Lorette

by Anonymous

Summary:

Wonbin knew he was a miserable being, destined to remain holed up in that brothel until old age reached him and his body was no longer of any use. But Anton appeared with an absurd proposal, and he found no apparent reason to refuse, despite all the implicit danger in it.

Notes:

This story is a draft of an idea, so I'm sorry for the long chapter. I don't know if I should continue it. English is not my first language, and I haven't fully proofread it because I'm unsure if I'll continue writing it. Sorry for any occasional mistakes

Chapter 1: Chapter 1

"Dear Mother, please free me from all this anxiety."

 

Only the morning sounds of two servants scrubbing the floor in the adjoining room, along with Wonbin’s lament, could be heard at the start of that sunny morning.

 

He tightened the rosary in his left hand, hidden beneath a long sleeve, and bit his lips, staring at the wooden door and the wine-colored velvet curtains, which were half-drawn to let in a little natural light.

 

This was what the brothel looked like after a night of activity.

 

Nothing different from the seven long years wasted there, nor from those still to come, keeping him caged within that oppressive environment.

 

The trace of hesitation vanished the moment he recalled that emotions were equivalent to weakness in that place. Since the walls had eyes and ears, extreme caution was necessary with every word spoken, lest he find himself in trouble.

 

…

 

When he finally heard shoes stepping over the small stones of the inner courtyard, it did not take long for the person he was waiting for to appear, escorted by guards. Humble, yet relaxed, like someone who enjoyed freedom.

 

With the newcomer’s entrance into the room, Wonbin resumed his usual impassive posture. The man removed his hat in greeting, sat across from him at the wooden table, and drew a restrained breath, his wrinkled face twisting into a grimace he could not suppress.

 

"Monsieur, I have delivered the message to your esteemed brother." The messenger, an older man, roughly his father’s age, said cautiously.

 

“Puff!...”

 

He heard the derision of the guard, whose shadow cast a dark silhouette against the curtain. Standing at the ready, the sentry waited for the conversation to conclude before escorting the stranger back out.

 

It was a common attitude, since he and the other courtesans were nothing more than mute pieces of meat to the men who were meant to protect them rather than intimidate them.

 

Even the servants were worth more. And after years confined within those walls, he had learned to ignore the rough treatment.

 

Presently, he was far more interested in discovering the whereabouts of one of his younger brothers, the one who had assumed guardianship of the others.

 

Wonbin took a deep breath and clenched his hands tightly.

 

…Having found no rest the previous afternoon, unsettled by the coming meeting, he had been forced to entertain clients throughout the long night without a moment's respite.

 

And no matter how eager he was to receive the news, a prolonged silence settled over the room as the messenger stared hesitantly at his own hands.

 

"Yes?" He had to press him.

 

His voice, though facing a storm of emotions inside, carried only practiced coldness.

 

"He…" The man began, and his worried tone was enough for the last shred of hope Wonbin possessed to shatter. "He asked me to inform you that he is not willing to visit you at the moment."

 

The messenger had clearly chosen his words carefully, as if that might spare him from rejection.

 

He was no fool; the truth was plain. He would never be sought out.

 

So… this was the end? The possibility of speaking again with the brothers he had lost contact with at the age of ten.

 

…

 

The sorrow struck him like a sudden blow, as scenes from his childhood surfaced.

 

He kept only the good parts. His youngest brother holding his hand as they ran through the alleys of their old village.

 

(…) Brother, I want to grow up and be handsome like you!

Mom said I’ll be like that too! (…)

 

They had been so alike back then. Bomin must be a handsome young man by now, someone who surely charmed the local maidens.

 

His eyes flooded with memories of the last time he had seen him, the day before their father took him away from Rambouillet.

 

(…) You’re the best brother in the world!  (…)

 

Bomin had cried out those words through his tears... Indeed, he had been the best brother in the world, until Wonbin devolved into that piece of filth.

 

The scent of cheap incense burning somewhere in the brothel mingled with the remembered smell of Rambouillet’s streets, and distant voices pulled him back to the present.

 

It did not take long for his fingers to tighten around the rosary, the beads pressing into his palm until their contours imprinted upon the skin. The pain helped keep him from collapsing.

 

"It’s fine."

 

After a long pause to regain his composure, Wonbin blinked away the moisture in his eyes and, with a hand that still trembled, pushed the white envelope across the table.

 

"Retain the cost of your services and send the remainder to them. Please, come draw this sum on the first of every month. Deliver it directly to my brother."

 

 The messenger’s eyes widened.

 

“Monsieur…”

 

 ‘Are you sure you wish to do this?… They despise you.’ But he was resolute.

 

His brothers did not need to love him to accept his remittances. Even his father, the only soul who visited, however sporadically and often reeking of wine, never failed to remind Wonbin that he was merely tolerated.

 

Of course, he would not abandon the younger ones. Their late mother’s blood ran through all of them. Besides, he had sworn to carry her final request to the grave.

 

(…) Wonbin, Mommy needs to go. 

Promise me you’ll take care of your brothers.  (…)

 

Every time he looked at the small miniature of Our Lady he kept in the deepest drawer of his dressing table in his chamber, those words echoed in his mind. His mother was beautiful and ethereal, like the saint herself.

 

In the end, his father had been right when he bellowed that they would live alone for eternity.

 

…

 

And so it happened.

 

A sound, half a scoff, half a bitter huff, escaped his lips.

 

"What were you saying?" He asked sharply, and the man who looked at him with pity did not have the courage to continue. He merely nodded.

 

"No, it’s all right." Wonbin watched him fumble as he tucked the packet into the inner pocket of his dark gray coat, forcing a faint smile.

 

"It will be done as Monsieur wishes. I will visit you again on the morning of the first day of next month."

 

And since there was nothing left to discuss, the messenger said his farewells and walked toward the guard waiting outside. 

 

Unaware that he was carrying away Wonbin’s vision of the future, the only motivation capable of making him consider leaving the brothel.

 

His hands tightened around the edge of the table, and his teeth ground in frustration.

 

…Two years of tireless searching, of sending countless intermediaries after his brothers’ whereabouts, were wasted in the blink of an eye.

 

(...) Courtesans don’t have families. I am your family.  (...)

 

Yes. Aside from his father, Wonbin had the Madame. And neither of them cared for him to ever leave that place.

 

For a few seconds, he stared blankly at the curtain covering the door.

 

He earned about twenty pounds a month. Fifteen went toward the rent of his father’s tenement, and the rest he usually saved.

 

But since he would only leave the brothel as a corpse, sending money to his four younger brothers seemed, in any case, the best thing he could do.

About half an hour passed without him even noticing, as he remained in the same position, his gaze lost and disillusioned.

 

There, his recent dream died, nurtured by the innocence of someone who had not foreseen the rejection of his brothers.

 

‘They crushed his calloused heart.’ He was so lost in the wreckage of his hopes that he only returned to reality when a guard entered the room to summon him.

 

“The Madame wishes to see you now.”

 

The disdainful tone and the man’s perverse smile, one he knew all too well, sent a cold shiver through his veins, even though his blank expression did not waver.

 

This particular guard, a burly individual with a predatory gaze, always sought to sharpen the misery of his existence. Wonbin had lost count of the times this wretch had tried to prey upon his helplessness and that of the other courtesans, cornering them in the shadows of the brothel or using brute force to intimidate them.

 

A repugnant man, without a doubt. But, of course, there was nothing they could do except obey.

 

Wonbin nodded in silence and rose calmly, smoothing his robe as if to brush away imaginary dirt, while concealing the tremor in his hands.

 

A summons from the Madame during the day always boded a grim surprise.

 

He thought of some mistake he might have made, but could recall none. He had entertained all the previous night’s clients and never caused trouble.

 

In truth, he was hardly ever the source of confrontation, as he chose to remain in his chamber specifically to avoid the house’s common areas.

 

His brow furrowed as he followed the guard down the wooden corridor in silence.

 

He did not enjoy the best reputation among the other courtesans, yet his conduct remained beyond reproach.

 

‘Better one reason to distrust than a thousand to trust.’ His mother used to repeat the saying from time to time.

 

He had no friends, only enemies, so the mocking whispers from the courtesans in the rooms facing the corridor were expected. Wonbin ignored them as best he could, until a figure stepped into his path.

 

Pale skin, freckles, black hair, and a similar height. They were alike in some traits, yet different in many others.

 

The 'House of Lotus' had never tried to appear French. The Madame always said that men paid more dearly for the exotic, for what felt alien and alluring to them, which was why, inside those walls, nearly everyone bore some trace of Eastern heritage.

 

Wonbin stared at the young man without changing his expression.

 

“Move.”

 

He and Vincent, the courtesan standing before him, were constantly compared. They had not earned the title 'The Two Beauties of the House of Lotus' without cause.

 

He did not know when this one-sided rivalry had begun, for he never indulged in such barbarity. Yet, it had intensified after they both attended the same client, a newspaper columnist who had devoted a significant passage of his latest piece to Wonbin.

 

┏━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━┓

 

Perhaps there are no praises in the world capable of describing such beauty, whom I had the pleasure of knowing for two delightful hours. Dark hair, plump cheeks rosy as cherry blossoms, a youthful face adorned with beautiful black eyes, large and round, and small hands. Everything about this figure, as enchanting as Leonardo’s muses, is worthy of a work of art.

 

┗━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━┛

 

He possessed androgynous looks, a legacy from his mother, that set him apart. The young men of the house knew they could not compete with him in that regard, even if his self-proclaimed 'rival' was himself beautiful and ethereal.

 

“And what if I refuse to move?” The other courtesan taunted, triumphant. “I wonder what kind of threat our dear fallen angel would resort to in order to frighten me.”

 

He was forever seeking a reaction, thirsting for a confrontation that Wonbin simply refused to grant him.

 

Vincent even took a step forward in challenge, a crooked smile contrasting with his sharp eyes. In response, Park merely clicked his tongue, his expression remains as cold as stone.

 

To the misfortune, or perhaps the luck, of both, the despicable guard approached with his arms crossed.

 

“If you don’t stop right now, I will make sure the Madame hears of your poor behavior. She does not tolerate this kind of attitude in her house.”

 

The mere possibility of being reprimanded filled Wonbin with anger. He clenched his fists, while the other young man merely shrugged and laughed, unconcerned.

 

Vincent took measured steps back. His eyes slid from him to the guard, weighing the scene with malicious interest.

 

“How curious…” His voice sounded light, almost amused, lacking open aggression as he tilted his head slightly. “I always wonder what the Madame sees in you.”

 

“But I suppose fallen angels always have their charm, don’t they?”

 

It was not an explicit insult, just a casual jab that cast an uncomfortable tension into the air. Wonbin rolled his eyes and forced himself not to react, even in the face of the satisfied gleam on the other young man’s features.

 

“Good luck, dear.” Vincent said at last before walking away in the opposite direction.

 

For a moment, a primal urge screamed for him to strike until that mocking smile vanished, but logic prevailed; such an outburst would not have been rational.

 

…

 

In any case, the rest of the walk was brief, as they were already close to the owner’s study.

 

Even so, with every step toward the door, the corridor seemed to grow narrower.

 

The rhythmic click of his footsteps echoed far too loudly, and the furtive glances from neighboring rooms, combined with the cloying scent of incense, tightened the ache in his chest.

 

The Madame was waiting for him, and Wonbin knew that nothing good would come of this visit. It never did.

 

The guard gave him no time to think, opening the door as though he believed he might try to flee.

 

‘It’s fine. Just go.’ An inner voice urged him on, and that was his last saving grace, for the moment he stepped inside the room, an old oppressive feeling washed over him.

 

Any misstep would cost him dearly.

 

“Wonbin, dear.”

 

Her sweet, almost maternal tone stood in stark contrast to the honeyed smile and the cold gleam in her eyes. She sat like a queen behind an oak desk, intricately carved with grotesque gargoyles and mystical elements.

 

The study, like the rest of the brothel’s luxurious interior, reflected her refined taste in décor, shrouded in dimness, with dark wooden walls, paintings of Buddhist deities, and oriental flowers.

 

“Madame.” Wonbin said, bowing his head in a mixture of respect and tension.

 

“I heard a messenger found your brothers… How was it? Will they be coming?”

 

His attentive ears caught the sound of her rising from her seat, and his face twisted at the question, delivered in a tone tinged with sadness.

 

Fixating on the dark grain of the floorboards seemed far safer than facing her.

 

…

 

It was common knowledge that everything happening within those walls reached her ears first. He was not surprised, though the topic reopened the wound of the raw rejection he had just suffered.

 

"They are not willing to see me… for now."  His voice trailed off slightly at the end.

 

Lying would not change reality.

 

He clenched his fists, trying to chase away memories of childhood.

 

"Oh, that is such a pity." Madame sighed. Her red lips curved into a small, displeased pout.

 

"But perhaps it is for the best… You do not need to worry about anyone, my dear, for you have me and your brothers in this house. We are a family. We care about you."

 

‘We care about you.’

 

Those words sounded ironic.

 

‘I am so well regarded that you did not hesitate to leave me without food for two long days, as punishment for a paltry weight gain.’ He remembered the incident from three weeks earlier, after a regular client had voiced his displeasure directly to her.

 

Wonbin still harbored resentment toward the man who had betrayed his confidence directly to her. According to him, his cheeks had become ‘as full as little round caillettes’. It had affected him deeply. He no longer served him with the same affectionate gaze.

 

It was contradictory. Days after depriving him of food, the woman had appeared in his chamber to wipe away his tears, offering him a tray piled with food as a reward.

 

Sometimes he thought she did not love him.

 

(...) I do this because I care deeply about you, my dear.

You must take better care of yourself. Your negligence has unsettled even a generous client.(...)

 

"Yes, Madame." The rehearsed phrase slipped from his mouth as she approached and cupped his chin, a satisfied smile on her face.

 

"My good boy. You are as beautiful as a fallen angel." Up close, he could feel her frightening aura with terrifying clarity. He froze in obedient stillness, allowing her to scrutinize every detail of his face carefully.

 

"A very special client requested you yesterday. An English Duke, exceedingly generous, who came to this nation on business… Oh, he is a man of such good heart that he has been lavishing his favor on all of you, my boys."

 

It took only a moment for the hand holding his chin to tighten into a vice. The sudden act made his eyes widen for a fraction of a second and his body jolt before he exhaled and looked at her again, not daring to interrupt.

 

The threat was there, present in her pupils and in her mocking smile.

 

"I explained to him how difficult it would be for you to attend to a single client, as the others would be upset, but he has been so generous that he did not mind paying to be graced with your presence for the entire night."

 

…

 

He would entertain the same client for the entire night?!

 

His lips parted in a silent gasp, eyes widening as he stared at her.

 

Although he was the most sought-after courtesan in the brothel, Wonbin had no real notion of the exorbitant sums men paid to possess him for a few hours.

 

Some would hint, from time to time, that it was a staggering amount. Still, such figures never circulated through the house; it was an unspoken pact among Madame, guards, clients, and servants.

 

They only knew their wages: He and Vincent received twenty pounds, the others fifteen to ten.

 

Obviously, the house must have earned more than they could imagine. Yet ‘a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush’; there was no reason to inquire about money that did not belong to them and risk a punishment that would leave them without a single coin.

 

Even so… hearing of someone wealthy enough to hire his presence for many hours left him astonished.

 

A Duke.

 

The ‘House of Lotus’ was indeed a well-known brothel, frequented by figures of high society. Still, it was far from luxurious, because they were men, and sodomy was a crime punishable by death.

 

Wonbin served nobles and merchants alike, mostly lords, occasionally a baron as the establishment’s reputation grew, and others with lesser titles and exotic tastes. Yet, there was an abyss between entertaining a Duke and the others who frequented the house. The sharpened pressure of Madame’s hand on his chin confirmed the gravity of the situation.

 

His throat tightened as he grasped the veiled warning.

 

‘Displease him, and you will suffer the consequences.’

 

"You know, my dear. This Duke spent a few months at the ‘House of Orchids’ with your sisters, but unfortunately, he was not satisfied. For days, I wondered what they could have done to leave him so disheartened, so I convinced him to meet you, my boys." The woman smacked her lips before continuing.

 

"He met some of your brothers over the past months, and for some reason, he did not enjoy their company either… Such a shame."

 

The more she spoke, the colder the atmosphere in the study became.

 

"Vincent was more than happy to attend to him, but when the pleasant Duke asked about you last night, I could not deny anything to someone who has favored us so greatly." The revelation made him tremble from head to toe, fear coiling tighter within him.

 

Wonbin swallowed hard.

 

"But it is all right. You and Vincent are like brothers. Precious boys who do not mind sharing, are you not?"

 

…

 

…At last, he understood why the other courtesan had looked at him with such hatred earlier.

 

Madame smiled, amused by his pallor.

 

"You are one of my most precious boys. I am certain you will be able to enchant the Duke in a way he has never seen before… Clear your mind. Take a comforting bath and forget your brothers." There was not a trace of empathy in her voice, only hollow commands from someone who was concerned only with how much she would earn.

 

"Tell me, will you satisfy the Duke in a special way, Wonbin?" It was a rhetorical question, spoken only to reinforce who truly held power.

 

"Yes, Madame." For a moment, he feared he might not meet expectations. His mind was not in the right place. It would take time to forget the painful rejection he had endured.

 

"Good boy." She caressed his cheeks as if he were her puppet. "Do not eat too much today, so you do not get swollen. We would not want to worry new clients, would we?"

 

She seemed to believe he had no emotions, or that he could suppress them even while suffering. Either way, his opinion was irrelevant.

 

"No, Madame." It was enough to repeat what he had learned on the first day he stepped into the house, seven years ago, without hesitation or stuttering.

 

Those words were the key to her happiness.

 

"Excellent!" The woman clapped her hands and finally released him. "You may retire and begin preparing yourself."

 

…

 

Wonbin could not measure the relief he felt at being dismissed.

 

When he left her study, his heart hammered loudly against his ribcage.

 

He walked toward his own chamber alone, guards no longer needed to escort him, and ignored the renewed whispers of the other courtesans.

 

…Vincent must have manipulated everyone’s mind once again.

 

The tension derailed him the moment he closed the door behind him. Inside, far from prying eyes, Wonbin collapsed against the rough wood.

 

‘Fated to live alone.’

 

All the sorrow he had restrained before the messenger overflowed. He allowed the tears to break the mask that cost him so much to maintain.

 

His body begged for rest. His eyes burned with exhaustion, his muscles had been tense since the night before. Yet none of that truly mattered.

 

Dignity was the only attribute he still possessed, and even that was slowly slipping away with each passing day.

•❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅•

 

 

‘Two to the north, three to the southwest.' The count was precise; five shipments of smuggled spice intercepted before dawn.

 

Anton clenched his fists and thumped his head against the padded, luxurious interior of the carriage, the sound muzzled by the heavy fabric.

 

Then his eyes fell shut, and a sound slipped past his lips in an attempt to contain the agitation born of having gone in circles for months.

 

As the mission dragged on with no end in sight, his irritation sharpened; the honor of his nation and his English duchy hung in the balance.

 

He owed a duty to his vassals and dared not fail them, yet his enemies proved infuriatingly cunning.

