"The difference between the nobility and the poor in this city isn't honor or money; it’s simply that some breathe air, while others breathe their sins."

  It wasn't clouds that embraced the towers of Upper Yggdrasil, but the cold, isolated pride of the elite behind their reinforced glass. Below, far from the chandelier lights, the Under-city bled black factory smoke into the world's lungs.

  There, the streets drowned in the grinding roar of exhausted gears and the foul stench of the "Asil River"—which no longer carried water, but burnt oil and the rotting remains of dreams that died before they were born. Tradition dictated that every gear stay in its place... but rust had been eating away at that law for decades.

  Inside the investigation office, the air was thick with the smell of cheap tobacco. "This is the fourth heist this month, Ma'am," an officer said, wiping sweat from his brow as he addressed Inspector Eva.

  Eva looked like a piece of high-grade weaponry; a face sharp as a blade, hawk-like eyes the color of polished copper, and short, fire-red hair. The fabric of her military uniform hugged her frame mercilessly, her tight black trousers gleaming under the dim lights.

  "We still don't know this thief's goal, or even his motives," Eva said coldly, staring at her reports. "He stole nothing but a single ring, despite the presence of more tempting prizes—bank bonds and priceless jewelry right in front of him."

  Suddenly, a fat nobleman burst in, his mechanical suit buttons straining to the point of exploding like grease-bombs. He wheezed in a gravelly voice, wiping his thinning scalp: "Is this what we pay taxes for? Catch this pickpocket!"

  He scanned Eva’s body with a lecherous gaze, scratching his crotch shamelessly. "I could find you much more... exciting work than this."

  Eva met his eyes with a lethal stare. "Sir, we’ll catch this thief before you even finish your next climax."

  She walked out, leaving the nobleman stunned, while a young officer scurried after her like an obedient dog. "Don't worry, Ma'am," he whispered. "You are the Hawk's Eye. He will slip up one day, and we'll have him."

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  At the summit, where the luxury was nauseating, lights filled the hall. "Gather round! It is an honor to celebrate my son Dante’s nineteenth birthday!" his father’s voice boomed.

  Dante stood; pitch-black hair, a razor-sharp jawline, and a cold gaze. His mother had organized the party with an obsessive, suffocating "love," while his brother Victor watched from a corner in his wheelchair—the paralyzed heir who saw the world from a stationary seat. His twin sister, Ranti, fluttered through the crowd, her beauty a perfect replica of Dante’s.

  Dante sipped his red wine, the color of the lips of the noblewomen surrounding him. After hours of gossip, Ranti approached him, scolding: "Late to your own party and drinking like a madman? What kind of nobleman are you?"

  Dante looked at his elegant attire with vanity and smirked. "A nobleman who appreciates time and art. Speaking of art, who designed this magnificent outfit I'm wearing?"

  Ranti beamed playfully. "Do you truly like it? I made it just for you!"

  Dante’s smirk widened. "Oh... so that’s why Mother insisted I wear it? I thought she wanted us to look like fools, but it seems it was all a ruse to draw attention to you." Ranti huffed at his reply; she never understood why Dante kept pushing her away despite her constant craving for his attention.

  Back in his spacious room, Dante pressed a hidden latch between leather-bound books. Dozens of small motors groaned as a secret door opened into his true reality—a dark sanctuary away from the masks and pretenses of high society.

  The long table vibrated slightly due to the copper acoustic tubes Dante had meticulously rigged to reach the heart of the police station, specifically Inspector Eva’s office. He didn't just do it for safety; he did it because he relished hearing them talk about his "simple whims," as he called them.

  Through the tube, he heard the officer tell Eva: "He will slip up, and we'll catch him."

  Dante chuckled softly. "Slip up? I might slip up and wear my pajamas to a ball, but I never slip up on a mission."

  He pulled a ring with a haunting red gem from his pocket. "That fool didn't appreciate this art," he whispered, opening his black journal to record his latest masterpiece.

  Suddenly, his thoughts were cut short by a heavy voice through the tubes. The Chief of Police had entered Eva’s office. "God, I’ve missed riding you like we used to!"

  "Sir... be careful. We are at work and you are the Chief here," Eva said, her voice wavering.

  "The Chief can't get rid of his brainless wife, but he takes what he wants right here," he panted.

  He lunged at her. Dante listened to the heavy breathing, the wet sounds of saliva mixed with Eva’s provocative moans. A betrayal in the heart of the law—a filth he had to document in his book. Dante pressed the red gem against his lips, eyes closed, savoring their dirty lust.

  He let out a cold yawn and decided to sleep—the night had been rich with pleasure and secrets.