
"So ?" Sparrow suddenly brought him back to reality. He opened his eyes and looked at the boy's face. He rose an eyebrow. What was the head assassin of the Assassination District babbling about this time ? Felix' questioning stare made the eighteen year old blush. Out of the six, Sparrow was the youngest and by far the brightest but that doesn't mean he was the quietest. Trying to shrug it off, he cleared his throat.
"The Butterfly Crown is getting closer and closer and the less gentlemanly of the crimes are slowly resurfacing. We need to” Sparrow stopped for a moment, reconsidering his choice of words, “discipline some of these rebels. One or two rebel leaders, I can handle. A group or so, not so much” Felix was not surprised. Its been approximately two months since Chat Nuit made an appearance, him being Felix causing him to be too busy with the preparations for Revel Week. He took a deep breath, tapping into his reservoir of charm. He grinned wildly. Discipline ? He can show discipline.
”Is that so ?" his voice was laced with hidden poison, "then it seems we should let the show begin” At this, the world seem to quiver for a moment. Unbeknownst of what had unraveled just a few minutes ago, a girl with long twin tails and denim shorts stared at the distance as her cat, Tikki, meowed calmly. Outside, storm clouds started to appear. Bridgette laughed.
"You're right, Tikki" she praised her white cat, "a storm's brewing" Many would say the story of the Dame and the Cat started when they both agreed to make a deal. Only a few knew that it really started when a storm poured. It was a symbol, even. Of two star-crossed heroes in the form of wolves.