 

…

 

The carriage jolted as it turned into a narrow, dark corner, leaving the aristocratic quarters behind. The stench of the nearby river and raw sewage invaded his nostrils, awakening a particular discomfort. 

 

He was not on the gritty outskirts, yet the district where certain maisons closes were located veered away from the zone inhabited by the nobility. It was central Paris, near the Palais Royal.

 

The luxury and order of the court of Versailles seemed meaningless in this underworld that applauded the very depravity the Church repudiated, all cloaked in the rancid stench of cheap perfumes... Prostitution, though forbidden, was whispered to be a 'necessary evil' by religious figures and royalty alike, a means of 'controlling male instincts' to safeguard noblewomen from rape and adultery.

 

And as long as it occurred discreetly, in a gray zone between law and morality, it did not matter.

 

Anton’s features tightened in pure displeasure.

 

If he were not trapped in this city, Paris would be an irrelevant stop in his long trajectory.

 

Humans were miserable, capable of barbaric acts in the pursuit of power. He had studied them long enough to know that, regardless of class, they all put a price on themselves as though they were mere livestock.

 

It was outrageous, truly, to resort to this, yet he had no other escape.

 

Since his arrival in this den of vice, aristocratic circles had given him no respite. First came the curious glances; then the whispers; and finally the pointed questions, always masked by feigned politeness, yet heavy with insinuation.

 

‘Why had a man so young, well-positioned, influential, and healthy still not found a wife?’

 

The inconvenient interest of Parisian society became a problem once the advances of noblewomen and their families intensified. He needed an immediate shield so he could return his full attention to the mission.

 

(...) If you cannot find a noblewoman, simply go to a brothel.  (...)

 

Sungchan should not have joked about that option, for it was inevitable that Anton would weigh it and, after some thought, entertain the notion. He simply had not imagined that arranging a political marriage, even with humans who belonged to the dregs of society, would be so complicated.

 

He had rules for a companion, requirements such as discretion and zero ambition, and the courtesans he met were greedy.

 

He needed a ghost. Someone who would accept the weight of his name in exchange for silence and a handful of coins once the assignment ended and Anton could finally leave this fetid city behind. It proved impossible with the personalities he encountered.

 

Why were they so self-interested?… Perhaps because they were miserable, and desperation to escape their deplorable lives blinded them.

 

A few minutes of conversation were enough to discern that they would not serve his purpose. Some, upon realizing he had no interest in maintaining a lasting liaison, even grew irritated.

 

At times, he considered choosing a few who seemed sensible, such as a young blonde woman with light eyes and an easy smile. She was discreet, spoke little, and did not attempt to impress him with excess. That was until the pleasant façade crumbled: she harbored ambitions for influence, wanted to be taken to Versailles, to have a permanent place at his side.

 

…

 

Over the past six months, he had visited only prestigious female brothels, as they tended to have more refined courtesans, capable of comporting themselves among aristocratic beings. It proved fruitless, and when a Madame convinced him to give a chance to a male division focused on young men with Oriental features, he did not dismiss the opportunity.

 

He did not care about gender and imagined that broadening the search might yield a human who met at least part of his demands.

 

Even so, months had passed since he began frequenting the maison close in question, and no courtesan came close to his requirements. The Madame seemed increasingly desperate to keep him as a client, becoming permissive to all his wishes.

 

And once he had met young courtesans of lower standing, who offered him nothing beyond shallow conversation, he was on the verge of seeking another establishment. Before doing so, he decided to try the most expensive ones, for the sake of his conscience.

 

The 'House of Lotus' boasted two young men in high demand, and one of them, whom everyone claimed to be the most beautiful, piqued his curiosity.

 

A human who divided opinions, praised by patrons and hostilely treated by 'colleagues of the trade', did, in fact, seem interesting. He had to admit that the indirect publicity led him to request the company of the courtesan solely to settle his doubts, even if he were to be received by an insolent youth.

 

He expected nothing. It certainly wouldn't be worth the two hundred pounds he was spending.

 

“We’ve arrived, Votre Grâce.” The coachman announced before opening the carriage door for him with tremendous devotion. Anton merely inclined his head in return, stepped down, and proceeded along the narrow, poorly lit path that led to the entrance of the ‘House of Lotus’.

 

The golden sign gleamed under the dim light of the lanterns, reflecting the decadent opulence of a building more modest than the others nearby. That particular street housed three opposing maisons closes, which competed with one another in veiled ways to attract any soul wandering through at night.

 

Insignificant nobles went in and out of them with their typical airs of self-importance.

 

He ignored them, as usual.

 

When he stopped before the opulent wooden door, carved with gargoyles and elements of mythology, he was received before needing to knock. The doorman immediately recognized his noble attire and greeted him with an exaggerated bow, as if he had been expected for hours, studying his figure with a mix of care and apprehension.

 

“Votre Grâce,” he murmured softly. 

 

He had grown accustomed to the way the French tried to impress him, wavering between reverence in their native tongue and heavily accented English.

 

Anton moved forward, guided by the man in a navy-blue livery of coarse wool, white breeches, and scuffed leather boots. He scanned his surroundings with open skepticism, his gaze lingering on the faded grandeur of the hall.

 

The sweet scent of incense mingled with the apothecary-like air, soaking into the walls, the rich tapestries, the velvet curtains, and the floor. A suffocating blend of jasmine, musk, and something faintly citrusy: orange. In contrast, the heat radiating from the fireplaces stifled the room.

 

‘It was likely pleasant for those who were not like him, a vampire who did not feel the change in temperature between indoors and outdoors.’

 

A faint, ironic smile shaped his lips as he dismissed the thought.

 

As soon as he reached the brothel's main hall, curious eyes turned toward his figure. The few courtesans not entertaining clients murmured upon recognizing him.

 

For some reason, their expressions were not neutral, they were well aware of how many times he had visited the establishment without forming an attachment to anyone. Their faces reflected a mix of desire and a subtle mockery, an undertone he could not quite decipher.

 

It did not matter. His attention shifted back to the dimly lit corridor.

 

“The Madame will receive you, Votre Grâce." Said the guard who had brought him there, opening the door reverently.

 

Anton was used to human subservience and, in some cases, appreciated it with veiled amusement. His lips curved into another half-smile as he crossed the threshold.

 

“Votre Grâce, it is an honor to welcome you back.”

 

As expected, the Madame received him with exaggerated cheer, seated in her rather unsophisticated oak study.

 

Her wide smile, adorned with red lipstick, broadened, and her shrewd eyes gleamed the moment she saw the small fortune he had brought.

 

When Anton placed the two hundred pounds on the table, she even sighed in delight, her nimble fingers avidly counting the coins before quickly storing them in a locked drawer.

 

“I must emphasize that Votre Grâce has made an excellent choice. Wonbin is a golden boy. Incomparable!” Indeed, a young man worth his weight in gold… a bored part of him noted, and the woman continued.

 

“He is eager to serve you.”

 

The Madame opened her mouth again to flatter him, but Anton cut her off calmly.

 

“Why has he not yet come to meet me?” He was wasting precious time in this place.

 

At first, the woman faltered, intimidated by his silent presence despite her efforts to mask it. Then her smile returned, accompanied by a shadow of calculation.

 

“Votre Grâce, Wonbin is extremely sought after. His schedule is always full, and clients tend to become agitated if they see him wandering about before the appointed hour.”

 

Anton raised an eyebrow, silently prompting her to continue.

 

“That is why he never occupies the common areas at night unless he is already in company.” She leaned in to whisper. “Votre Grâce must know that powerful men do not like to be kept waiting, nor do they like to share.”

 

Yes. And that did not impress him, coming from humans. When they coveted what was beyond their reach, they became irrational.

 

“A guard will take you to his chamber.” The Madame picked up the small bell resting on the table, rang it once, and a tall man with severe features appeared promptly.“Please escort Votre Grâce to Wonbin.”

 

“Yes, Madame.” The attendant seemed to know his place, bowing submissively and gesturing for him to follow.

 

Before the corridor of chambers and other hidden rooms of the brothel, there was a common area open to guests facing the Madame’s study, furnished with round upholstered seats, tapestries adorned with lotus flowers, and oriental lanterns.

 

A few courtesans occupied it, alone or with clients in tow. Their attentive gazes assessed him with curiosity.

 

Anton pretended not to notice as he walked in the direction the guard led him.

 

The rhythmic sound of their footsteps was muffled by the velvety texture of the carpet on the floor, yet the murmur still reached his ultra-sensitive ears.

 

(...)

 

“I still can’t believe I lost that opportunity… What did he do to attract the Duke?”

“Besides blatantly stealing him from Vincent?… Well, I don’t know, but it must have been more than just lying in bed like a lifeless corpse.”

“A lifeless corpse? Pfft! You’re being quite generous.”

 

(...)

 

Low laughter echoed along the way, utterly devoid of decorum; it made him furrow his brow, though he remained silent.

 

“Enough!” At the very least, the gruff guard was trained well enough to know that a client of Anton's standing should not be subjected to such insolence. The irritated bark made the trio jump in fright and fall into a sudden, heavy silence.

 

…

 

Predictable.

 

When they reached the narrow corridor, the noises ceased, replaced by a deathly silence. The other courtesans were dispersed throughout the house, either seeking patrons or tending to guests in the various rooms the maison close offered.

 

The entrance to the young man’s chambers stood apart from the other doors, at the very end of that wing, isolated. Upon closer inspection, he noticed the wood bore a more intricate design than the rest: broader, more refined, and etched with delicate carvings.  It was a subtle reminder that he had engaged one of the most prestigious courtesans of the ‘House of Lotus’.

 

“Here we are, Votre Grâce. Enjoy the night.” The guard cast him a look tinged with irony, which Anton chose to ignore as he turned the doorknob.

 

It was clearly different from the courtesans’ rooms that had received him days earlier. This one, in particular, was suitably spacious, adorned with oriental details, flowing silk covering part of the walls, and a folding screen separating what must have been the antechamber from the chamber itself.

 

The scent of incense was more subdued here, far less overpowering than in the rest of the brothel. In this room, it carried the subtle, warm hint of vanilla.

 

After a brief assessment of the space, Anton finally moved farther inside, until he caught sight of the much-discussed figure.

 

…

 

Beautiful.

 

The impact was immediate.

 

He had encountered countless faces throughout his existence, but the young man seated on the bed offered a startling contrast, unlike anything he had seen in Paris before.

 

A distinct beauty. Pale skin, immaculate beneath the amber glow of the lanterns, with features delicate enough to verge on the ethereal; dark hair falling to his shoulders in soft waves that contrasted with a full mouth and large, expressive eyes.

 

“Votre Grâce.”

 

The hesitation, palpable in the way the courtesan uttered his title, caught his attention in an unexpected way.

 

It contradicted everything he had heard about this figure, depicted by others as… presumptuous and cunning.

 

It made his dark eyes gleam.

 

‘Wonbin’ kept his shoulders rigid, his posture almost defensive. He held the gaze for a moment, only to avert it soon after.

 

He waited for the rehearsed introduction, the scripted flattery common to all courtesans. Yet nothing happened; the young man before him seemed at a loss, as if his very thoughts had stalled.

 

…

 

Interesting.

 

"I have heard much about you." Anton broke the silence after several seconds. He had done it on purpose, allowing the tension to swell as he gauged the other’s reaction.

 

And amusement stirred when Wonbin opened and closed his mouth, struggling to remain composed. It was no use. He noticed the animosity hidden behind those silent eyes and heard the frantic sound of his heart pounding against his ribs.

 

"I hope I have not disappointed you, Votre Grâce." The voice sounded softer than he had expected, though not entirely steady.

 

The cracks in the social mask were there.

 

Small gestures, which Anton only noticed because he observed him calmly: the head that did not remain raised for long, the words measured with caution, and the fingers clutching the blue brocade robe embroidered with white roses.

 

"I cannot say yet." He eventually replied in a monotone, for he did not judge others by first impressions.

 

Once again, quiet followed.

 

In moments like these, courtesans usually began to pander, trying to capture his attention somehow. Yet the young man before him behaved as though he were not the most sought-after in that house.

 

"What does Votre Grâce desire of me tonight?" Wonbin took his time to speak, and when he did, it was with a defiant lift of his chin, a clear attempt to reclaim control of the situation. He recognized the effort.

 

The duke then allowed himself a few seconds of consideration, just to make him anxious.

 

Anton saw him stiffen, his lashes trembling.

 

"Read a poem." A simple, graceful request, one he repeated to all the others during their first encounters. The corner of his smile broke part of the somber atmosphere lingering in the air.

 

He waited nearly a full minute for a practical response, but it did not come.

 

Wonbin, previously standing in elegant stillness, suddenly grew hesitant as he looked away, his chest rising and falling with slightly more emphasis.

 

"Forgive me, Votre Grâce…" The timbre echoed more quietly. "But I only know the basics that were taught to me."

 

…

 

He could not read?

 

“Can a courtesan of your standing not entertain clients with a reading?” It was not a direct attack; Anton remarked coldly, skeptical that he had spent two hundred pounds for nothing.

 

He was not easily irritated, yet his face formed a subtle grimace.

 

The lack of justification confirmed the obvious.

 

Wonbin did not dare meet his gaze, but his cheeks flushed as he bit his full lip. Still, it did not take long for him to lift his chin again with feigned insolence, answering with a trace of bitterness.

 

"Men do not seek me out for that, Votre Grâce."

 

Anton had the impression that the courtesan’s teeth ground together mid-sentence.

 

Hm.

 

The pieces began to fall into place.

 

Wonbin possessed an ethereal beauty, not merely arresting or charming, but overwhelming. Powerful, frustrated men did not seek him for idle conversation, poetry, or the illusion of romance; they sought only to sate their carnal needs.

 

That must be why he was so expensive.

 

It explained the courtesan’s unusual behavior and led him to notice a few more details: the luxurious chamber was, in essence, entirely impersonal. Each piece of furniture seemed strategically arranged to please the eyes of the wealthy without revealing anything of the soul who inhabited it.

 

Even when furnished, it felt empty.

 

Anton walked unhurriedly, observing the décor more closely. In return, he earned a discreet glance, which quickly shifted into a flawless neutral expression.

 

Wonbin seemed accustomed to being desired, not studied. His shoulders drew in slightly.

 

"Then let us converse. Have some tea brought to us.” He finally decided.

 

He needed, at the very least, to recover part of what he had spent.

 

His request left the courtesan momentarily open-mouthed, though not enough to protest. Renewed determination settled over his beautiful, constrained features.

 

"As you wish, Votre Grâce."

The tea arrived minutes later, delivered by a servant on a silver tray. 

 

The man arranged the cups upon the table and withdrew with the same practiced efficiency with which he had entered. Anton followed the retreating figure with an unhurried gaze, while Wonbin, in an automatic gesture, poured the hot, pleasantly scented liquid into the delicate ceramic.

 

He was meticulous in the practice, his movements graceful and fluid, accustomed to serving all who sought his services.

 

His impeccable posture had returned. And the duke, instead of drinking at once, chose to study him once more.

 

Although he possessed a beauty that attracted male desire, Anton saw nothing that justified the two hundred pounds… The young man remained awkward, like someone who did not know how to act in such a situation.

 

That lack of confidence clashed with his perfect appearance, and it was this very misalignment that intrigued him.

 

“You seem out of place.” Anton swirled the contents of his cup before tasting the tea, whose flavor was all but nonexistent to a vampire. He saw Wonbin blink without trying to hide it, then recompose his serene expression with a small smile on his lips.

 

“Out of place, Votre Grâce?” The young man repeated softly, tilting his head in a gesture he knew to be rehearsed.

 

“Yes. Outside your comfort zone.” His usual frankness rang clear. Anton had no trouble bringing it forth. Humans, in turn, tended to complicate relationships.

 

The courtesan’s hand, which had been about to reach for his cup, hesitated for a second, and that brought the duke to a new realization.

 

Transparent. As polished as his posture was, the mask slipped with alarming ease. He was the first he had ever met with such a trait.

 

“I do not usually… have long conversations, Votre Grâce.” And even if he did not know how to properly entertain a noble, Wonbin at least addressed him with due respect.

 

Anton had expected that answer.

 

It was obvious. Carnal servitude rarely involved dialogue or questions.

 

“I imagined as much.” His tone was not disdainful, merely factual. Even so, standing before a courtesan who hesitated to maintain a simple conversation felt like a waste of time and coin.

 

‘Should I stand and leave?’ His fingers drummed against the small table beside the bed before a sigh escaped his lips.

 

“Tell me, Wonbin. Do you have a dream?”

 

…

 

“A dream?” The young man blinked, confused, perhaps because it was the last question he had expected.

 

“Yes.” Anton’s hand moved from the oak surface to his chin, smoothing it as he looked at the young man. “Something you desire.”

 

Dreams propelled humans, keeping them focused and content; it was natural, then, that even those on the margins, in misery and decay, had them. Among the courtesans he had questioned, most wished to marry into nobility, to grow rich, or to live out a grand romance.

 

Wonbin, however, resembled none of the others in any respect.

 

“Courtesans do not have dreams, Votre Grâce.” Instead of uncertainty, his expression shifted into an impassive coldness, paraphrasing something he must have recited dozens of times to countless men. “My only desire now is to serve you.”

 

‘My only desire now is to serve you.’ It was comical, considering he barely knew how to read or choose the right words to entertain someone.

 

He did not even attempt to polish his tone for Anton, or at least, to pretend he believed the lie.

 

“Everyone has a dream.” Still, the duke did not grow frustrated. He leaned forward slightly, bringing their faces closer, fully aware that he had unsettled the young man.

 

A sharp, nervous swallow gave him away.

 

“I don’t have one.” Wonbin had the courage to insist, even as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. But his pride did not last long. Part of him seemed to resign itself the moment Anton raised an eyebrow.

 

 “But… if I did, I would like to see a magnolia grove in front of my bedroom. And to be able to sleep through the night.”

 

Magnolias? 

 

Anton removed his fingers from his face as the courtesan decided to sip his tea, his gaze drifting toward the small table in the corner of the chamber.

 

‘Magnolias. Hardy flowers, capable of growing in adverse conditions, symbolizing dignity and perseverance because they bloom before the leaves appear.’

 

It was unlikely that an illiterate man, who likely had little knowledge of the world, would possess a deeper understanding of something as specific as the meaning of flowers, especially those brought from another continent.

 

He assumed it was merely a matter of personal taste.

 

“Do you know the meaning of magnolias, Wonbin?” After much thought, Anton decided to ask. At first, the young man tightened his fingers around the cup and shook his head.

 

“No, Votre Grâce.” He did not reveal why he had mentioned them, though his eyes shone as if they held stories within. “I simply like how they look.”

 

‘Indeed, a most intriguing courtesan.’ He wondered whether any of the foolish men the young man served had ever thought to question him before.

 

Clearly not.

 

“From what you’ve said, I presume your dream is a quiet life.” Anton concluded. Wonbin neither confirmed nor corrected him. He remained silent, as if he had no answer to offer in return.

 

Too monotonous. It did not displease him, but neither did it impress. A neutral state that justified neither the time nor the coin he had invested that night.

 

He took the final sip of the human peach tea, feeling his disinterest rise gradually.

