Nikolai had always been captivated by birds. Their elegant wings, the way they soared effortlessly through the sky-it was a kind of beauty that never ceased to amaze him.
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He often watched them from his window, imagining what i...
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CHAPTER NINETEEN
I skipped outside the house, waving my cane around, thinking back to Y/N's words about dressing down. Pft, what did Y/N know about fashion anyway? Sure, she had those flashy wings that were downright gorgeous! But that was besides the point. My ensemble was a statement—a reflection of the grandeur I carried. She just didn't get it. With a huff, I spun my cane dramatically, feeling its comforting weight as I strolled down the street.
"Just a bit of undercover work," I muttered to myself, my tone light and dismissive. "I'll show Y/N. It's not like I'm actually going to listen to her or anything."
With a flick of my wrist, I opened a portal and jumped through, landing smoothly in a dim alleyway that smelled faintly of rain and cigarette smoke. The sounds of the bustling city echoed around me—honking cars, chattering people, and the distant murmur of a bar. Ah, perfect. Just the place to find a victim.
I peeked my head out of the alleyway, my sharp eyes scanning the street until I settled my gaze upon a small, rundown bar with flickering neon lights. The kind of place where the broken-hearted, the down-on-their-luck, and the desperate gathered to drown their sorrows. The easiest people to manipulate are always the sad and sulky ones! I thought gleefully. And where better to find them than at a bar?
I straightened my coat and adjusted my hat, ready to dive into the world of manipulation. "Ah, how I'm a genius! Fedya and Y/N will be so proud of me," I said aloud with a grin, imagining their reactions when I returned triumphant.
With a flamboyant flourish, I pushed open the bar's door. The dim lights and hazy smoke greeted me as I stepped inside, surveying the crowd. The patrons were scattered, most of them hunched over their drinks, lost in their thoughts or conversations. Perfect.
I walked to the counter, my boots tapping against the worn wooden floor as I took a seat and tapped my cane lightly on the ground. The bartender, a gruff-looking man with a tired face, raised an eyebrow at my arrival but said nothing, his focus more on wiping down a glass than asking questions.
"Whiskey," I said with a lazy grin. Not that I'd drink it—this was all part of the act. Blend in, look casual, but not too casual. It was a delicate balance.
As I waited, my eyes wandered over the bar's patrons, searching for the perfect target. And then, my gaze landed on her. She sat in a corner, nursing what looked like her third or fourth drink, her head down, brown hair spilling over her face. She had the unmistakable aura of someone who'd had one too many bad days in a row. Bingo.
I straightened up, focusing my attention on her. Sad and sulky indeed. I could already sense her loneliness from across the room. Manipulating her would be like taking candy from a baby. Easy prey. I grinned to myself and stood up, drink in hand, strolling over to her table with the smoothness of a performer about to take the stage.
