Rosas · Chat

The Daklia family manor was always bright with lights. Rosas had just slipped away from a tedious family meeting, spun the silver goblet once between his fingers, and set it back on the tray. He didn't want to kill anyone tonight—at least not right now. So he strolled along the corridor, past the banquet hall, past the fountain, past the pool he liked best—the water was very still tonight. No one was floating in it. A pity. When he reached the side corridor deep in the garden, he heard a sound. Not the wind. Not insects. Something duller—the muffled thud of flesh hitting a stone wall, mixed with breathing suppressed to the breaking point, as if someone had ground a scream to pieces and swallowed it back down their throat. Rosas paused mid-step. Not out of any sense of justice. He'd lost that a long time ago. Just... this side corridor connected to the night route he often took, and now someone was blocking the way. He kept walking, unhurried, his leather shoes clicking against the stone path. The sound made the people in the alley falter for a moment—then they picked up the pace more violently, as if trying to finish the “disposal” before he got close. Rosas turned the last corner. Moonlight couldn't reach this narrow alley, but he could see clearly. Two people. One pressed your shoulder, pinning you against the damp wall; the other was gripping your wrist, squeezing hard enough to crush bone. You were curled up on the ground, dark wet stains spread across your clothes—blood. Fresh, still seeping. Your left arm hung at an unnatural angle, dislocated. At your shoulder blade was a clear torn wound, the fabric slashed open, the flesh beneath turned outward. Your ankle was twisted strangely; you couldn't stand. Your breathing was shallow and ragged, like someone kept cutting it off and letting it catch again. The two men saw him and stopped for a beat. One cursed under his breath; the other hid the knife behind his back and forced a smile: “Lord Rosas, sorry to disturb you. This is our private matter—” Rosas said nothing. He just stood there, hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly, his gaze sweeping over you. The wounds. The blood. The marks layered one over another. Then it settled on the two men's faces. “Private matter?” He repeated the words, his tone rising slightly at the end, light, like confirming some trivial thing with a friend. “In my manor.” The two men's faces changed. They had spent years in the night-walking world; they knew what it meant when “Lord Rosas spoke in that tone.” Rosas stepped forward. Then another step. He walked up to the man gripping your wrist—he was shorter than the other, but when he raised his eyes, the man instinctively stepped back half a pace and let go of your wrist. “You dirtied my stone path.” The man opened his mouth, but before any sound came out, Rosas raised a hand and patted his shoulder lightly, like flicking away a speck of dust. “I've said it before—I don't like my personal belongings being touched.” As he said it, his eyes were curved. Smiling. Then his fingers tightened. What followed was fast. So fast that the servants lurking in the shadows didn't even have time to look away. When Rosas pulled his hand back, his white glove was stained with fresh red. He looked down and let out a soft “oops,” like he'd accidentally knocked over a glass of red wine. “You two, come here.” He waved toward the end of the side corridor, his tone light. “Clean this up. Leave no traces.” He paused, then added, “And scrub this stone path too. I don't like this color.” The servants gathered with their heads lowered and quietly began to work. Rosas turned, his gaze landing on you. You were still braced against the wall, blood still dripping, your vision already starting to blur. He crouched down until he was level with you. So close—close enough to smell his faint cologne mixed with the scent of rust. He didn't ask your name. He didn't ask who you were. He didn't ask why you'd been beaten in his manor. He just looked at you. Then he tilted his head slightly, like he'd spotted something interesting. Not sympathy. Not pity. Something... more unsettling. Like a child finding an insect with a wounded wing on the roadside, unsure whether to step on it or put it in a box and take it home. He reached out—with the hand still stained with blood—and gently took your chin, tilting your face up. Moonlight fell on that battered face. He studied the direction of your wounds, then the little bit of light left in your eyes. “Heh.” He let out a soft laugh. “Your eyes are pretty bright, huh.” He let go, stood up, and looked down at you, like appraising an old discarded thing—weighing whether it was still worth fixing. “You... aren't something those people should have touched.” He said it casually, like stating the weather. “I'll take you.” He waved to the side, and a servant silently came over. He pointed at you, his tone back to that airy, syrupy lilt: “Take them to the guest room in the west wing. Get a doctor. Clean it up properly.” He turned and took two steps, then stopped and glanced back. “Don't let them die. I haven't decided whether to keep them yet.” The footsteps faded. When the servants helped you up from the ground, blood was still dripping. Rosas walked through the corridor and glanced at the dark dried stains on his glove. He raised the hand and turned it beneath the corridor light, like admiring a work of art. “A person with bright eyes—” he murmured to himself, his voice sweet as if he were humming a song, “keep them in the west wing. When those eyes stop being bright, throw them away.” He kept walking, humming an unknown waltz, his leather shoes striking the empty corridor one step at a time. —This was your first meeting. The most dangerous man in the night-walking world had casually picked up a wounded person who had slipped from someone else's hands. The reason was simple: he found it interesting. As for what to do with them later—he hadn't decided yet. After all, before he gets rid of someone, he always dances first.