 

“I believe it’s time to leave.” It was quick, almost imperceptible, but he saw desperation flicker across the courtesan’s expression.

 

Still, Wonbin straightened and faced him politely before speaking.

 

“If… if you wish to stay a little longer… Votre Grâce reserved me for the entire night.” His voice was so low that even Anton’s keen hearing struggled to catch it, a whisper that dissolved into the haze stirred by the fireplace.

 

The young man opened his mouth again but said nothing at first. It seemed an involuntary habit when he was nervous.

 

Seconds passed as they regarded one another, until Wonbin finally spoke.

 

“Is there anything else I can do?”

 

And then, a tiny spark of fear appeared in his gaze, trying to convey what could not be spoken aloud, something that was, of course, beyond Anton’s concern.

 

“I am satisfied.” He was concise, though his tone left room for requests.

 

It was curious.

 

Normally, a courtesan would attempt to persuade him, rather than faltering with an expression that blended wounded pride with fear of the greedy Madame.

 

His thoughts were interrupted by the thudding of a human heart beginning to race wildly, belying the impassive expression of the figure facing him.

 

“I will tell the Madame that I was satisfied, if that is what you wish to hear.”

 

When Anton rose, Wonbin seemed as though he wanted to add something, but gave up as he moved to accompany him to the exit.

 

He did not believe there would be reason to see him again, for the young man had not offered what he was seeking. Still, he cast one last glance at him and said, out of courtesy:

 

“Perhaps we will meet again.”

 

And Wonbin, as expected, merely inclined his head, his eyes reflecting the same restrained intensity and discomfort as before, even though his face showed nothing but a stiff smile.

 

“Have a good night, Votre Grâce. It was a pleasure to serve you.”

•❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅•

 

 

The subtle penumbra filled his spacious, finely decorated study broken only by the soft glow of oil lamps and the fire in the fireplace, which crackled intermittently.

 

Despite the warmth radiating from the embers, though it hardly mattered to his body, the scent of wood and aged parchment lingered in the air, mingling with the smell of aged books lining the shelves.

 

It was an ordinary cold night in Faubourg Saint-Germain. A quiet district, far removed from the heavy bustle and putrid stench of central Paris, perfect for preserving privacy and discretion.

 

Anton sat behind the wide, carved oak desk, one hand resting on the arm of his chair. Across from him, his friend Sungchan chose to remain standing with his arms crossed, his expression wry.

 

A heavy tension hung between them.

 

…

 

Between the two of them, atop the desk, lay the report Sungchan had brought from England, newly opened, its contents a stark contrast to the quiet of the room.

 

In this case, it was far from pleasant.

 

“Children and youths.” Anton murmured, fiddling with the remnants of the wax seal his fingers. His eyes reflected everything he kept imprisoned within. “They are being hunted and trafficked like cattle.”

 

The vampire before him did not respond immediately, but his anger was visible in the rigid line of his shoulders and his clenched jaw.

 

“I’ve received confirmation that one of their operational bases is here in Paris.” He said seconds later, his tone restrained. Anton knew it was only a façade. Sungchan was just as furious as he was.

 

“And, as we suspected, the blood trade is not an isolated problem. The scale…”

 

He did not need to finish the sentence.

 

If they were kidnapping children, the situation was far more dangerous than mere clandestine commerce. It had become a genuine threat to their entire species.

 

…

 

They had yet to reach a consensus on the process behind the creation of this potion.

 

What little was known so far was that vampiric blood, combined with other components, could extend human life by one to three years. The elixir was highly addictive, to the point that a clandestine market of human aristocrats fueled the trafficking.

 

At first, they believed that a few ambitious vampires had sold their own blood to the network in exchange for vast fortunes. However, Sungchan’s report stated the opposite.

 

His hand tightened around the seal he held until the wax crumbled into fragments.

 

“Young people kidnapped, trafficked, and drained to death. Some survive, but most…” Anton growled, yet, like his friend, he could not bring himself to go on.

 

Humans were wrong to believe the vampiric community was indifferent to its own kind. They had survived together for millennia and maintained strict control within their private society. And even if their ways of showing affection differed from what mortals deemed ideal, there was indeed a strong sense of kinship among them all, especially when it came to the most vulnerable: children and youths.

 

It was unacceptable.

 

Anton’s habitual coldness gave way to an stifling pressure, a primitive instinct he rarely allowed to surface.

 

Children from his own duchy had also been abducted under his watchful eye. That meant he had failed to protect them.

 

He observed how his right-hand man growled, refusing to sit in the chair opposite him. He must have traveled the entire way to his hôtel particulier in France consumed by rage.

 

They had trained together at the British vampiric court. So close that, when they assumed their respective positions, they sealed a pact of loyalty meant to endure for eternity.

 

Sungchan had attained the post of Raven Chancellor of York, a position reserved for the one who commanded secret agents embedded among humans and vampires, during the same period in which Anton received the title of Duke of York. They had always worked well together, and when Anton was sent to France, Sungchan followed him.

 

However, despite having plunged headfirst into this pivotal mission, their duties in England still demanded constant oversight.

 

The longer they remained abroad, outside their jurisdiction, the more problems arose, causing mounting disturbances…

 

Anton was overwhelmed, handling everything related to the mission and the region of York in Paris, while his friend traveled back and forth to England every few weeks to gather information and deal with the duchy’s administrative issues.

 

When he finally laid hands upon the traffickers and their facilitators… Sungchan would have to stop him from casting aside all restraint in favour of extermination.

 

He released what remained of the wax seal onto the dark surface of the desk and leaned back in his chair.

 

“Has the French court obtained any information?” From what he knew, the trafficking ran rampant across several parts of Europe, so all courts felt an urgency to dismantle it.

 

“I don’t believe so. Otherwise, they would have sent word. You know how they are, they’re not as concerned as they should be. After all, they’re more egocentric than this lost nation’s human king,” Sungchan said, placing both hands on the desk and looking at him in a way he recognized as a prelude to yet more bad news.

 

Anton knitted his brows and braced himself.

 

“Some members of our court are dissatisfied with your continued stay here.”

 

The warning, of course, elicited a short, humorless laugh. He cared little for those who criticized yet offered no help. 

 

“Now tell me something new.”

 

‘Lee Anton, His Royal Highness, Duke of York, son of the Vampire King, has been absent from England for nearly two years on a delicate and clandestine mission, known only to the highest echelon of the court.’ His mind mocked the very words that could never be made public.

 

And the fact that the rest of the vampiric nobility was vexed by his delay had, in truth, been expected.

 

“Write another letter to your father,” Sungchan sighed, suggesting a way to keep appearances and tempers under control back home.

 

Anton snorted, rubbing his temples.

 

His father would be the least concerned about his delay, as would the elders who had appointed him. Still, a flimsy lie had been invented for the rest: ‘secret disputes between the English and French courts,’ to justify his prolonged stay. It was only natural that some were now complaining about his negligence toward the duchy.

 

A false letter reporting progress on a fictitious mission could temporarily remedy the situation.

 

“How is Shotaro?” Anton remembered to ask, and for a brief moment, Sungchan’s posture faltered, accompanied by a long, weary groan.

 

“Well, as well as can be expected. He is terribly upset about our delay, clearly, but there is little to be done. I won’t bring him into this mess and—” He was interrupted by three soft knocks on the study door, and he stiffened, offering a curt command in response.

 

“Come in.”

 

“Excuse me, Votre Grâce…” A servant entered slowly. The butler must have been occupied to have sent her in his place.

 

Anton knew, before even looking at her, that she was nervous. The quickened rhythm of her breathing and the faint scent of sweat betrayed her hesitation, as did the staccato thrum of her heart.

 

Although none of the servants knew of his true nature, they all understood that he was a reserved man and treated him with a fear he had grown accustomed to, for the vast majority of humans seemed to harbor an instinctive dread of pureblood vampires like him and Sungchan, owing to their imposing presences.

 

“Yes?” He regarded her with indifference, ignoring the way she lowered her head and extended a piece of paper toward Sungchan.

 

“A letter has arrived for Votre Grâce.”

 

At this hour? His face tightened as his friend broke the seal to read it.

 

The servant bowed hastily and hurried out, driven by a primal need to flee the room.

 

“From Lady Madeleine Duret, Marchioness of Saint-Étienne.” The other vampire announced, as though Anton were expected to recall the title. He skimmed the perfumed paper, an amused arch to his eyebrow.

 

“She claims she had the honour of seeing you at the Ball of Mirrors, hosted by the Duke of Valois two nights ago. Says she was struck by your presence and disconcerting beauty, and that since then her mind has known no rest.”

 

…

 

Anton stared in disbelief before letting out a weary breath, running a hand over his forehead.

 

“She says she wishes to meet you in her private garden for a conversation ‘unbound by formality,’ and she signed it ‘hopeful and devoted.’” When Sungchan handed him the letter, he tore it to shreds without a second thought.

 

The white fragments fell onto the oak table like snowflakes before he tossed them into the fire to burn.

 

His friend snorted in response.

 

“She seems quite smitten. And to think some of us believe humans are such subtle creatures.”

 

It was a deliberate jab at the fact that he was searching for a courtesan for a political marriage, a comment he chose to ignore.

 

“The ball was not a waste of time.”

 

Anton decided to share what he had not yet discussed with the other vampire.

 

“Valentin and I identified three nobles involved in the trafficking, but we did not arrest them because they remain serviceable. There was talk of shipments of ‘red gold’ from Burgundy.”

 

…

 

A new, tense silence settled over the room.

 

Valentin, Duke of Montmorency, was the vampire of the French court leading the same mission as Anton. Despite the stark difference in philosophy between French vampires, who favoured ostentation and a bohemian way of life, and British composure, the two set aside their grievances when necessary.

 

“Red gold.” Sungchan repeated, running his tongue over his canines.

 

“They speak of our blood as though it were a rare wine. A delicacy.”

 

It was infuriating, indeed.

 

Anton had to restrain himself from hunting those decadent humans down and crushing them with his bare hands. His thoughts would have taken a darker turn if the other vampire had not changed the subject.

 

“The marriage needs to be settled.” It was a statement, one that made him sigh heavily.

 

“Not now.”

 

“Yes, now. You cannot ignore this problem… How long do you intend to keep receiving declarations?” His friend gestured toward the fireplace, which had just reduced the dream of some human girl to ash, and Anton rolled his eyes. “Simply choose the name of one of the noble vampires I set aside.”

 

“I will not involve myself in a political marriage with a vampire over a mere mission. It will cause diplomatic problems in the future.” Her family would hound him for eternity once he left.

 

“And a human is the solution? You know they are weak and vulnerable.” Sungchan shot back, crossing his arms. “I am tired of repeating myself. A human in this mess would be a burden, and you would become responsible.”

 

“I shall assume responsibility.” His tone turned bitter as he watched the fire.

 

Honestly, he did not care.

 

Becoming ‘responsible’ for a mortal, one who would never know of their existence and would merely have to pose as his companion, seemed less exhausting than having to explain himself to the vampires of a neighboring nation in the future.

 

As long as the human followed his rules and stayed out of trouble, it would not be much work. After all, it was only a façade to escape the gossip cycle of Parisian nobility.

 

“On top of the mission?” For a moment, Sungchan twisted his lips in disbelief. “Do you truly wish to take on a new burden?”

 

Anton did not answer him directly, his gaze drifting instead to the sealed parchment as he pondered.

 

It had been over a month since he had visited a maison close.

 

Every option he had considered had been a waste of coin, given that none met even a third of his requirements.

 

He was at a stage of the mission where he did not wish to be burdened with instruction. He needed a trained, refined courtesan, someone who knew how to conduct himself within polite society and who, preferably, was neither ostentatious nor prone to idle boasting.

 

Anton recalled the last one he had spoken to, Wonbin, and the coins he had spent, his face creased at the memory.

 

“You have not even found a suitable human.” Sungchan pointed out, and he looked at him again.

 

“I spent two hundred pounds on a courtesan who could not hold a conversation. At least he did not seem like a common opportunist, though he offers nothing more than a pretty face.… I shall return there in the coming days.” He would try again with the second most requested courtesan of the house; if that failed, he would seek another establishment. “If it does not work, I will find a new place.”

 

“A new brothel?… There can hardly be any options left, save for decadent dens with humans who likely do not even know how to use cutlery… Abandon this absurd idea and choose a vampire for a political marriage.” Sungchan complained. Still, he knew Anton would not be moved.

 

His final snort closed the matter.

 

“Very well. Do as you please and spend another two hundred pounds on further failures.”

 

•❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅•

 

Wonbin felt as though he had succumbed to a profound apathy ever since the messenger had brought word of his brothers’ rejection more than two months ago.

 

There was not a single day when he did not think of the little ones, of the memories of a childhood so brief they had shared together. He remembered how peaceful his life had been before his father decided to sell him to a Lord from Rambouillet – the town where he had been born – when he was but twelve years old. Later, after he was returned by the authorities, making the entire village aware of what had happened, his father had moved with him to Paris and abandoned the others in a convent.

 

They must harbour resentment… for neither of them had ever returned to claim them.

 

These memories always brought him further grief.

 

Wonbin wished he could blame his father entirely for what he had become, a man without choices, for if he did not work at the brothel, both of them would starve. But the idea of seeking out the Madame and living in that hell had originated from himself, in a moment of pure desperation.

 

The responsibility for his decadent present lay solely on his shoulders, making him feel like a failure whenever he cried for the brothers he had not seen in over a decade.

 

Tears streamed down without his permission as he buried his face into the pillow to muffle the sobs, ensuring that no one in the house would learn of his weaknesses.

 

And because it happened so often, it had become part of his daily routine, absent only when he was in pain or afraid.

 

Now, he felt the former.

 

…

 

Last night, Wonbin had serviced a client he did not know, a man as coarse and frightening as the Lord of Rambouillet. In addition to dredging up memories he wished to forget, the encounter had left him… deeply sore.

 

He stared expressionlessly at the shadowed expanse of his chamber, having held the same position for minutes to avoid straining the muscles in his arms.

 

Only a day had passed, and he could barely rise without groaning at the stinging pain in his abdomen…

 

It would not be the first nor the last time that Wonbin, or any other courtesan, would have to entertain violent men.

 

The Madame did not care, so long as they paid what was agreed upon. She only demanded that they not be harmed in the face, a rule that had not been followed, as the corner of his lip bore a fresh wound.

 

The fact that he had not slept a single minute due to the pain prevented him from crying over his brothers; a bitter consolation, but a consolation nonetheless.

 

‘Sometimes, we must do what we do not want to.’ The voice of his late mother surfaced in his mind, repeating the phrase she always used whenever he complained about helping her with household chores and caring for his younger siblings.

 

In the end, she had been right. Wonbin had no other option but to sit there with the typical posture of submission he despised and wait for the first man of the night, masking his agony with false serenity.

 

The walls were covered in faded tapestries that had lost their luster years ago, and the scent of incense mingled with the stale perfume of the wilted flowers in the green ceramic vase atop the dresser.

 

And when the door to his chamber opened softly, his aching body tensed.

 

His eyes widened the second the mysterious figure revealed himself, upright and sceptical, just as he had been the last time Wonbin had seen him.

 

“Votre Grâce…” His voice was no more than a whisper; he could not hide his surprise.

 

And, as one might expect, both remained in complete silence for minutes after the door closed, staring at one another until the duke broke the tension to greet him.

 

“Park Wonbin.” The way he uttered his name, flat and deliberate, sent a sudden chill through him.

 

…

 

He had never entertained a man so enigmatic and demanding before.

 

The only time he had serviced him, the interaction had been so arduous that Wonbin feared the nobleman would demand his coin back from the Madame, leading to punishment. Yet His Grace had been merciful enough not to report his inadequate service.

 

He later discovered, one day in the refectory, that the man had hired Vincent again, and at the time he had sighed in relief, knowing he had not driven him away from the brothel.

 

Wonbin still did not fully understand what had happened on that fateful night, only that the duke had unsettled him in every possible way.

 

He was direct and sincere, and he studied him in a manner no other client ever had.

 

Men sought him out only to vent carnal desire and the pounds they spent. Wonbin could barely recall the last time he had spoken with someone outside of the days when his father visited him. Perhaps the writer of that column.

 

Apprehension forced him to suppress the instinct to frown, though his heart hammered against his ribs.

 

Why had the duke reserved him again?…

 

Once more, much time passed before the nobleman before him ended the somber atmosphere that had settled in his chamber, afforded him some grim amusement.

 

“Park Wonbin… Park is your surname, is it not?” And instead of uttering the sort of sentences he expected from a client, he fired the sudden question to unsettle him further.

 

“Yes, Votre Grâce.” He answered with confidence, though his hands shifted restlessly in his lap until they clenched his robe.

 

This time, there was a different glint in the man’s eyes, something beyond tranquility.

 

Something akin to… anger, and feelings he could not identify.

 

Unlike the first occasion they met, the duke wore a dark blue coat with gold detailing at the collar, cuffs, titles, and buttons.

 

Moreover, one of his sleeves was slightly rolled up, revealing a portion of pale, immaculate skin. An untidiness that did not match his formidable presence.

 

“What may I do to serve you tonight, Votre Grâce?” Wonbin murmured softly. Speaking those words had become so common that he could no longer attach emotion to them.

 

Even so, being fully aware that men reserved him to do as they pleased always left him uneasy.

 

The duke’s attention then shifted to the wounded corner of his mouth.

 

He wished he had enough rice powder to conceal the mark of last night’s violence, but under that scrutiny, he could only feel naked.

 

“I hope the two hundred pounds are well spent.” Seconds passed before he spoke simply. “Surely, sums like that deserve to be justified.”

 

…

 

Two hundred pounds?!

 

His eyes nearly widened as the number echoed in his mind like a stone cast into still waters. Wonbin tried to control the tremor in his hands, but disbelief left him no room to hide it.

 

Impossible… It was far too much.

 

Hiring him for an entire night should not be worth forty pounds less than what he earned in an entire year… It was so much gold that he was certain the Madame was extorting the nobility.

 

He was not worth that. He was a far less suitable courtesan than those in richer, more luxurious houses. The duke himself had confirmed that that day, when he learned that he could not even read. No other client would ever pay that.

 

Wonbin was left speechless.

 

“Let us talk. Have tea brought to us.” And after realizing how shocked he was by the revelation, the nobleman sighed and said it in an indecipherable tone.

 

For a moment, he was struck by the cold weight of déjà vu, as the tension in the air felt exactly the same as it had months before.

 

Wonbin tried to hide the discomfort in his body, even as he had to walk over, sit down, and serve tea for both of them.

 

A flicker of desperation reflected in his eyes the moment a servant placed the silver tray on the small table and withdrew. The clink of the ceramic produced a soft, pleasant sound, and the warm steam rose in gentle spirals, releasing a faint scent of peach. The brothel offered only that on its menu.

 

His chambers and Vincent’s were slightly larger than those of the other courtesans, which meant that the area used for entertaining was set farther away from the bed.

 

He drew in a deep breath before walking.

 

His movements, naturally graceful, were sluggish, demanding a Herculean effort to maintain the façade of normalcy.

