Late at night, the sound of the horn announcing departure finally echoed.

Leaning deep into his seat, Yevgeny slowly turned his head to look out the window. With a small movement, his golden hair softly cascaded down his forehead. Soon, the act of reaching out with his right arm to sweep his hair back followed as naturally as flowing water.

What made Yevgeny appear so refined was not only his well-tailored suit, the effortless manners unique to the upper class, or his lofty status. The contrast between his sharp, cold judgment and his gentle disposition made him shine even brighter.

In front of such a man, Owen stood with his head bowed in deep respect, his face flushed red from excessive tension.

“It seems your luggage got mixed in with that of the other passengers. I suspect there was a mistake during the transfer process… I’m truly sorry, Sir Yevgeny.”

The pitiful sight of the servant repeatedly bowing and apologizing brought on fatigue more than sympathy.

With all his plans thrown off, Yevgeny gazed at Owen for a moment, then let out a slow sigh and stood up. He opened the window of the cabin and leaned his body against it, his hair quickly becoming tousled again in the strong sea breeze.

With a frown, Yevgeny took a cigar from the gold case in his uniform pocket and placed it between his lips, picking up the lighter from the table. Soon, with a click, a round flame flared up.

Shielding the wind with his large hand, he tilted his head to the side. A deep dimple appeared in his cheek through the gaps of his fingers.

“I see.”

He exhaled a puff of smoke. His voice was so low it sent chills down one’s spine.

“I understand, so go and get some rest.”

Yevgeny personally opened the door that had been closed. The way he turned his body with his head slightly bowed was more out of habit than kindness.

“…Yes, sir.”

Owen left the cabin, his steps reluctant. Naturally, Yevgeny’s gaze shifted from the man to the gently rolling sea and the sparkling night sky. It was a perfectly beautiful picture.

He drew deeply on his cigar again. His prominent Adam’s apple rose and fell as the acrid smoke burned down his throat and into his lungs.

After a few more drags, the body of the cigar quickly shrank. He tapped the ash onto the floor, then rummaged through his pocket to check for any spare tobacco. At that moment, he caught sight of Owen in the distance, dragging a large travel bag down the hallway.

“Sir, Sir Yevgeny!”

“……”

“I found it! Among the ships docked at the port!”

Calmly taking his hand out of his pocket, Yevgeny waited leisurely as the servant hurried toward him.

Soon, Owen approached, gauging Yevgeny’s mood, and carefully set the bag down in the corner of the cabin before leaving with a look of great relief.

Left alone in the room again, Yevgeny slowly approached, knelt on one knee, and gently pulled open the zipper of his bag.

When he finally opened his travel bag completely, a woman, drenched in sweat, was gasping for breath and flailing in the cramped space.

Yevgeny looked down at her with an expression that said he was at a loss for words, then frowned and clicked his tongue.

“…Who are you?”

There was no reply to his cold question.

A spy?

After a moment’s thought, Yevgeny gave a slight mocking smile and shook his head. Impossible. What kind of idiot would show up in such a pitiful state?

What was even more absurd was the woman’s ridiculous state as she, startled at the sight of him, burst out of the bag. Despite her quick reaction, her sluggish body caused her to stumble and roll on the floor, her hair a wild mess.

“Were you kidnapped?”

He asked again.

The woman, sprawled on the floor, tried to get up with a terrified face, only to fall over again.

Standing upright, Yevgeny folded his arms and silently watched her strange behavior. She simply let her instincts take over, flailing like someone being chased, only to collapse again and again.

After several attempts, she finally accepted reality and, lying on the floor, covered her face with her hands. Her thin hands trembled pathetically. The closer he got, the more terrified her expression became.

“Hoo…”

Yevgeny slowly approached, knelt on one knee, and met her eyes. Through the gaps in her fingers, her blue eyes, the same hue as his favorite gemstones, were visible, but unfortunately, this was no time to care about such things.

A rare moment of solitude, a short rest he’d hoped to enjoy without anyone’s interference, was being shattered.

“…Miss, shall I call a servant for you?”

With a tired voice, Yevgeny did his best to contain his rising irritation.

But once again, the woman only gasped for breath and could not answer. Whatever gentleness remained in the man’s face as he looked down at the sweat-soaked woman disappeared.

He was fed up. Frowning, Yevgeny stood and walked toward the door. Just as he grabbed the doorknob to turn it forcefully, a small voice came from behind.

“Please… save me…”

He slowly turned around. The woman was still collapsed on the floor, clutching her chest and struggling to breathe. Yevgeny looked down at her coldly.

“Why should I?”

It was a genuine question. But the woman, as if suffering immense shame, trembled all over and squeezed her eyes shut. Her face was filled with resignation, despair, and incoherent fear.

‘Unbelievable. We can’t even communicate.’

Yevgeny tapped the red carpet with his toe, then twisted his lips into a smile. She was neither kidnapped nor a spy—just a lunatic, a wretched soul from society’s lowest depths.

Still, for some reason, seeing her groveling and begging for her life before him piqued his interest. With fierce eyes, he stared at her face, then bent over and handed her a neatly folded towel from the table.

“Clean yourself up first. You smell like rotten cheese.”

***

It was a nightmare of terror.

In the darkness, Rochelle closed her eyes and prayed to God. But the God who had abandoned her countless times seemed unlikely to help her now that she was in ruins.

God was nothing more than an endlessly resentful being, who would only listen to sobs if one knelt respectfully and prayed in neat clothes with hands pressed together.

In mounting tension, Rochelle eventually began biting her nails. Even as half of her ten nails were bitten away and hot blood ran into her mouth, she felt no pain.

She could feel her body heat slowly draining away, but now she didn’t even have the strength to breathe. Her body grew heavier and heavier.

Rochelle finally admitted it.

She was truly facing death.

A hot stream trickled down beneath her legs. Next, tears, snot, and saliva poured endlessly from her eyes, nose, and mouth.

Blinking slowly, she instinctively recalled her parents, forever young in her memories. Their faces as they watched her hide among the crowd in cowardice.

“Go, live. Rochelle, endure and survive to the end.” The two of them had whispered softly.

Yes, perhaps it was for the best. In just a little while, she would be able to see those gentle faces again.

This hardship was just a fleeting moment to enjoy that luxury. When she opened her eyes and rose, all these situations and feelings would be shattered.

No, that’s how it should have been.

Is this a dream? Or reality?

Before she could even regain her senses, her vision turned completely white, and she gasped for breath, summoning strength into her ruined muscles.

Run, Rochelle.

She flailed and pushed herself off the floor. As she tried to stand, her body kept collapsing to the side. Her legs, drained of strength, trembled.

Panting, Rochelle slowly buried her face in her hands. Her head throbbed unbearably. Even so, the ringing in her ears continued to echo in her mind.

‘Get out of here. Escape death. You must live.’

‘I know!’

Rochelle bit her lip, not knowing what to do. Her cheeks trembled as if shocked by electricity.

She knew she had to escape. She knew she had to survive, even if it meant a life close to despair. But how? How could she escape this hell?

“……”

At that moment, someone spoke to her. Rochelle slowly lowered her hands from her face and looked up. In front of her stood a familiar figure—Ivan, that cruel man, quietly looking down at her.

“…Ivan?”

Rochelle blinked in disbelief. The man who was said to have collapsed with serious injuries—why was he here, with that expression?