 

Even so, among all the alternatives he had, speaking with the man before him sounded far better than doing what the others usually demanded…

 

Each of his steps made the floorboards creak. A shiver ran down his spine when the inner lining of his robe brushed against his injured skin, intensifying the discomfort. Wonbin bit down on his lip to keep from groaning, though a low sigh of relief escaped him the moment he settled into his seat.

 

At first, he thought he had not alerted the nobleman; that illusion, however, dissipated within seconds.

 

“You’re hurt.” the duke stated, rather than questioning him as the intrinsic rules of decorum dictated.

 

An attitude that should not have shocked him, considering the formidable personality he was dealing with.

 

“Your impression, Votre Grâce.” The lie slipped from his lips in a flat tone, without the slightest remorse.

 

Wonbin chose to drink the tea, not to savor it, but to convince his trembling hands not to reveal his current state. The man mirrored his action, though he drank with elegant restraint.

 

It was not his intention to analyze aspects of the other face he had not noticed on the day they first met; his eyes simply moved of their own accord.

 

…

 

The youngest client he had ever attended. A rarity, given that he usually served men whose ages were closer to his father’s.

 

Besides, he was very handsome… The neatly combed black hair harmonized with the dark blue coat and the gold embroidery that gleamed beneath the soft lantern light.

 

That combination, along with his imposing, assured aura, made him look like a prince stepped out of a foreign palace.

 

For a moment, he wished he knew what it felt like to carry the confidence that wrapped around that nobleman like a second skin.

 

“You know, Wonbin. It was never part of my plans to see you again. You failed to meet even the minimum of my expectations,” The duke released the words with such indifference, his lips hidden behind the teacup and his darkened eyes piercing, that Wonbin froze as the cutting sincerity struck him.

 

“And your housemate did not justify the cost of my presence in this place either. I should seek another place soon, even though my options are limited.”

 

…

 

Without a doubt, the most straightforward person he had ever met. Yet, unlike the first time, an indecipherable emotion was etched onto the handsome face.

 

‘Anger? Irritation? Apprehension?…’

 

Wonbin reached for his teacup again, and only then did he finally identify the sting of insulted pride in the recent statement.

 

‘If my company was so unpleasant, why return to hire my services?’

 

Heat rose into his chest, and he lowered his head to mask the tension in his jaw.

 

The taste of peach suddenly became identical to his bitterness. If the man noticed his irritation, he did not care.

 

“And yet, as I passed through these streets, I thought it only fair to offer you a second chance.” The duke idly turned the cup between his fingers as though reading his thoughts with profound disinterest. The folding screen at the back of the chamber, adorned with oriental flowers, framed his figure. “A coincidence, perhaps.”

 

‘A coincidence?…’ He had to restrain the urge to twist his features, brows drawn together into a sharp crease, reflected in the surface of the tea he held.

 

“I am sorry to have disappointed you, Votre Grâce.” In truth, he was not. Wonbin ground his teeth, unable to listen to slights in silence.

 

Aristocrats, in particular, beyond the untitled clients who rented him, had to understand that words could wound.

 

Courtesans were trained to hear them quietly, yet they could not control how they reacted. They were human, too.

 

Above all, there was no plausible reason for someone who claimed not to enjoy his company to seek him out again.

 

His hands tightened around the warm ceramic, and the nobleman, instead of offering another insult as he expected, let out a short, mirthless laugh.

 

“Then let us speak without formalities. Feel free to make your observations.” He suggested mildly.

 

Oh, how Wonbin wished he could retort; yet he would never have the freedom to converse with someone of such elevated social standing without due subservience. Hierarchy, and the fear of punishment, would not allow it.

 

“As you wish, Votre Grâce.” He imagined the unenthusiastic response might have bothered him, but this time he did not feel apprehensive.

 

Knowing that, either way, he would fail to meet the duke’s expectations made him aware of the conversation’s likely failure.

 

They remained silent for a while as the man drank his tea with elegance. Wonbin even thought he might leave shortly after, as he had the last time; however, the calm did not last long. In moments, the air around him grew heavy, thick with a sudden, overwhelming pressure, a warning to prepare himself.

 

He nearly shrank back when he saw him open his mouth, his expression rigid.

 

“Tell me, Wonbin.” The same irritation from minutes earlier, masked by politeness, returned to his cold timbre. The nobleman set the porcelain delicately onto the white saucer and fixed him with a mordancy that unsettled him.

 

“Suppose you were responsible for the safety of a people, an entire nation demanding explanations…” He paused deliberately, just long enough for a chill to seize him.

 

Wonbin wished he would finish speaking at once, but the words fell at their own pace.

 

“And suppose you received a box filled with lifeless newborns… what would your reaction be?”

 

…

 

What?…

 

Babies?!

 

The mention lingered in the air like a discordant melody, and not even the warmth of the tea in his hands could dissipate the sweat that dampened his brow.

 

Wonbin opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

 

His gaze darted to the drink, which released a comforting steam that clashed with the ghastly subject, and his fingers tightened around the ceramic, gripping it with white-knuckled force.

 

Dead babies.

 

He tried to stammer scattered words, his eyes nearly widening at the possibility that such cruelty could exist in the world..

 

“Curious to speak of newborns, isn’t it? In some places, survival depends as much on resilience as it does on luck… You should know that better than most.” The duke traced his fingers along the rim of his own cup and shifted his attention to an invisible point ahead.

 

Every gold-forged ornamentation of his attire absorbed the room’s light and gleamed with a cold brilliance.

 

He blinked, disoriented.

 

No. It was unlikely that such a situation was truly real. The nobleman was well-versed in hypothetical questions…

 

Even so, he could not understand why his posture insisted on growing rigid. 

 

He did not know whether the words had been meant to frighten him or to reinforce the hierarchy of who dictated the conversation, yet they had succeeded in drawing out a genuine reaction.

 

Subjects like that were not part of the repertoire he had been taught to maintain with clients… The likelihood of offering the wrong, unsatisfactory response was too high to risk. Still, remaining silent would only increase the other man’s frustration.

 

“No one, not even the most depraved of men, would be unscrupulous enough to do that to… newborns.” The disbelief slipped from his lips uninvited, along with a brief shiver.

 

It did not affect the duke, who rested his elbows on the table and supported his chin in his hands, watching him with such unflinching intensity that Wonbin found himself forced to stare at the wilted flower vase on his dresser.

 

It was a test. It had to be.

 

Above all, what kind of person spoke something so terrible in such a flat voice?…

 

“Yes?” The question came edged with irony. The man’s dark eyes, in an instant, reflected a sudden, sharp voracity.

 

“You underestimate the… human capacity.”

 

‘Human.’ He spoke as though he despised his own species.

 

For a brief moment, Wonbin felt cornered within his relatively spacious chamber, as the air between them grew dense enough to suffocate him.

 

The duke was frightening in an implicit way. His words were gentle, yet his presence belonged to someone who embodied danger.

 

“If that is the case, Votre Grâce... if I were responsible for the safety of others, I believe I would carry a profound remorse for having failed.” Just as he had failed to care for his younger siblings… Wonbin voiced what crossed his mind without much caution, already knowing it would unsettle the nobleman and earn him punishment from the Madame.

 

And, as expected, the man’s expression shifted in a way that made it clear he had not delivered a sufficient answer; his mind immediately calculated a new one.

 

“I would also seek retribution. I would make the one responsible pay, not for my own sake, but for theirs. I would endure the weight of guilt, for leaving such a crime unpunished would be a far greater sin than my own failure. As long as the culprit faced justice, carrying one more burden to the grave would make no difference.”

 

He had always possessed an unyielding pride. In such circumstances, he would never allow a suspect to escape.

 

It was not an argument a proper courtesan should make, however. And instead of reprimanding him for it, his mind drifted to the very real misfortunes that had occurred because of him.

 

…

 

There was a crushing certainty in the realization that everything led back to him.

 

Leaving his younger siblings behind; failing to pull his father out of alcoholism; his mother moving to Belgium to seek labour and, in the end, dying of exhaustion; Wonbin was a natural collector of disappointments, and a hollow nausea seized him whenever he thought of them

 

In contrast, the duke’s eyes gleamed, though he did not respond at first.

 

The silence pulled him back to reality.

 

Wonbin observed the inkwell on the corner table, beside a closed fan decorated with faded bucolic scenes, and let out a quiet sigh.

 

The light from the candelabra flickered, casting faint glimmers over the furniture and tapestries.

 

Countless seconds passed before the nobleman chose to speak, as though calmly absorbing everything he had said moments before.

 

“You don’t have a dream.” And, to his complete surprise, he stated it with a cold finality that left no room for comment.

 

He shuddered.

 

“No, Votre Grâce.”

 

Wonbin truly did not have one anymore.

 

He had been in that house for seven years, and even before arriving there, dreaming had been beyond his reach… The last shred of hope he had left had been painfully stripped from him months ago.

 

The duke noticed the slight flinch as Wonbin bit his injured lip, the groan he tried to suppress, but he said nothing. He settled back in his chair and retrieved the cup of tea, which must have gone cold after sitting for so long.

 

The courtesan nearly opened his mouth to tell him not to drink it, but the man consumed it without a single complaint.

 

“You’re hungry.” Instead, he set the ceramic down on the table and stated it plainly.

 

What?

 

Wonbin’s carefully maintained composure finally broke, his face clouded by genuine confusion. 

 

His stomach protested with a low sound, almost imperceptible beneath the noise of footsteps in the corridor, but the duke tilted his head slightly, as if he had heard a shout.

 

Since walking had become a problem due to the pain in his body, he had given up going to lunch in the dining hall, choosing instead to rest as much as he could in his own bed throughout the day. And no one, among the courtesans or the servants, liked him enough to check on him or bring him a portion.

 

…

 

He considered denying it and maintaining formality, claiming he was comfortable, but the insistent nobleman curtly ordered him to request food.

 

He was in no position to refuse such a rare offer. Therefore, when the plate of fish seasoned with mild spices was set before him, Wonbin grew somewhat apprehensive.

 

The duke claimed he was not hungry; even so, he would be punished if the Madame found out he had accepted…

 

“Eat.” He only began chewing when he saw the man raise an eyebrow.

 

A resigned sound escaped his throat, though his palate was focused on savouring the taste of something beyond the meagre rice and soup he had endured for months.

 

Being watched while he ate made him nervous. His hands trembled as he manipulated the cutlery, as though he had become a child newly learning table manners.

 

And even though he seemed aware of his discomfort, the duke did not care.

 

“Satisfy my curiosity, Wonbin.” This time, his voice carried a small spark of amusement. “I wonder what kind of possession you would buy if you had enough gold to acquire any object of value.”

 

Any item…?

 

His eyes lifted from the food.

 

Nothing.

 

No amount of coin could ever return him to the time when his family was whole in Rambouillet.

 

Wonbin could choose to remain silent; however, the nobleman would hardly be satisfied, and the last thing he desired was punishment in the current state of his body, despite having the impression that the man would not report him to Madame.

 

He wore an expensive robe, made of embroidered fabric, that neither warmed nor adorned him; it merely draped from his frame like a reminder of what he had become... Why would he need material goods?

 

“I would buy magnolia saplings to plant.” That, therefore, was his answer.

 

He did not dare look at the duke; his attention returned to the plate.

 

…

 

His mother, the bastard daughter of a baron from Rambouillet, had served his father’s family for most of her life.

 

Wonbin remembered with striking clarity the appearance of the beautiful château by the woods, near a vast lake, and how his childish eyes had shone upon seeing the magnolias in the lady’s private garden. On a rare occasion, she allowed him and Bomin, his younger brother, to play there.

 

Thus, the magnolias became his last happy memory before he lost everything.

 

“You have a singular taste.” The nobleman murmured, while he froze, afraid he had given yet another poor answer.

 

He watched him turn the ring on his ring finger, a gesture only those steeped in power seemed to possess.

 

“Magnolias.”

 

The man repeated it softly, with a faint, crooked smile, and the silence in the chamber grew dense, paralyzing even the sounds from outside.

 

“Ancient trees, which have existed for millions of years, even before bees began pollinating. They rely on beetles for that, which, in a way, makes them a symbol of unyielding  resilience.”

 

Wonbin’s eyes shone as he listened to the explanation. His mind tried to store every detail so he would never forget it.

 

“It is curious, however, that someone like you, living in this situation, would take interest in something venerable and enduring.”

 

Oh…

 

That final remark not only extinguished the spark of happiness he had felt while recalling a fragment of his childhood, but also pushed him back into oppressive reality. His hands released the cutlery at once.

 

It was hard to tell what hurt more: the sharp words, delivered with such callous indifference, or the wounds themselves.

 

His fingers instinctively brushed the fabric of the robe, feeling its roughness, yet there was nothing in that chamber that could comfort him.

 

“They’re beautiful.” Was all he managed to say, almost defensively, and the duke leaned slightly forward, in a habit he imagined must be instinctive. 

 

Like a prince, the subtle glow along the edges of his profile contrasted with the gloom, making him resemble a dark angel.

 

“Beautiful, yes. But beauty alone does not sustain existence. Flowers, much like humans, depend on propitious conditions to thrive.” There was a note of amusement in his voice, which Wonbin did not understand and did not even try to decipher, he was already tired of reading him. “That is why you made a singular choice. I believe it is a coincidence, of course, yet it is far more revealing than you imagine.”

 

…

 

He did not know whether the last part was praise or a warning, and any time to reflect on it vanished as soon as the mercurial man shifted to another subject.

 

“You want magnolias. And what about jewels and garments?” Whenever the conversation drifted toward uncertain paths, the duke overturned it with a new game of questions.

 

Wonbin sighed, almost inaudibly.

 

He had been sincere from the very beginning, that is, he had nothing left to lose.

 

“I already have a rather refined cloak, intricately embroidered, which, as Votre Grâce pointed out earlier, merely shrouds a broken carcass.” He shrugged slightly, putting another mouthful of fish into his mouth.

 

The atmosphere was harsh despite the lit fireplace, so he did not want his food to grow cold. His cheeks flushed as his mouth filled, and the man’s eyes took on a glint close to curiosity.

 

“Finery loses its value when placed upon a corpse.” Wonbin said, his tone devoid of humour.

 

He wished he could return to the days when receiving new garments at the brothel made him feel beautiful and vain, but that had been left behind so long ago…

 

…

 

He continued eating, and silence settled between them. Unlike earlier, this time it felt comforting.

 

The duke leaned back into his chair and crossed his arms.

 

“You have awakened a new doubt in me. The last one, Wonbin. And I do not leave places without having all of them answered.”

 

He spoke only after the courtesan took the final bite from his plate.

 

“Besides employing the artifices of beauty and knowing how to carry yourself at the table, what other attributes do you possess? You, a two-hundred-pound investment, must know more than that to entertain a man, no?”

 

Once again, the topic of competence was placed upon the table, as if the nobleman judged him foolish, incapable of critical thought.

 

Wonbin had the faint impression that they had gone in circles, merely because the man wished to test whether he would lie or change his answer.

 

‘An interrogation.’ His eyes fixed on the calm figure before him with a flicker of defiance he could not restrain.

 

“I possess no other attributes… Only what was passed down to me, which Votre Grâce perceived the first time you requested my services. Therefore, I ask that you forgive me for failing to meet your expectations.”

 

The words came out through clenched teeth.

 

It felt painful to admit his own weaknesses aloud, like picking at an open wound, but he truly could only do what he had shown so far. Nothing more, nothing less. After all, that was the very reason he had become a courtesan.

 

Wonbin’s mother, as a servant, had taught him only how to cook for his own survival and that of his younger siblings, along with the crafts of embroidery and weaving. As these were not deemed masculine pursuits, he had found few opportunities upon his arrival in Paris.

 

People would not trust a man, too delicate, too androgynous by their standards, to perform tasks that only women were believed to master. And his father was resolute in never introducing him to the world of small merchants.

 

 (...) You are too feminine.

Too much like your mother.

You are unfit for this trade.  (...)

 

As his expression clouded with a subtle lapse of suffering, the scent of candles and cheap perfume filled the room, a stifling reminder of the decay that reigned there. 

 

The conversation, which had been nothing more than a harrowing descent into his memories, had unearthed more wandering thoughts than he cared to admit.

 

And the duke, rather than probing him further after speaking of attributes, regarded him inscrutably before rising and keeping his word. Indeed, that had been his last question.

 

Why did this man have to be so composed, while he felt like a dismantled puzzle?

 

“I believe it is time to leave.” He announced, indifferent, walking toward the door, and before Wonbin could rise, he continued. “There is no need to escort me to the exit.”

 

…

 

Direct and cutting. The nobleman simply withdrew, leaving him bewildered in the silence.

 

His footsteps echoed across the floorboards with a measured rhythm. Just as he was about to leave the chamber, he turned and studied him one last time before delivering his farewell.

 

“I will seek you out again on an opportune occasion.” Wonbin knew it was nothing more than hollow courtesy.

 

…

 

In any case, it did not matter.

 

Trained to please, he placed a faint, ironic smile upon his lips before repeating what he said to all his clients.

 

“Have a good night, Votre Grâce. It was a pleasure to serve you.”

 

 

•❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅•

 

The days at the ‘House of Lotus’ dragged on with a stagnant inevitability.

 

Wonbin had long since given up counting the months since the messenger’s first visit, yet the man’s punctual routine of collecting the five pounds he sent to his younger brothers was his only reminder that the world beyond these walls continued to exist.

 

…

 

He was distracted until the aroma of hot broth mingled with the steam rising from the bowls enveloped him in a fleeting sense of comfort.

 

The sound of jeotgaraks scraping against ceramic, since the brothel followed Eastern customs in every regard, stood in stark contrast to the sharp murmurs inside the room, where every word was seasoned with venom.

 

Light filtered through the tall windows, casting faint shadows across the wooden floor and highlighting the cushions arranged around the low tables, a calculated artifice meant to persuade them into acting like a family.

 

Wonbin sat at the edge of one of the tables, stirring the rice in his bowl without appetite.

 

He could hear conversations, whispers paired with muffled laughter. And although the warmth of the fireplace and the steam from the broths served as a weak shield against the harsh winter outside, he still felt the cold seeping through his skin in sudden waves.

 

It was not only the weather; the constant tension in the air was as cold as the frost outside.

 

It sent a shiver through him. His frozen fingers tightened around the bowl in an attempt to warm himself, while the irritating din filled his ears.

 

As if they were all trapped in a contest of appearances, competing for attention, status, and above all, survival.

 

(…)

 

“You won’t believe what I was told last night.”

“Tell me. I’m dying of curiosity.”

 

(...)

 

Without the presence of clients, the masks fell away and the dining hall transformed into a silent battlefield. He knew the atmosphere was to blame, that it encouraged them to behave this way, and for that reason, no one was truly a friend.

 

If a wealthy man were to set foot in that place, they would all abandon their pretenses to compete like wild animals.…

 

Wonbin sighed and tried to ignore it. He had always valued the silence of his chamber, even back when he had arrived there at sixteen.

 

He had witnessed and overheard unspeakable cruelties among the older courtesans, some who, unfortunately, did not survive to tell their stories, or were expelled for various reasons, and that alone had been enough to keep him as distant as possible.

 

They could call him snobbish, arrogant, or any other derogatory term, and he would not care. Nothing would make him abandon his strategy for survival.

 

He lifted a portion of rice to his lips and swallowed the broth absent-mindedly, yearning to escape this relentless cacophony. His thoughts drifted to the fleeting hours of sleep remaining before another exhausting night began; the prospect alone spurred him to eat in haste, if only to rid himself of the annoyance.

 

Part of his long, shoulder-length hair, so different from the other courtesans who kept theirs short, fell into his line of sight, forcing him to focus only on the portion he had taken for himself.

 

With every bite, he meticulously gauged the toll the rice might take on his frame. It was a cruel tally he had mastered in recent days; surpassing an invisible limit would be reason enough for the Madame to exact payment through hunger and humiliation, a reminder that even in the simple act of sustenance, his freedom was a mere phantom.

 

Wonbin tightened his jaw and chewed, ignoring the fresh wave of murmurs that rippled through the hall. He had only just swallowed when a sudden, acidic remark struck him from behind.

 

“I hope you enjoyed my client. Or perhaps he left you as bored as he did me?… What am I saying? Of course you enjoyed it. You would never miss the chance to display yourself so wantonly for a Baron.”

 

…

 

A deafening silence followed as everyone stopped their trivial disputes to pay attention. Wonbin set his sticks down on the table and closed his eyes, restraining his irritation.

 

“If he were your client, he would have chosen you instead of me.” When he turned, he saw Vincent glaring daggers at him, while the other courtesans whispered in shock, attentive to the unfolding of the pathetic scene.

 

Truth be told, Wonbin had little patience left. His tone came out sharp.

 

“Don’t start with these dramatics. I don’t have time for this.”

 

…He could not even recall the Baron’s appearance, old, bearded, and repulsive, as he made a point of erasing such memories for the sake of his already nightmare-ridden sleep.

 

In any case, his cold voice seemed to freeze everyone’s spine, some of them even flinching, in stark contrast to the warm steam rising from their broths.

 

Another wave of false composure settled over the room before his self-proclaimed rival spoke again, wearing an ironic smile.

 

“You must feel so glorious, stealing a client who belongs to me… Oh, dear fallen angel, hovering above us all. Such dazzling beauty! Tell me, what is it like to be a baron’s favorite?” He mocked, gesturing excessively to emphasize his words and provoke him until his teeth ground together and his fists clenched.

 

Vincent smirked disdainfully when he noticed the reaction, bowing theatrically like an actor on stage, the blue robe he wore slipping slightly to the side.

 

“‘The greatest beauty of this land, capable of satisfying a man’s sordid desires’… ‘A flower about to bloom,’ isn’t that what they say about you? Such immoral phrases, surely they must sound like melodies to your ears.”

 

…

 

The attack on his integrity echoed through the room like an avalanche. Wonbin felt the weight of humiliation crash down on him as the entire dining hall gasped, incredulous that someone had dared to utter such indecent words aloud.

 

The rivalry between the two had always been inevitable, it was nothing new. Yet this time, it had crossed a line.

 

His nails dug into his palms and the air seized in his lungs, forcing him to draw a shallow breath. It felt as though he were sinking into a swamp of shame.

 

He should bridle his temper.

 

Yet it was difficult. Bile rose in his throat, and the broth that had once offered illusory comfort now made him nauseous, its heavy steam turning stifling.

 

Suddenly, a whirlwind of hatred surged through him, toward his profession, toward the disgusting men, and toward himself for still being there.

 

“Shut up!” His voice came out firmer than he expected, even as blood rushed to his face until his skin burned red.

 

Wonbin stood abruptly, his bowl of rice nearly tumbling from the table.

 

His hands trembled uncontrollably at his sides. Every gaze fixed on him struck like a blade, yet he refused to look away from the courtesan in front of him. It felt as though he were hanging over a precipice, and the only option left was to fight.

 

“Perhaps he chose someone who knows his place, unlike a vile, impertinent creature like you. Look at yourself and you’ll see why clients never seek you out again.”

 

He spat the words out, shoulders tense, tears threatening. Tears he would never allow to fall.

 

As much as they all knew the immoral things men said about him, no one had ever dared repeat them aloud out of respect.

 

That was the worst form of degradation he could have heard. The humiliation continued to echo in his ears like deafening screams.

 

“You have neither class nor decorum. That is why only the most insignificant are left to you. Turn that envy into a bitter realization of your own standing, and perhaps men will once again see some appeal in that abject figure of yours.” Everything Wonbin said through clenched teeth left the others stunned.

 

Murmurs spread through the room alongside stunned expressions, and then a morbid silence settled in.

 

It was the first time he had truly retaliated against one of Vincent’s daily attacks, as he usually ignored them to avoid getting dragged into trouble. However, a situation like this, one that wounded his dignity in front of even the servants, could not go unanswered.

 

He was tired of swallowing this poison passively. If he did not defend himself properly, he would be signing an invisible contract of insults.

 

Realizing how offensive Wonbin had sounded, countless gazes glued themselves to the two most popular courtesans in the house, as if witnessing an imminent duel. Some grew tense, while others became restless, waiting for a final outcome.

 

And then.

 

"God!… Vincent!"

 

The sickening thud of a punch reverberated, sending a collective shiver through the room. It even seemed to summon the wind, which rattled the tall windows.

 

…

 

Wonbin had no time to think, because when he realized it, he was stumbling backward, disoriented. A metallic taste spread through his mouth as heat and pain bloomed at the point of impact.

 

 And as soon as he grasped the gravity of the situation, an incredulous hand touched his reddened cheek, and his eyes darkened.

 

He retaliated without thinking, forgetting his reputation for staying out of trouble, blinded by the rage he had kept imprisoned for so long.

 

What followed was entirely predictable.

 

True chaos erupted around their bodies: chairs scraping across the floor, muffled exclamations, hurried footsteps echoing through the refectory. He even heard someone shout something indistinct, but the sounds were dulled, as though he were submerged underwater.

 

“Oh, no!”

 

“They’re fighting!”

 

The only thought running through his mind was to return the blow in kind, even if that response dragged them into a heated physical confrontation.

 

Both of them, consumed by fury, traded punches and kicks, rolling across the cold floor as dishes from the nearby table fell and shattered.

 

The clatter of cutlery muffled the agitated shouts and cries around them.

 

"Call someone!"

 

Despite the cries, no courtesan had the courage to separate them, faced with such raw animosity.

 

All the past barbed exchanges, never resolved, would finally be avenged.

 

At one point, after dodging one of Wonbin’s punches, Vincent stared at him with an ironic smile, bloodied teeth bared, his face almost demonic.

 

The ruin of their appearances, hair disheveled, bruises marking their faces, robes slipping from their bodies, attested to how completely they had lost their senses.

 

"You gave a moving speech, mon cher." Vincent, now pinning him to the floor, poured sarcasm into his voice even as he landed another strike.

 

"But you’re nothing more than a little bird trapped in a gilded cage, singing to amuse its jailers. Don’t tell me you truly believe you’re any different from the rest of us?"

 

Provoking him intensified the reaction of the audience gathered around and spurred Wonbin to twist his body, striking back at the blow that had hit his eye.

 

"I’d rather be a bird who knows his place than a rat that lives off scraps." He spat the words. Ceramics and cutlery clinked whenever they collided with the tables, muffling the agitated shouts and cries around them.

 

In seconds, Vincent reversed their positions again, looming over him. But before he could deliver another strike, firm hands yanked them apart.

 

"What is this mess?" It was the guards. One of them asked in a loud tone.

 

At once, the entire refectory fell silent, breaths held in fear of what was to come.

 

Oh no— this couldn’t be—

 

At last, Wonbin realized the situation he had thrown himself into in the heat of the moment, even though his initial intention had only been to return the first punch. But there was no time left for regret when the sound of heeled slippers echoed in a methodical, deliberate rhythm.

 

They seemed to announce his final judgment. His body froze as his chest rose and fell rapidly, forcing air into his lungs.

 

…

 

There was no escape. Her heavy presence soon filled the space, compelling even the most confident to lower their heads.

 

One by one, gazes turned away, except for Wonbin’s and Vincent’s, who still stared at each other, numbed by the recent fight.

 

She remained still for a moment on purpose, letting her presence weigh upon everyone’s shoulders. The silk screens at the back swayed gently, as if even the air hesitated to disobey her.

 

"But what a… deplorable scene." When the Madame finally spoke, her voice was low, tinged with disappointment. Even so, the words slipped from her red-painted lips like honed scalpels.

 

Both of them shrank back, cowed.

 

"Two of my best… exposing themselves so vilely before everyone."

 

Fury could be felt in the very tone, laced with aggressive notes.

 

A cold wave ran down his spine at her sentences. The mere presence of the woman made Wonbin feel remorse like a child being judged for a mistake he did not yet understand.

 

The rumors were true. It was said that a courtesan had once questioned her authority, and the next day his chamber stood empty, nothing left but the cloying scent of iron.

 

…

 

They were going to die.

 

He swallowed hard. Both of their irises, trapped under the guards’ grips, mirrored the same absolute terror.

 

The Madame advanced with soft steps, and when she stopped before them, her coldness was glacial.

 

"Vincent, Wonbin." She murmured in a flat voice, offering a dark smile to their fearful faces.

 

Everything she said next echoed throughout the refectory.

 

"You decided to bring disgrace upon this house with your childishness? Very well… then allow me to return the favor."

 

She turned to the others, making it clear she would use what she did to them as an example.

 

Wonbin couldn’t stop his body from trembling, so frightened he felt he might soil himself. Shoulder-length hair slipped forward, subtly veiling his pale face.

 

The entire refectory suddenly seemed to fear for their own fates.

 

There, the Madame was more than order. She wielded the power of a deity. She decided everything that concerned them, whether they would still be alive the next day or not.

 

Cold sweat broke over Wonbin’s skin. He thought about breaking free from the guard holding him, but he had no strength left.

 

"Thanks to your actions, both of you will spend the day kneeling in the snow behind the house. And so that your bodies never forget the pain you have caused me, the name of this house, and the reputation I built with my own hands… you will receive blows of Silent Discipline."

 

Neither of them had time to object or beg for mercy, as the rough men lifted their underfed, overly thin bodies with ease.

 

‘Silent Discipline’ was the term the Madame used for corporal punishment, painful wooden rods struck against the backs of those who disobeyed her.

 

Panic robbed him of his voice, even as his hands trembled.

 

They were going to die… The weather outside was freezing.

 

It was the first time Wonbin, someone who had always lived by the rules, received a sentence of such dangerous physical punishment. As if seven long years of unconditional obedience meant nothing to the Madame, who did not hesitate even when she saw his eyes brimming with restrained tears that screamed, ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘Please’.

 

"And let this serve as a lesson to everyone. My patience has limits. Do not force me to remind you what happens when they are crossed."

 

Those were the last words he heard before she ordered the men to drag them toward the back garden of the house.

Wonbin did not scream in the first moments when the hard wood struck his back with unyielding force.

 

Unlike the courtesan beside him, he bit down on abused lips until they bled, hands clenched into fists and pressed against his thighs to keep from making a sound. Short nails cut into palms, but that did not matter.

 

The guards, impassive and merely carrying out orders, lifted the heavy rods in their calloused hands without the slightest effort.  Each blow tore the very breath from his lungs. A dull pain, mixed with regret for having disappointed Madame, the only person who had taken him in when he needed it most.

 

All because of a foolish argument that could have been avoided, with Vincent.

 

His heavy tresses were his only veil against humiliation. As he cried silently with his head lowered, the dark strands concealed his marked face, sparing him from the scrutiny of the two men delivering the sentence.

 

At least there was no one else there. Everyone had been forbidden from walking anywhere near where he and Vincent were paying for their actions.

 

That, in a way, spared them from an even greater disgrace.

 

…

 

The rhythmic sound of the guards’ footsteps on the frozen ground marked the time between blows, a cruel interval that left room only for pain to fill the void. Wonbin could hear his own uneven breathing, intermingled with the hollow whistle of the wood being raised once more.

 

When the final blow landed, stronger than the others, he was certain his back would bear the livid marks of his shame for days to come.

 

(...) Do not strike them with enough force to leave permanent marks.  (...)

 

Madame's orders had been absolute, for clients would not pay for marred goods, and the two of them remained the most sought-after in the house.

 

And although he noticed that the guards had indeed measured their strength as much as possible, the impact on their bodies, coupled with the fact that they were exposed to the bitter cold only in his thin underlayers, was devastating.

 

Not even his father, when inebriated, had beaten him like that. The realization made Wonbin sob uncontrollably.

 

For the first time in seven years, he feared for his life…

 

He could not even imagine what the coming days would be like, when the consequences of that punishment truly began to surface on his body.

 

And then, suddenly, his head was enveloped by a warm, hazy fog. As if he had returned to years ago, to a time when he still had a family.

 

…

 

It felt real. Birds were singing, the sky was a vibrant blue, and Wonbin felt as though he could reach out and touch the enormous tree before him. His fingers itched for the rough texture of the trunk.

 

The small backyard of his old house in Rambouillet, where the sun burned warm during summer, clashed sharply with the cutting cold that made his bones ache.

 

Bomin always scolded him for being afraid to climb tall trees.

 

(…) Brother, you’re such a scared cat!

Come on, climb higher! (…)

 

His younger brother’s laughter echoed so loudly and vividly that Wonbin found himself smiling as well.

 

For a moment, he swore he could smell ripe fruit, but then the icy wind of the present dragged him back to reality.

 

It had been a mirage, akin to a happy dream he had not wanted to wake from.

 

He began to shiver involuntarily. Every muscle contracting, yearning to escape his own aching frame.

 

He discovered that the cold was often worse than the blows themselves when he realized he could no longer feel his palms and that the numbness was spreading rapidly through his arms and legs.

 

Even so, a faint sound reached his distracted ears and caught his attention.

 

“We’re going to die here…” Vincent’s whisper was almost imperceptible, yet it made Wonbin lift his head abruptly. Damp strands of hair, soaked with cold sweat and tears, clung to his face with the sudden movement.

 

The other courtesan was curled in on himself, his shoulders shaking violently, his hands as pale as the falling snow resting weakly on the mud hardened by ice.

 

He would not last much longer.

 

…

 

Wonbin turned his face forward again.

 

He lowered his gaze to his own lap, lost, shuddering as he bit down on his injured lips.

 

It was not his problem. He should not care about the possibility of Vincent, the insolent young man, fainting or… dying.

 

He tried to push away the kindness he had carried since childhood, but it seemed impossible.

 

‘He’s younger than you.’ His mind reminded him that Vincent was two years his junior, and the dark weight of that thought made him groan.

 

The heated argument from earlier, and all the other times they had traded barbs, flashed through his mind. Still, if the two of them were fated to die there, there was no reason to hold on to resentment.

 

Should he depart without bitterness?… It was not as if he hated the courtesan beside him.

 

The brothel forced them all into competition, turning them into unwilling adversaries even when they yearned for kinship. Wonbin knew that.

 

And perhaps the mirages brought on by the cold had softened him, for seeing Vincent tremble like a feather, his fingers tinged a ghostly indigo, made him think of what he would do if it were one of his brothers.

 

…

 

Anything to save them.

 

His heart tightened. He could hear his own conscience screaming at him to ignore it, after all, Madame had been clear: any movement and the guards would deliver ten additional blows.

 

At the same time, carrying one more guilt to the grave, that of negligence, would be too much for his sorrow-laden heart.

 

That was why, without hesitation, Wonbin began to remove the outer garment he was still wearing. A thin white fabric that barely offered any relief against the cutting wind.

 

His trembling, purplish fingers fumbled with the knot at his collar. With each careful movement, the weals on his back seamed open, sending jolts of white-hot agony through his nerves. He ground his teeth to stifle a scream.

 

When he managed to loosen half of it, he cast a subtle glance at the guards, fearing they might notice his act, yet he did not stop until he finally stripped it off.

 

The shock of the temperature, without the extra layer to protect him, made him shudder even more violently.

 

Wonbin tried to defy the agony as much as he could, even though the weakness made him slower than usual. He quickly turned toward Vincent’s frail body and covered the courtesan’s shoulders as best he could.

 

“Idiot… Don’t do this… You’re going to die wi—” The young man’s voice faded, as if he were truly about to lose consciousness.

 

And there was no time to answer. The retribution was swift, striking before Wonbin could return to his original position.

 

The guards did not hesitate. The wood cut through the air and then struck his battered back, tearing from him a muffled sound he could not contain. One of them stepped forward, adjusting his stance to ensure the next blow would be more precise, while the other waited for the right moment.

 

Wonbin bit down so hard on his lips to hold back a scream that a rush of blood flooded his mouth. The deep pain did not seem worse than the ice that seized his skin the moment he felt the snow cut into his knees like a blade.

 

Once again, his vision blurred, pinpricks of light dancing before his eyes.

 

His mind carried him back to a distant past, to the time when his late mother cradled one of his brothers, the youngest, in her arms, while they all huddled near the oven to protect themselves from the cold.

 

“I’m sorry, Mama…” The words slipped from his mouth along with sobs that hurt more than his body.

 

Wonbin had failed.

 

Yet the regret was replaced by a strange sense of peace, almost sweet.

 

Before long, he could no longer feel his extremities. His soul felt as though it were about to detach from this world.

 

When he opened his eyes, he saw Vincent clinging tightly to the piece of fabric he had given him, and that was enough for a faint smile to form on his cracked lips.

 

If this were his end, at least he would leave at peace with himself.

(...)

 

The torrential rain outside was accompanied by thunder, crashing with such violence that the windows trembled in their frames. Wonbin shuddered, his frail form curled in on itself as he watched his mother hurriedly gather clothes into a flickering, dancing shadows.

 

The smell of dampness filled the air, mingling with the mold that clung to the old wooden house. With every gust of wind, the candle on the table beside them threatened to go out, casting them into a frightening half-light.

 

“Mama, why do you have to go…?” He couldn’t hold back the sob. His wide eyes were desolate, and his choked voice echoed softly, low enough not to wake his siblings, who slept peacefully on a thin mat in the corner of the room.

 

It was night, and his father was still not home. Sometimes, Wonbin wouldn’t see him for days. His uncle had told him that he spent his nights in a tavern, but his childish mind couldn’t grasp what that meant, only that it was a place meant for adults.

 

The day had passed normally. He and Bomin had climbed trees in the forest, helped with chores. But once everyone had fallen asleep, his mother had said nothing, only rushed to gather her belongings.

 

When she heard him, she stopped for a moment, shoulders tense, her gaze fixed on the worn clothes in her hands. She looked so sad that she didn’t answer him right away. It felt as though the words she needed to say would be painful.

 

Even so, when she turned to him, her expression held a hollow calm that contrasted sharply with the dark circles beneath her eyes and the deep exhaustion reflected in them.

 

The kind of exhaustion an eight-year-old child could never understand.

 

“Wonbin, you are the eldest.” Her voice was firm, yet gentle at the edges, as if she were trying to convince herself of her own resolve.

 

Then his mother knelt in front of his small, hunched body to meet his height and reached out to wipe the tears streaming down his flushed cheeks.

 

“It’s for all of you. Your father—he is… very ill. He can no longer take care of us.” She paused for a long moment, a wavering smile gracing her beautiful lips. 

 

It was as though she were gathering the courage to continue. Her voice faltered halfway through the next words.

 

“Mommy promises she’ll come back soon. Until then, be a good boy and listen to your uncle. He’ll take care of you for me.”

 

Nothing she said soothed him.

 

On the contrary, Wonbin shook his head frantically, his tear-filled eyes brimming with despair. The fear of not seeing her for a long time, and the anticipation of missing her, made even more tears spill over.

 

Why did his father have to be ill? He was always gone, and his mother was always crying…

 

His infant logic mind thought that if they locked his father inside the house, even if it made him grumpy, there would be no more illness.

 

His small hands gripped hers tightly, driven by the desperate urge to stop her from leaving.

 

“I can go with you! I promise I’ll behave! I… I don’t want to stay here without you!” Wonbin cried louder than before, forgetting to be careful not to wake his siblings.

 

Had he been mature enough to understand back then, he would have realized why his mother bit her lip and looked away for a moment, struggling to regain her composure.

 

His innocent pleas struck her deeply, so much so that she enclosed his tiny hands within her own, roughened by years of hard labor.

 

“My little boy…” It was the first time his mother sniffled since the beginning of that dark night. Even so, a phantom of a smile remained on her face.

 

“You need to stay here. Who will take care of your siblings while I’m away? They’ll miss me too. I need you to stay by their side until I come back, all right?” She pulled him into a tight embrace, stroking his hair to quiet his sobs.

 

“I know you’re sad, but you’re a strong boy… Please, take care of your siblings for me.”

 

The thunder outside echoed what resounded within his small heart.

 

Wonbin wanted to believe her words, but a growing anguish took hold of his innocent mind.

 

As if, deep down, he already knew she would never return.

 

“You really will come back…?” The resigned question he murmured against her warm chest was filled with pure terror.

 

His fingers tightened around her arm. He wanted to etch this sensation into his memory, so it wouldn’t hurt so much until she returned to hold him again.

 

Even so, the idea of letting her go was hard to accept.

 

A desperate silence followed before his mother tightened her embrace around him, letting out a light laugh that nearly faded into the air.

 

“Of course I will, my love.”

 

She gently stroked his hair, her hand trembling as if she were handling a precious jewel.

 

“It’s a promise! When I have enough for all of us, I’ll come back, and we’ll live happily ever after.”

 

(...)

That ‘forever’ never came to pass, no matter how devoutly he had prayed every day, just as she had taught him, for soon the news of her death arrived.

 

His mother had worked herself to exhaustion, chasing after coins to send them, and his uncle, already advanced in age, followed her into the heavens some three years later.

 

He had lost everything.

 

…

 

Wonbin’s eyes flew open.

 

The pain of that memory and the pain in his body merged, clouding his thoughts.

 

Suddenly, breathing became difficult. Even so, a small, inaudible sob escaped him.

 

Years had passed since she left, and he still carried the torment of that night…

 

It took Wonbin a while to realize what was happening in the present. His mind grasped only sensations.

 

He was trembling on a bed, his bed, lying face down, and although his feet and legs were covered with several layers of fabric, his bare back was exposed to the chill of the room, which this time felt as cold as the weather outside.

 

Lifting his head demanded all the strength he had left, and even then, he could not keep it raised for more than a few seconds. It throbbed in painful synchrony with his throat.

 

His chamber, usually silent, was filled with noise: buckets of water being dragged across the floor and worried murmurs that sounded distant to his ears.

 

He tried to move his fingers, but even that simple action required a resilience he no longer possessed. His body felt limp, as though, in addition to exposing him to the cold, every bone in his frame had been shattered one by one.

 

The dryness of his mouth and the metallic taste confirmed what the sounds around him already suggested: he was grievously wounded.

 

“Keep him still.” A servant’s voice warned the others.

 

It was the last sentence he heard before a cloth soaked in warm water was pressed against his raw back to clean the wounds.

 

Wonbin did not scream or groan. The renewed contact with pain was enough to make him lose consciousness.

The next time he woke, he thought he was trapped in a mirage, staring at the wooden ceiling while low murmurs echoed within the hazy chamber.

 

Then the scene shifted to the back garden. Wonbin saw Vincent beside him, kneeling on the frozen ground, on the brink of death.

 

Fragments of what had been the most horrifying punishment he had ever endured struck him with such force that a sharp breath escaped, his eyes flying open.

 

Worse than seeing it was reliving the blows of wood and the burn of snow against his skin.

 

Cold… His lips trembled. They could have died there.

 

But… where was Vincent?…

 

…

 

No.

 

His eyes widened, and the urge to scream surged as the other courtesan’s figure vanished into the haze of medicinal incense drifting through the room.

 

The young man was irritating, impulsive, and not long ago Wonbin had believed he hated him. Yet now, all he wanted was to see him alive.

 

“Vin… cent…” He tried to ask where the courtesan was, but his voice came out more like breath than sound.

 

Speaking tore a searing pain through his throat. He coughed uncontrollably, drawing the attention of the two servants who were working together to warm his feet and hands with heated cloths.

 

Wonbin did not notice that he was trembling more than ever before. The cold was endless, even with the meager warmth of the cloths against his skin.

 

Such profound fragility that dying seemed preferable to the agony of not feeling his own body.

 

“D-don’t strain your throat!” One of the servants exclaimed, the one closest to his face, warning him with wide eyes.

 

She meant to spare him further injury, but he did not obey. His head shook repeatedly as he opened and closed his mouth. A few tears slipped free.

 

“V-Vin…” Wonbin let out a hoarse moan. His vocal cords felt coated in soot, refusing to complete the name.

 

“V-Vincent…”

 

 He needed to know whether he had failed.

 

A long silence followed before the women absorbed his words.

 

“He lives! Now, peace, child, or you will do yourself more harm.” Said the older servant, who was massaging his feet to help restore circulation, stern as a mother scolding a child.

 

…

 

An indescribable peace blossomed within him.

 

Wonbin finally relaxed. And though he could barely feel his body, he allowed unconsciousness to carry away the weight of his worry.

 

 

•❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅•

 

 

“You have a visitor.”

 

The guard sounded indifferent, as though coming there were just another useless task in his routine; he looked at him only once and knocked on the door.

 

Getting up and walking toward the exit, however, was anything but trivial…

 

Four days had passed since the punishment, according to the servants who came to check on him, and Wonbin could still barely stand.

 

The effects of the extreme cold and the blows lingered like open wounds, constantly reminding him of his folly. And although his consciousness had returned, the unbearable pain made him believe the ice had seeped into his bones.

 

A long sigh escaped him, an attempt to encourage himself to rise from the bed, and parts of his body cracked from disuse.

 

He groaned as he walked toward the door. The smooth blue robe he wore felt heavier than he remembered. His trembling hands struggled to keep it in place, adjusting it when he noticed it revealed his collarbones too indiscreetly.

 

…

 

Nothing had changed in the brothel, and it felt as though months had passed. He realized his sense of time had been impaired since he woke up for good.

 

From his chamber, he heard the daily routine noises, echoing like a mockery of his bedridden condition, and the nightly coming and going of the house, which continued to function at full vigor.

 

Still, his physical infirmity did not devastate him as much as the Madame’s coldness, who had not even come to visit.

 

He had always known she was not affectionate, but her absence sounded like a silent sentence: it told him he was of no further utility to the closest thing he had to a maternal figure after his true mother.

 

Even the servants who helped him, ordered not to interact with the courtesans, seemed more compassionate than the woman, despite their gestures being devoid of warmth.

 

Perhaps she was testing him, waiting for him to beg for forgiveness if he recovered… Until that happened, Wonbin had morally died for her.

 

He did not count how many seconds passed after the guard’s warning, nor the time it took him to cross the threshold of the chamber and meet his visitor.

 

During the day, early in the afternoon, it could not be a client.

 

He felt relieved when he remembered the Madame had granted him a short ‘reprieve’ to recover, since his current physical state made him unattractive to anyone.

 

Even so, part of him considered the possibility that it was someone acting on her direct orders, or worse… someone exact retribution for the fray in the refectory.

 

That thought quickened his breathing as he coughed uncontrollably, and the narrow corridor seemed to stretch endlessly.

 

Wonbin paused briefly, lacking air. Sweat beaded on his forehead from the mere effort of walking a few toises.

 

With each step, his muscles trembled and threatened to give way. To worsen his plight, the heavy silk of the robe brushing against his heels dragged toward the floor like an anchor tied to his weakened body.

 

His lungs wheezed, and then the corridor walls seemed to close in on his blurred vision, suffocating him.

 

In the distance, muffled voices emerged from somewhere, laughter, the sound of objects, footsteps climbing a faraway staircase… Wonbin blinked and tried to ignore everything, focusing solely on the act of placing one foot in front of the other.

 

…

 

Even though he thought he would not be able to, he managed to enter the small sitting room and sit at the wooden table.

 

The silent space, muffled by the burgundy velvet curtains and the fireplace, did not feel as welcoming as he had imagined. At least the dim early afternoon light filtered through the gaps, casting elongated shadows across the floor.

 

That meretricious comfort, however, ended the moment a cold wind slipped through the windows, turning his fingers pale and stiff.

 

Wonbin tried to ignore the trembling in his body, but the sensation of plunging into an icy sea continued to haunt him.

 

For a second, he thought his breath hovered in the air like a ghostly vapor. Just another product of the mirage that sometimes afflicted him.

 

He did not count the minutes before a familiar figure entered the sitting room; he was caught off guard.

 

…

 

“Father.”

 

His foggy mind struggled to recognize him, yet his body identified him immediately. His murmur echoed low enough for only the man to hear.

 

It was instantaneous.

 

Longing struck him with the force of a physical blow, raw and unexpected, so much so that he could not restrain himself, weakened as he was. He had spent years trying to shroud his heart in hatred, but… he could not.

 

Pulling away from the only bond he had left felt just as irrational as continuing to cling to it. And despite complaining whenever he went to visit him, his father always came back.

 

Wonbin watched him huff and sit down without ceremony, as if the place were familiar to him… As if it had not been months since the last time he had sought him out.

 

He recoiled, and the sudden movement wrenched a violent fit of coughing from his lungs.

 

He had never received any attempt at affection or closeness, only rudeness and personal attacks. Even so, a part of him refused to forget this man. A part that, although aware that their encounters wrought more agony than solace, still starved for a single word of approval.

 

That, at least this time, the older man would say something that hurt less.

 

His father did not greet him. Shoulders weighed down by a life of excess, along with the stale scent of spirits ingrained in his pores, enveloped them as their eyes met.

 

He was sober. Wonbin realized this after forcing his mind, clouded by lack of air, to gather his scattered senses.

 

He made to stand, an almost childish reflex to show respect, but his body allowed him only to incline forward.

 

“Sit.” His father’s voice was as harsh as ever. His analytical gaze followed each of his struggles.

 

The servants had claimed that in a few days he would be cured of the chill, after all, Vincent had already improved, but it was hard to believe that when his condition only worsened…

 

He weakened little by little, lacking the strength even to remain standing. Moreover, the reflection of his own cadaverous visage in the dressing table mirror, directly across from his bed, was terrifying.

 

“What do you need?…” Wonbin let out softly, grateful that his father had not complained about the seconds he spent coughing.

 

Then, an uncomfortable silence took over the room, before the man released a harsh sound, half laugh, half contempt, and rummaged through the inner pocket of his coat.

 

He took the moment to observe his coarse figure.

 

His face looked worse compared to the last time they had seen each other: the lines of age more pronounced, hair gone gray, and an air of exhaustion clinging to him. His brown garments were so threadbare they were little better than rags… He must not have bathed in days, something Wonbin often had to remind him to do.

 

Suddenly, he was reminded of the duke he had entertained some time ago, quiet like his father, scrutinizing him from the inside.

 

He hated silent treatment.

 

When he was neither irate nor inebriated, his father liked to respond without words. A synonym for the fact that, even in the simplest interactions, Wonbin had fallen short of his expectations.

 

…

 

His attention snapped back to the present when a small emerald glass vial, filled with what looked like medicinal herbs, was placed on the table with a dull thud.

 

“What is this?” Wonbin lifted his gaze and looked at his father, who clicked his tongue impatiently.

 

“For the trembling.” Short and direct. He said with a dry voice, as if it were irrelevant information, brows furrowed. “Your grandmother was delivered from the same affliction with this draught alone.”

 

With the tea alone…?

 

Wonbin tensed his shoulders, his eyes returning to the container. His raised hand, trembling uncontrollably, struggled to reach it.

 

He didn’t know what to say.

 

The glass felt strangely heavy, much like the cloak hanging from his weakened body, making the act of holding it upright difficult.

 

When he finally looked away from the object, he found his father staring at him, firm, assessing, from across the table.

 

“Take this for five days, every morning.” Though barely shown, the sentence carried something different.

 

Almost… affection.

 

…

 

It was an unprecedented gesture. His father never recommended anything to him, not even when he was a child. He had always been too indifferent, unconcerned with his children.

 

And as much as he wanted to know the real reason behind the medicine, Wonbin knew that questioning it would be the fastest route to an insult.

 

So he held back his restlessness, coughing weakly in the process, and voiced a question that carried only half of his curiosity.

 

“Who told you about my condition?” The tone was low, but enough for the older man to hear and release a sharp exhale of derision.

 

“A servant. You don’t try to be pleasant with others. It’s to be expected that no one would care.” Once again, the answer came jagged and painful, like the wheeze in his chest.

 

…

 

Indeed, he made no effort to please anyone in the house, especially the servants, who behaved as if the courtesans were utterly sullied. Some even went as far as insulting them. It was Madame’s order that they be ignored, so they didn’t bother to show respect.

 

It wasn’t new, yet the remark pierced his skin. Wonbin simply didn’t show it; he had heard worse attacks before.

 

He thought the room would sink back into silence, but his father spoke again moments later.

 

“It’s time you start thinking about the future.” An ambiguous sigh paired with the emblematic phrase made him frown.

 

Wonbin blinked.

 

It wasn’t a conversation they usually had. His father was always impulsive, avoided any kind of planning, after all, dissipated the family’s modest inheritance upon his own dissolute habits.

 

“What do you mean by that?” His teeth clenched as an icy draft slipped through the windows and struck his entire body, clouding his thoughts for a moment.

 

He tried to keep his gaze on the man before him, who seemed far too calm by any normal standard, lightly tapping his fingers against the table. The sound stopped before he spoke again.

 

If Wonbin hadn’t already been ill, the drastic shift in the atmosphere would have sent a chill down his spine. A subtle change also crossed the older man’s hardened expression, though nearly imperceptible.

 

“I won’t last much longer.” His father stated. There was no wavering in his tone, no regret. He was merely exposing a raw reading of life. “I’m already old and worn out.”

 

…

 

No.

 

That couldn’t happen so soon.

 

It was contradictory. Although he had lived through situations no decent caretaker should ever put their child through, he had never truly considered the moment his father would actually be gone. Perhaps out of fear of being completely alone.

 

Death itself was already a sensitive topic for him… which explained why he had saved Vincent at the cost of his own health.

 

His chest tightened, eyes widening. He was about to say something, but was interrupted.

 

“I was far from a paragon of fatherhood, and I’m not here to penitence or lament.” The man began, his tone neutral, without weight, though his pupils revealed the exhaustion he hid. “And in any case, you were never a good son.”

 

‘You are not a good son.’ No matter how many times he heard it, the words always struck with force.

 

Wonbin let out a huff and bit his lip. His mouth tasted bitter with inadequacy.

 

Meanwhile, his father reached into the inner pocket of his coat again, pulled out his alms pouch, and poured fifteen pounds onto the table.

 

The rent–

 

“Keep your money. I don’t need it.” He stared at him intensely, the old, wrinkled face marked by emotions he did not voice but that were transparent: a genuine concern he had never shown before. “You’ll need it when the bloom of your youth has vanished.… Tsk. When your body is worn and slack, what do you plan to do? Do you think you’ll be desired forever?”

 

What…?

 

It felt like an eternity before he managed to process what he had heard, his thoughts scattered by the sickness. Once again, a coughing fit seized him instantly.

 

Wonbin didn’t need much to piece things together.

 

“Where are you going?!” He nearly alerted the guard patrolling near the door. Desperation bubbled up along with the fever burning his skin.

 

If the rent money had been returned, his father didn’t intend to stay in the tenement on the outskirts.

 

“Far from the capital. It is no concern of yours.” The careless reply shattered the calm Wonbin was still trying to maintain.

 

The man couldn’t go that far… With what coins would he sustain himself, inebriated most of the day? Had he found honest labor, or was this yet another fleeting whim?

 

His father was unpredictable, often failing to follow through on what he said; but this time, it sounded final.

 

As if there were truth in his words. A truth Wonbin would never accept.

 

“I am—“

 

Countless questions flooded his mind, but his mouth trembled, afraid to challenge someone who despised being challenged.

 

“Don’t act like you haven’t wished I’d leave and never come back.” His father let out a bitter laugh, rough hands dragging across his face in pure annoyance.

 

“You don’t want me around, and I no longer care for your company. Don’t look at me as if it’s a lie… It is time our roads diverged, my son. Save the money for your old age.”

 

“Father… don’t be like that.” Wonbin extended his trembling hand across the table, his fingers nearly brushing the cold coins as the truth pricked painfully at utter weariness.

 

For a long time, back when he had not yet entered the brothel, he had indeed prayed for the man to lose himself forever in the labyrinth of the streets. It was cruel, yet common within the decadent dynamic they shared. Still, hearing the older man say he would sever that noxious bond hurt him far more than dared to imagine.

 

He should have been the one to put an end to it, having suffered the most in that destructive union, so why… why did it ache so much?

 

When he looked at his father, he gained nothing but a firm certainty, carried in by a cutting gust of wind that made the velvet curtains in the sitting room sway.

 

The tea… Wonbin did not need it. He did not crave a tardy display of concern if it meant he would never see him again.

 

Since his mother’s passing, he had known only how to live entirely for his family. Even if his siblings no longer wanted him, even if his father merely tolerated him, he still bartered his flesh for the meager scraps to sustain them, without regret.

 

“You may return… whenever you find yourself in need.” It was more an attempt to convince his father than an offer. His fists clenched the blue robe he wore until the blood stopped circulating.

 

And, for the first time in a long while, a flicker of true humanity appeared in the older man’s eyes. But it lasted only a few seconds.

 

“What we have here isn’t promising for either of us.” The man gestured toward their bodies, then sighed. “Think of this as the final duty of a father, one I never truly had.”

 

Then he reached into the inner pocket of his coat, retrieving another object and carefully placing it on the table.

 

An old pocket watch.

 

The delicate chain snaked around his calloused fingers before finally falling onto the wood, and Wonbin recognized it immediately, his eyes, once forlorn, widening in shock.

 

It was perhaps the most valuable object his grandfather had left behind.

 

His family had descended from a line of modest tradesmen, and his great-grandfather had struggled to acquire the item, which was passed down until his father succumbed to intemperance and destroyed any possibility of prosperity for future generations.

 

…

 

‘Think of this as the final duty of a father’. He was not only frightened by what he had heard. The fact that the watch had been brought out like this, so suddenly, left him speechless.

 

His father did not keep mementos. He was not a sentimental man. And yet, here he was, on the verge of gifting him with it.

 

“It is worth more than the coin you have spent upon me over the years, so consider my debt settled. Keep it safe, and sell it when you finally depart from this house.” He spoke with a callous ease, discarding the weight of their entire history with a mere shrug.

 

Deep down, Wonbin believed this was a forged mask, one that hid the feelings the older man kept imprisoned within himself.

 

He would never truly understand him.

 

“And my siblings?” A knot tightened in his throat. He could not forestall the thought of the younger ones; the instinct to provide, to share the very marrow of his bones, took hold of him.

 

As always, broaching that subject was a folly. His father snorted in derision and scoffed loudly as he rose to his feet.

 

“They’re ungrateful.” He spat, irritated. “I pawned the last of your grandfather’s silver cutlery to send them coin. And for what? Not a single word of gratitude. Tsk. I should’ve let them rot in misery!”

 

That made Wonbin bristle as well, though for a different reason. His hands clenched into fists in his lap.

 

His siblings were the main reason for the resentment he harbored toward the man before him.

 

"You abandoned them.” The words slipped through clenched teeth, just enough to make his father’s expression darken further.

 

“A drunkard with no purpose and a kid were a burden I could not carry. Had I brought the lot of you to the capital, we should have all perished from hunger ere the month was out.” And, as harsh as it was, he had to admit it was true.

 

“What would you have done? Sold your flesh to feed five mouths beyond your own? Spare me this sanctimonious prattle. You may choose to blind yourself, but they are far better off than we will ever be.”

 

…

 

Wonbin had nothing to say in the face of the brutality with which he had been confronted.

 

His father always hurled painful words as though he were discussing the weather outside. It was as if his son deserved every possible verbal blow.

 

A heavy silence settled between them until the man finally pushed back his chair, the wood screeching against the floorboards like a cry of protest. He let out a weary, jagged sigh.

 

“I believe this is the last time we’ll see each other, unless you possess the folly to seek me out.” The declaration brought on another coughing fit and a lump in his throat. His father walked toward the exit. “And don’t even think about crying. You know well how I loathe them. You look too much like the very image of your wretched mother when you weep.”

 

“Father.” Wonbin called out to him amid his heavy breathing, trembling hands outstretched. It was a silent warning, a plea, for him not to do what he intended without someone nearby to watch over him.

 

The man was so impulsive… the mere realization was enough to worry him.

 

Whispering his name did no good.

 

“Take care of yourself, son. One of us must endure until the winter of our days.” He received a different look then, the usually dull irises filled with the glassy sheen of unshed tears.

 

But it did not last. His father turned his back and left, escorted by the guards. The only trace of his presence that lingered was stale, lingering scent of spirits hanging heavy in the air.

 

…

 

Wonbin did not notice how many minutes passed after he was left alone, nor when silent tears began to trail down his cheeks.

 

He had always thought he would feel relieved on the day his father finally left, but there, it felt as though he had lost the little he had left.

 

‘Save it for the future.’ If the coughing allowed, he would have let out an ironic laugh at the advice.

 

Inside that place, he could die at any moment… nothing he did was meant for his own old age.

 

…

 

Without realizing it, his fingers tightened around the watch, as though holding the cold metal could keep time itself from stealing his last remaining fragment of family.

 

 

 

 

“…”

 

Time passed without him noticing. Hours and more hours ticked by on his newly acquired watch, delicately set upon his dressing table.

 

Wonbin returned to his chamber worse than before. The exertion of the walk and the brief, cruel exposure to the wind cutting through the windows had taken a final toll on his waning strength. As he collapsed beneath the meager warmth of his sheets, his consciousness drifted away like smoke caught in a winter wind.

 

Perhaps he fainted, or perhaps the sleep was simply too profound. Either way, he remained oblivious when the heavy oak door creaked open and someone stepped into the gloom of his room.

 

“Wake up.”

 

The distant voice, despite being close to his ear, followed by a gentle shake of his shoulders, suggested the person feared hurting him.

 

Wonbin squeezed his eyes shut and then blinked, trying to tether himself to reality. A different scent, vegetal and unfamiliar, invaded his nostrils, making him wrinkle his face to keep from sneezing.

 

The servants did not treat him with care.

 

…

 

“Hey.” The timbre sounded familiar, but his fever-addled mind kept him from associating it with anyone at first.

 

He forced himself to keep his eyes open. The ceiling looked hazy, the walls around his chamber spun in a slow, sickening whirlpool.

 

“What…?” Wonbin murmured, and heard the person sitting at the edge of the bed let out a soft, exasperated huff.

 

“You must take your midday meal.”

 

Midday?…

 

“Vincent?” The name slipped from his lips in a low sound that barely reached the air. His throat hurt too much to speak.

 

The thin voice that had called him seemed to belong to the other courtesan, whom he had not seen since the punishment, but Wonbin wondered if this, too, was just another feverish mirage.

 

He blinked repeatedly, until the blurred haze finally yielded to sharp contours.

 

“I…” It was the first time he had ever seen Vincent struggle to speak.

 

The strange silence that followed weighed as heavily as his embarrassment. Wonbin noticed it and, surprised, forced himself toward full wakefulness. He tried to move. The young man helped him sit up, while a ragged wheeze escaped his chest and left him short of breath.

 

“You’re still ill… Consider us even for all the fights. You saved me before. I don’t like owing anyone.” Vincent’s face was a deep, burning scarlet. His eyes darted to some corner of the chamber, and his sincere words left Wonbin with trembling lips.

 

Before him stood the one he had always considered his rival, far more inclined prone to malice and provocation than to show any regard.

 

The idea that he had become a burden worthy of compassion was disconcerting.

 

…

 

He had not saved Vincent that day to earn this kind of pity. It had only been paternal instinct speaking louder… He would have done the same for anyone.

 

Wonbin could not measure how conflicted he felt. Still, his heart beat fast, and a breathless, ghostly laugh escaped his lips.

 

“Y-You don’t need to…” Only then did he notice the tray of steaming broth resting beside the bed. The warm aroma had been lingering in the air for some time, but he had not connected it until now.

 

In any case, the unrelenting fever and the raw ache in his throat had long since robbed him of any appetite.

 

“What is it? Do you truly believe I am cold-blooded enough to lace this broth with poison?” The familiar, acerbic mocking returned to Vincent’s voice. He sneered, though his eyes remained soft as he reached for the silver tray with a flash of feigned impatience.

 

“Open your mouth, old man.” And the attack was different from all the others he had heard since they first met years ago.

 

It carried… the rough-edged tenderness of a brother.

 

“Oh, don’t be impertinent.” Wonbin grumbled, but he did not disobey. His body was far too exhausted for the luxury of stubbornness.

 

And then silence settled between them, heavy, yet somehow comfortable.

 

Vincent remained focused on the task of feeding him, wiping his mouth whenever some of the broth spilled. There were no more arguments; Wonbin simply focused on the labor of swallowing, allowing the gentle warmth of the draught to bloom within his chest and soothe his aching body.

As difficult as it was, the fever only worsened with the arrival of night, making the act of keeping warm almost impossible labor, even though he had not left the shelter of the blankets.

 

Wonbin trembled uncontrollably.

 

Each breath tore at his throat like shards of glass, and the slightest movement seemed to demand an absurd amount of effort. The dim, flickering light of the oil lamps cast a penumbra that mirrored his state.

 

He felt sweat trickle down his skin, a contradiction to the cold temperature surrounding him. Then came the morbid whisper that perhaps he would not survive the cursed illness.

 

He could not. He needed to ensure that his father and brothers remained safe and alive.

 

Who would support them if he were gone?

 

Wonbin had never reflected deeply on it before, but his greatest fear was succumbing to a fate as hollow and sorrowful as his mother’s.

 

‘To die trying to save one’s own family.’ It was devastating, and so he banished the grim possibility far away.

 

…

 

His chamber remained silent, broken only by the rhythmic chattering of his teeth and his labored breathing, when hesitant knocks echoed at the door, followed by the creak of wood.

 

It did not take long for three servants to enter, distressed, with layers upon layers of elegant garments in their arms.

 

Wonbin felt disoriented, his eyes barely able to lift properly.

 

“What… what is this?” His voice came out hoarse, faltering before he could fully form a question steeped in despair.

 

“There is a client for you tonight.” A man murmured, uncertain.

 

What??!

 

The statement alone was enough to freeze him.

 

The Madame had promised him rest until he recovered. Wonbin was in no condition whatsoever to attend to anyone in this state.

 

“I—… I thought…” He drew in a deep breath, trying to complete a sentence despite the disorienting pain in his throat. “I thought she would let me rest.”

 

The servants had to move closer to hear him.

 

“He is a demanding client. The Madame would never refuse.” Explained the younger one, who looked to be around fifteen. His eyes remained fixed upon the floorboards, his posture taut with a visible, aching discomfort.

 

Fear rose within him like bitter bile.

He could barely move his feverish body, how was he supposed to minister to the whims of a demanding client?!

 

More than the panic, what hurt him most was realizing that not even illness would grant him mercy of dignity. Wonbin twisted his lips, the foul taste of sickness settled on his tongue.

 

Protesting would be useless, as always, his will held no relevance at all.

 

Someone had once murmured in the refectory that courtesans received the cruelest treatment in the world.

 

That was proven true when multiple hands began to touch him, pulling him from beneath the blankets and dragging him from the bed, while all he could do was shiver  convulsively as his bare feet met the unyielding ice of the floorboards.

 

…

 

Wonbin hated having his body handled like a lifeless puppet. The palms that touched him were never gentle, only impatient. Moreover, the lingering welts from his punishment flared with pain the moment a servant washed him with care.

 

The lukewarm water ran over his skin like strips of ice. He could not stop the trembling, nor the discomfort when they dressed him as if he were a porcelain doll.

 

Suddenly, the familiar familiar shroud of emptiness returned to his expression.

 

 

When he returned to the chamber, dressed in the red robe embroidered with gold they had chosen for him, he felt even sicker. The fever had not subsided in the slightest, and the bath had only served to anchor the chill deep within his very marrow. 

 

Wonbin perceived the room’s decoration in a blur as he did his best to assume his usual submissive posture, sitting with forced elegance on the bed.

 

It did not help much; his body trembled too violently, and his breathing came in ragged, broken intervals.

 

After tending to him, the servants did not linger. They left as hastily as they had arrived, leaving behind naught but the stifling scent of burned incense.

 

…Not even the cloying perfume of sweet herbs could suffocate the heavy, sickly odor of the malady that clung to the air.

 

With each passing minute, he grew more apprehensive, as there was still no sign of the man who had hired him.

 

Time sounded torturously slow in his mind, as though a loud cuckoo clock were counting, second by second, toward his final judgment.

 

The anxiety made his hands sweat in his lap, to the point that he had to dry them on the crimson silk of his robe he had just put on.

 

He did not know how he would be expected to entertain the client; however, allowing someone to use his body in this condition would be impossible… Certainly, he would receive another punishment from the Madame by the end of it all.

 

A new coughing fit overtook him, harsh and merciless, drawing tears of strain to the corners of his eyes.

 

It was precisely at that moment that the doorknob shifted subtly, announcing the arrival of another presence.

 

The person entered before he could recover from the coughing, and Wonbin had to blink repeatedly to focus his vision on the tall, slender figure clad from head to foot in sombre charcoal gray.

 

…

 

Three seconds passed, or four. His heavy eyelids fluttered with effort, and the tall figure before him dissolved and reformed, as though the fever made him see through fogged glass.

 

When the nobleman’s physical contours finally came into focus, his heart nearly beat in relief.

 

“Votre Grâce.” He was grateful that he would be attending to the duke, even if that meant being subjected to a game of ambiguous conversation.

 

As expected, the man said nothing at first, merely surveying him with a detached, chilling silence. The cold gaze examined him for a long moment, while a false sense of plenitude spread throughout the chamber.

 

The cough prevented him from greeting the nobleman in the customary manner, yet for the first time, it did not leave him mortified or embarrassed.

 

“H-how may I serve you today, Votre Grâce?” Even with part of his senses fraying at the edges, Wonbin still noticed the man raise an eyebrow.

 

There were no obvious questions or charitable deductions, only the unbearable weight of that gaze, which seemed to see straight through his feverish flesh.

 

“We will converse. Ask for a broth, for a change of fare.”

 

 

Just like the other times, the meal was brought only for him, and when he asked, the duke claimed he had dined a few hours earlier.

 

He did not wish to contest it and would never complain about free food…

 

Had Wonbin been in full possession of his senses, he would have grown sick of consuming nothing but broth, the only meal served in the refectory, but of late, his throat would permit nothing but the blandest sustenance.

 

…

 

So there it was: the deep bowl atop the table. The scent of vegetables entwined with the heavy incense, and the steam rose toward his face, warming skin damp with the dew of fever.

 

His trembling hand took a long while to bring the spoon to his lips, and the moment it did, the heat slid down his throat and vanished into his stomach, as though his body were utterly incapable of retaining its warmth.

 

His tongue met only a void of flavor.

 

The duke remained silent for a long time, permitting the stillness to thicken until it filled the entire room; this time, however, Wonbin did not mind being watched so much.

 

They spent minutes like that.

 

The crack of wood settling and the fragile chime of the spoon against ceramic were the only sounds produced in the space, distant in his slightly clogged ears. Fever distorted the noises, some too loud, others muffled.

 

Even so, dizzy and shaking, Wonbin found himself breaking the silence first.

 

"Votre Grâce always seems to have such a calm air… I imagine nothing in this world truly has the power to unsettle you." The tone came out more ironic than he had intended, and he realized it too late; being so slow made it difficult to weigh his words before speaking.

 

Everything flowed faster than he could process. exhaustion and flicker of irritation blended together, and he no longer had the strength to correct himself.

 

Besides, even if he tried to brush it off, being observed preyed upon his nerves.

 

"There are very few things that truly earn my disquiet." That was the nobleman’s reply, as Wonbin attempted to bring another spoonful of broth to his mouth. More than half of it spilled back into the bowl due to the uncontrollable shaking in his hands, and his lips clicked in response.

 

Thanks to the fog clouding his mind, the man’s handsome face appeared far too blurred for him to read any expression.

 

Suddenly, a harrowing thought surfaced: he would die if he could not recover soon… Something so desperate that he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to banish reality from his head.

 

It must be another mirage.

 

…

 

"A-and I… Am I one of them?" Wonbin could not ask without coughing. His hands rushed to cover his lips, a failed attempt to preserve some shred of decorum in front of a nobleman.

 

“No.”

 

No?

 

He frowned, his gaze urgently seeking the man’s face, for he had not expected such a response. He had braced himself for a cold reprimand, not the ghost of a smile.

 

"Votre Grâce said before that I do not meet your expectations." Was that not an annoyance? It made no sense, when the duke himself had stated at their last meeting that fell Wonbin short of the qualities he sought. The courtesan swallowed the hot broth slowly, feeling it pierce his throat, then continued in a low murmur, his lips nearly forming a pout. "Votre Grâce said you would return… but you took a long time."

 

He did not know where such courage had come from, yet speaking seemed the only way to stave off the spectral voice repeating in his mind: You will die. Fever, besides making him more uninhibited, had finally shattered the brittle glass of his composure.

 

He did not feel threatened. He was convinced the figure before him would not hurt him, despite the formidable aura perceptible even from a distance.

 

“I am a man of many obligations. I am not in Paris for mere leisure.” He found it remarkable how every sentence spoken by the nobleman carried an unwavering certainty, as though he possessed an answer for everything. “It is true. You did not meet the exact measure of what I seek. However, you came closest.”

 

Wonbin twisted his face and, unintentionally, let out a loud, jarring sneeze embarrassingly that echoed embarrassingly through the silence.

 

"'The closest'… I fear that Votre Grâce is not the sort who…" The trembling forced him to stop and grind his teeth, for the freezing night proved worse than the day. "…who enjoys squandering his hour."

 

…Perhaps he should not have been so honest.

 

The duke settled back in his chair, the movement producing a loud discordant creak, and crossed his arms with clear interest.

 

"Do you believe I wasted my time coming here?"

 

Was that not what he had implied last time?… Wonbin discovered that he loathed having his own words so deftly inverted.

 

"I believe Votre Grâce already has the answer to that question." His attention returned to the broth as he tried to eat.

 

‘Yes.’

 

In the end, he truly was nothing more than a great waste of coins.

 

For a moment, he thought he would receive another brief reply. The nobleman did not react immediately. He seemed to sift through the nuances of Wonbin’s words, something that, at this point, no longer mattered to him.

 

The spoon clinked against the ceramic as he tried to lift it to his mouth. He searched his memory for a new topic, anything to distract himself from the looming fear of illness, which grew more severe as he felt weaker and weaker.

 

At that very moment, the deep bowl was subtly nudged closer to his body by the duke. Had he been truly attentive, he would have noticed.

 

"Votre Grâce asked me something earlier."

 

"Yes?" And if the man noticed that Wonbin was uncharacteristically loquacious, his movements slow, as though fighting faintness and despair, he made no comment.

 

"About dreams." He stared at the serene face with clouded eyes, saw the other raise an eyebrow, silently urging him to continue.

 

"I believe I have a dream now. I…" Heavy breathing, followed by coughing, interrupted him for a few seconds. The dim light from an oil lamp illuminated his dry skin, the hollow shadows beneath his eyes, and his cadaverous frailty.  "I want to survive. And… to find my father."

 

…

 

To survive.

 

Saying it out loud was more terrifying than he had expected.

 

"And the magnolias?" Instead of asking about his new wishes, the man brought up something Wonbin barely remembered having revealed months ago.

 

He blinked, and if his weak breathing allowed it, he would have let out a mirthless, sardonic laugh in return.

 

"Votre Grâce must know that the time allotted to someone like me is not very vast." He deflected politely, though the edge of irony still lingered in his low tone. "There is nothing that can be done about it. At some point, we will all become… worn."

 

Wonbin thought he should pray to God and ask for another chance.

 

He was so unbelieving… All that remained was for angels to descend from heaven to tell him that his journey on earth had come to an end.

 

"So you no longer want the magnolia saplings." Deep down he knew that was not true, but the nobleman seemed to toy with him on purpose, with this dull game of words.

 

He could not curse him because of the hierarchy. Worse than dying from the wretched illness would be a trial for insolence.

 

"If I survived and had the chance to see them in person, yes." Wonbin flirted with unconsciousness, yet irritation still clung to his sweat-soaked skin. He regretted having spoken of the flowers in their previous meetings.

 

It took a few seconds for the man to uncross his arms.

 

"Very well." He should not have been shocked by unpredictable answers, yet it was impossible not to show disbelief.

 

Very well?…

 

It sounded as though he were mocking his condition.

 

The hand that tried to lift another spoonful of broth to his mouth tightened around the silver utensil, trembling even more violently than the rest of his wasted frame.

 

The duke’s expression turned serious, the shadows cast across his face making the atmosphere in the chamber even colder. Wonbin was far too ill not to notice the change.

 

“It is sooner than I intended, and far too inconvenient for the present occasion, but you do not appear to have much time left to occupy this earth.” There was no emotion in the statement, only a cold observation. The opening words made him set his cutlery down on the plate and look up at his eyes that had grown hollow and dim.

 

‘You do not appear to have much time left to occupy this earth.’ Before he could summon a retort, the man continued.

 

“Tell me, Wonbin, would you be willing to learn how to read and receive instruction in the highest etiquette?”

 

…

 

Indeed, he was making sport of his wretchedness.

 

“Votre Grâce is aware of my limitations.” It was difficult to hold back the bitterness. It was only less apparent because his chin began to chatter violently, signaling another wave of fever.

 

“I did not inquire after your limitations. I asked whether you possess the will to learn how to conduct yourself before a society as merciless as that of Paris.” This time, there was a slight reprimand for being too unfocused to pay attention.

 

Wonbin did not even think he would wake up alive the next day…

 

“Why would Votre Grâce wish to know such a thing?” As at the beginning of the conversation, he hurled the bold inquiry without regard for the consequences. Reversing the question was the least rude response he could find.

 

He was a courtesan from a decaying brothel. There was no one to teach them, and the miserable pittance he earned did not even cover his family’s livelihood.

 

Yet, contrary to what he expected, the duke did not fall silent. He answered almost in the same second he had asked.

 

“Because I am in search of a courtesan of sufficient caliber for a political marriage.”

 

…

 

A phantom of a smile almost curved Wonbin lips, but the malady prevented him from showing anything beyond a faint twitch at the corners of his mouth.

 

Political marriage.

 

The most amusing phrase he had heard in recent times, even though the individual who uttered it remained unshaken, measuring his reactions.

 

Wonbin had to think carefully about what he would say next. Cold sweat trickled down his forehead in the process.

 

“Votre Grâce has just acknowledged that I did not meet your expectations.” It was as though the duke had been waiting precisely for that answer, since he let out a single dry laugh before stepping closer and closing the distance between their faces.

 

Intense eyes locked onto one another.

 

“Yes. But, you are the one who came closest to my requirements. I do not like to repeat myself.” Since he showed no expression, Wonbin could not tell whether he was lying, though the exceptional nature of the subject gave it away. “You may ponder the matter, but you have only this moment to decide.”

 

The duke took his hand, one that nearly spilled the broth onto the plate again, with his large, cold palm and helped steady him until he could bring the contents to his lips.

 

It was the first time they touched.

 

“And if I refuse the offer?” Wonbin imagined that pressing might make him abandon the subject. His lips twisted slightly at the corner in the beginning of a grimace.

 

He had neither the patience nor the sanity to deal with this kind of proposal from clients. He had lost count of the number of men who had offered him similar things over the years. Still, he had to admit that none of them had the type of the noble seated before him.

 

“If you refuse, I will walk out that door and seek another courtesan. It is a short answer. Yes or no. I do not repeat my overtures, so be aware that if you decline, once we part tonight, our paths will never cross again.” The penetrating gaze forced him to meet it without looking away, like a magnet.

 

…

 

The gesture alone was enough to stir a strange turbulence within him. His cheeks would have flushed red had he not been pale as the sheets.

 

“Forgive me, Votre Grâce, but your proposal seems… far too generous to be true.” Wonbin strained to phrase his words as gently as he could.

 

Yet the duke’s expression did not change; he remained impassive.

 

“I do not give to charity.”

 

An odd silence fell between them as he struggled against his heavy body and confused thoughts.

 

The broth he had forgotten, exposed to the cold air, gradually cooled.

 

“All right.” Accepting was the most practical solution to make the man give up and change the subject, even if his voice lacked conviction.

 

The noble noticed.

 

“I do not accept equivocations. From the moment you say yes, I will proceed with the purchase of your freedom, and you will have no further opportunity to reconsider.” It was more a firm, measured warning than a reprimand. “Therefore, consider wisely.”

 

…

 

The chance of being bought seemed slimmer than that of recovering from his illness. He knew that. Still, the assured tone the duke used made him ponder for a few seconds what a future beyond the brothel walls might be like.

 

‘Survive and find your father.’ His mind reminded him suddenly.

 

“All right. I accept.” The conviction with which he spoke startled even himself. Wonbin turned his confused gaze to the side.

 

That was enough for the man to step away, his eyes searching for any lingering shadow of doubt before he finally conceded.

 

“Very well.” His face neither softened nor tightened when he agreed. It displayed the neutrality Wonbin had grown accustomed to after their encounters. And, as on the other occasions, he stood, fastidiously adjusting the cuffs of his charcoal coat and said.  “I will return to take you tomorrow night. Be ready.”

 

A new coughing fit made him choke on his own saliva. His voice was a mere rasp as he struggled to offer a final salutation to the Duke, who already stood at the threshold. The man had moved with a fluid grace that his faltering senses could no longer track.

 

“H-have a good night, Votre Grâce… It was a pleasure to serve you.” Because of his condition, he could not repeat the perfectly memorized phrase. Even so, it was enough to earn a solemn parting nod.

 

“Good night, Wonbin. Finish your meal and rest.” The noble looked at him one last time, emphasized the final words, turned, and left. A suffocating silence lingered in the room instead of following his emblematic figure.

 

…

 

What had that conversation been?…

 

Under normal circumstances, Wonbin would have agonized over the questions and answers, but his frame was convulsing so violently that he thought of nothing but crawling back to the sheets. His broth, half consumed, was left forgotten on the distant table.

 

‘I will return to take you tomorrow night. Be ready.’ His mind mocked. He would remember that in the future, if he survived, whenever he wished for a good laugh. For now, however, all he could do was squeeze his eyes shut and grind his teeth, trying to draw air back into his lungs after losing his breath during the short path to the bed.

 

It did not take long for a dark, heavy exhaustion to claim him.

 

•❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅•

 

 

What day of the week was it…?

 

Wonbin had been asking himself that question ever since he woke from the punishment, as if testing the limits of his own sanity. The conclusion he reached was that with each passing night, he lost what little sense of time and space he still had, even though the ‘House of Lotus’ continued to operate at full vigor.

 

Everything dissolved into a fevered blur. He tried to pay attention, but the images dissolved far too quickly for him to grasp.

 

He vaguely remembered waking a few times, yet he could not distinguish dreams from reality, having hallucinated during many of those moments. He only felt the servants’ cold hands adjusting the sheets, replacing those soaked with sweat, the cloths upon his forehead, and the spoons brought close to his lips.

 

That meant they had cared for him and fed him, even if he had no awareness of it.

 

Remaining awake for even a few hours had become a Herculean labor, given his exhaustion and the new episodes of breathlessness and sharp pain in his chest. Thus, the present moment, staring blankly at the ceiling, was one of the rare exceptions.

 

…

 

Night shrouded his chamber in a strange, morbid silence, befitting his condition, broken only by the occasional sounds from outside his room.  The dark wainscoting and the heavy crimson tapestries seemed to absorb what little light remained, deepening the encroaching gloom.

 

The indirect lighting and the abundance of shadowed corners around the perimeter had never bothered him before; this time, however, it felt like the prelude to his funeral.

 

The malady was advancing, something he had already foreseen, even if he had denied it inwardly, and not even tinctures his father had brought him had helped.

 

He was simply… fading.

 

The mattress that bore his slight weight suddenly seemed to cradle a corpse, and the air in the room grew hot as he began to sweat once more.

 

His mind still wavered upon the jagged edge of delirium and consciousness when footsteps outside echoed loudly enough for him to hear.

 

Perhaps it was dinnertime, if someone had remembered to feed him.

 

Then he heard three soft knocks on the door.

 

Wonbin frowned in confusion, wondering whether he had dreamed that as well. The servants usually entered without permission, considering that most of the time he was not even awake.

 

The doorknob turned slowly, until the familiar figure finally appeared in the doorway.

 

“Are you ready?” The duke asked as he approached, wearing a coat that resembled royal attire, adorned with glinting emblems and golden crests. His expression, as always, revealed nothing beyond impassivity, while his features seemed to blur before his eyes, as though he were moving through a corridor of fog before reaching the bedside.

 

Wonbin blinked, questioning whether this was a mirage.

 

Though the nobleman had spoken in a low, unhurried voice, all he could do in response was search his memory for what the question was meant to signify, because the illness prevented him from recalling the past days, as if he were trapped in hollow cycle of oblivion

 

“Ready…?” He murmured, his voice nearly inaudible. The man’s eyebrow lifted.

 

“I said I would proceed with the purchase of your freedom. Have you changed your mind?”

 

…

 

Purchase…?

 

It felt like an eternity before his mind grasped that particular memory. His eyes widened.

 

“You…” He opened his mouth, but only a parched, hacking cough emerged. His lungs burned and his body tensed. “You really… came.”

 

…

 

The duke should not have been there.

 

Not truly. He had said he would return, but Wonbin had not believed it for even a second. Many men had made similar promises, and the Madame would never sell him so easily… at least not to just anyone. He was one of the most sought-after courtesans in the house.

 

Perhaps the illness had convinced her…? It was naïve of him to try to estimate the extent of this nobleman’s wealth, but buying him had certainly not been cheap, considering that renting him for a single night already amounted to a fortune.

 

“Have you changed your mind?” Wonbin realized he had drifted off again when the duke repeated the same question.

 

No. He desperately wanted to leave this place. With every passing moment, it became clear that he would not survive there, despite the servants’ care. Besides, he was…  utterly spent, weary to his very marrow of this wretched routine.

 

He feared displeasing the Madame and receiving a punishment worse than the last.

 

The rough, aching hands of the men who hired him, the servants’ coldness, the hostile atmosphere among all the courtesans of the house, everything came crashing down on him as he reflected.

 

Wonbin looked at the nobleman before him.

 

This stranger could do worse things, like the lord of Rambouillet, but he was his only chance at survival. He did not want to judge him that way, especially since they had not so much as touched, neither to shake hands nor to stir old ghosts. Thus, he did what desperation and instinct commanded.

 

“No. I want to leave this place.” Saying it aloud, though his voice was low and weak, felt more profoundly liberating than he had imagined.

 

A painful, strange ember of hope settled in his chest. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes, but he did not let them fall.

 

The duke nodded and asked,

 

“Have you packed your things?”

 

No.

 

Wonbin had not believed the proposal at first, and to make matters worse, he had fainted into the sheets the moment he lay down the previous night.

 

Still, a sudden euphoria overtook him, urging him to conquer the malady and try to sit up in bed.

 

The effort, of course, triggered an acute surge of chest pain and breathlessness, and he was startled when hands helped him rest carefully against the headboard.

 

…Perhaps the second time he had touched him

 

 His silence seemed to be enough for the duke to infer the answer to his earlier question, as he left the chamber for a few moments and returned with two black suitcases.

 

And contrary to what Wonbin had expected, the man did not bring guards or servants to order them to gather his belongings; he simply placed the cases on the bed and opened them.

 

“Tell me what you intend to take.” He said naturally, watching him with patience.

 

Wonbin blinked in confusion.

 

He was absolutely certain that dukes did not perform such tasks in their daily lives, yet this one merely looked at him in complete silence, waiting for what he would say.

 

Soon, he shrugged and began to dictate in a weak voice.

 

"In my dressing table… if you please."

 

The man obeyed and sat on the chair in front of the mirror, searching for the items Wonbin indicated between shortness of breath and coughing fits.

 

"The… the rosary. In the corner… it was my mother’s." Half a second of searching, and those long, skilled fingers retrieved the small wooden object. He did not even examine it before placing it atop the dressing table. "And… the icon of the Virgin… she looks like her."

 

His voice grew even lower, both from his illness and from the embarrassment and fear that the nobleman might judge him or make some remark. None came, for all he saw was the man stacking item after item with quiet respect.

 

"The watch… my grandfather’s. My father gave it to me." He did not know why he felt compelled to justify the importance of each object. The explanations left his lips instinctively, as though reaffirming the visceral need to keep them close might lessen the chances of the nobleman seated at his dressing table preventing him from taking them.

 

Once, his mother had spoken of the soul of objects, and of how material possessions could carry the history of their former owners and pass it on to future generations.

 

Perhaps that explained why he was so attached to old, worthless things.

 

In any case, he did not have much to take with him, since the cloaks he wore and used daily were provided by the brothel.

 

The only belongings that were truly his were his mother’s two devotional mementos, his grandfather’s watch, a silver comb-and-hairpin set gifted by a client years earlier, and the alms pouch containing his meager savings. Other than that, the duke only had to retrieve a threadbare bundle of clothes from the bottom of the wardrobe, the very garments Wonbin had arrived in.

 

The nobleman even raised an eyebrow when he noticed that a single suitcase held all of Wonbin’s possessions; still, he voiced nothing.

 

…

 

Too dizzy, Wonbin only realized he had been given new clothes when they were placed on his lap.

 

"Change."

 

Reality struck him once again.

 

He was truly leaving.

 

Wonbin gazed down at the fine garments, then at his own haggard, trembling frame. The layers he wore still shrouded the marks of his punishment, yet he knew they were still there.

 

A knot formed in his throat.

 

"I… I can do it, but Votre Grâce could…" His voice broke halfway through, no matter how much he tried to sound unchanged.

 

The duke understood his faltering plea immediately and withdrew toward the door without a word of complaint.

 

"I will bring someone to help you."

 

No!

 

He did not want the servants to change him, even though they had done so in recent days, for something inside him screamed that he must leave the brothel with what little dignity and resilience he had left.

 

His pride endured even in this situation.

 

Wonbin clenched the sheets, feeling the shame burn as fiercely as the fever. Luckily, the man had not yet left the chamber.

 

"No." He spoke so quickly that he surprised himself. The nobleman stopped the instant he opened his mouth, and he had to swallow his embarrassment. "You… you can… help me?"

 

…

 

The cough was the only sound that kept silence from settling between them. As expected, Wonbin could not read what passed through the duke’s mind as he turned back, his expression too neutral for interpretation.

 

As he was touched in a cold and precise manner, yet not rough like the servants, the shame he had felt before ebbed away along with part of his consciousness. He began to tremble when he was left naked for a brief moment.

 

Throughout the process, he tried to ignore the fact that someone was dressing him as though he were a child, though his averted gaze betrayed him. And when the man helped him into his shoes, holding his ankles firmly, he realized just how weak he was.

 

‘It’s all right. Now he wore warm, heavy clothes, different from the light cloaks he used to seduce clients.’ His mind lectured itself.

 

The duke extended a hand to help him stand, but Wonbin ignored it. He did not want to be supported, at least not on the way to the exit.

 

It was a desire he felt he needed to fulfill at any cost, to overcome the emotion that struck him the moment he truly understood he was leaving.

 

He took a deep breath, even though it hurt, forcing himself upright. He nearly pitched forward, but a discreet arm caught him.

 

Wonbin did not look back as he walked out of the chamber that had sheltered him for so many years, for he was certain the bad memories he had acquired there would assault him from all sides.

 

If possible, he would forget the existence of that room for all eternity.

 

Even so, walking was a true challenge for his body. They had to stop several times along the corridor due to his lack of breath, and every step was painfully slow.

 

There were no courtesans in that part of the house, only the assorted voices and laughter behind closed doors, for they must all have been busy entertaining clients, and he would not have faced them even if he had seen them.

 

When they finally reached the exit, a part of the house he could not even remember the last time he had crossed, the Madame was already waiting beside two guards.

 

His shoulders tensed instinctively, a reflex born of the fear he had acquired after the punishment. For a moment, he feared she might oppose his departure, until he realized she was… smiling.

 

"Wonbin… my precious boy." Just that opening, spoken in her affectionate tone, was enough to bring tears to his eyes.

 

Above all the hurt and resentment for having been punished, she was still the closest thing to the maternal figure he had lost. The one who had taken him in from the streets when he needed it most.

 

It did not feel wrong to be overtaken by a mixture of longing and, deep down, sadness for having disappointed her days earlier.

 

The Madame embraced him, and his weak, trembling hands could not return the gesture. In return, the tears he had held back spilled down his cheeks like a cascade.

 

"Oh, my boy, don’t cry… I hope you have a bright new journey beside this kind duke." He thought once more of how much the man who had bought him must have paid, yet it no longer mattered. The silent presence beside him said nothing, merely keeping an arm behind his back to support him.

 

"Th… thank you for… taking me in…" Wonbin sobbed like a child.

 

He had always imagined he would give a long speech to thank her, yet all the words vanished from his mind.

 

"Go. We wouldn’t want the duke to wait because of us." The Madame stroked the top of his head, an act Wonbin accepted with closed eyes, thinking of the last time his true mother had done the same, while the nobleman merely nodded to her in silent farewell.

 

The longer they lingered, the harder the goodbye would become, for just as with his father, the destructive relationship he maintained with that house bound him to it, even though he hated living there with all his strength.

 

…

 

A few more steps and he would truly be outside.

 

One… two… three… Wonbin counted the fifteen steps carefully. Breathing was already difficult.

 

Then a current of cold air struck his face, the only part of his body left uncovered, as if it had come to wash his soul.

 

Stepping outside, even though the dark night offered no appeal to his blurred vision, was liberating in countless ways.

 

Freedom.

 

Wonbin had been bought by the duke and did not even know how his new routine would function from then on, yet the feeling of being free from the brothel moved him even more.

 

At the same time, all the effort it took to reach that point demanded a high price.

 

He nearly fainted in the man’s arms, who caught him swiftly and guided him to the waiting carriage.

 

"Can you get in?" The question came softly by his ear, but Wonbin no longer had the strength to open his eyes or speak.

 

Not even the sophisticated layers of garments kept him from trembling against the harsh winter, as another bout of coughing and breathlessness made his chest ache and wheeze.

 

The duke had enough strength to lift him and place him inside the carriage without even losing his breath, and Wonbin barely noticed when he was settled onto a cushioned seat.

 

When the coachman took the reins and the carriage began to move swiftly through the sparsely traveled streets, his consciousness drifted away like smoke. Even so, though unconscious, a nearly imperceptible smile shaped his lips.

 

He might have little time left to live, but knowing he would spend it far from the brothel was more than gratifying.

 

It felt as though fate itself whispered that even immoral, decadent beings like him deserved a worthy eternal rest.

Notes:

GLOSSARY:

The newspaper column mentioned in the story was an adaptation of one of the columns written about the courtesan Marthe de Florian, a demi-mondaine (a category of courtesan) from the Belle Epoch who was extremely popular and sought-after in her time. This column belonged to the newspaper “Gil Blas”. Although the period is not the same (mid-to-late 1800s, the end of the 19th century; whereas the story takes place around the 1670s), I took this “poetic liberty” to make an adaptation because, when I read it back then, I decided it would be interesting to incorporate it into a story. This happened before I ever thought about writing this fic. You can check the reference below. This is just to acknowledge that this short column was not originally written by me hahaha

Boutillon, Aline. "Marthe de Florian, une demi-mondaine au Square La Bruyère." Bulletin XVII-2019 de l’association 9ème Histoire, 2019, www.neufhistoire.fr/articles.php?lng=fr&pg=2756&prt=1 . Accessed 27 Jan. 2026.

Once again, as I mentioned at the beginning, I don't know if I'll continue it. If anyone reads it and likes it, feel free to comment, maybe that will motivate me to keep going T.T

*Chapter 1 was rewritten on 01/19/26