Beyond the bustling concentrate of the Revolutionary Army's strongholds, deep within a wide, ancient woodland where vegetation stood like motionless sentinels, was a manor.
A majestic, expansive estate encircled by towering iron walls topped with barbed coil is currently patrolled day and night by Revolutionary Army men dressed in their distinctive uniforms.
Snipers were stationed on the top balconies and watchtowers, their scopes constantly scanning.
Hidden watchdogs patrolled every inch of the grounds, while delicate pressure sensors beneath the manicured grass detected even the smallest footstep.
Mystical wards glimmered faintly around the perimeters, while mechanical traps were engraved into stone and earth, designed to alarm, incapacitate, or destroy intruders without mercy.
And at the center of this castle, past golden doors and guarded passageways, was a dimly lighted hall with flickering sconces and the faint glow of an elegant chandelier.
Inside, an iron cage dominated the area, not crude jail bars, but magnificent wrought-iron railings artfully disguised as artistic decor, wrapping around the room like a massive birdcage.
Within this gilded confinement.
An individual lay stretched on a velvet sofa. His body was swaddled from head to toe in thick, sterile bandages, and his silhouette resembled a mummified person reclined in sumptuous ease.
Despite the gauze covering every inch of his body, he appeared completely at ease.
A lovely silk dressing gown, half-open at the bandaged chest, draped freely over him.
His legs, clad only in casual shorts, dangled lazily off the edge of the couch.
His one hand held a lit cigar between his bandaged fingers, the fragrant smoke curling upward into the chandelier's dim glow, while his other hand held a crystal tumbler sloshed with amber whiskey, catching light as he lazily swirled it.
Soft music drifted from an old phonograph in the corner, a mellow, wistful melody filling the otherwise silent hall. And from beneath the bandages, a low humming voice joined in, quiet but unmistakably amused,
🎵 "That's life, that's what all the people say
You're ridin' high in April, shot down in May
But I know I'm gonna change that tune
When I'm back on top, back on top in June
I said that's life, and as funny as it may seem,
Some people get their kicks stompin' on a dream
But I don't let it, let it get me down
'Cause this fine old world, it keeps spinnin' around…" 🎵
The lyric floated through the air like a confession, or maybe a joke, his humming deepening into a chuckle as he took a long drag from the cigar.
Despite the absence of any obvious restraints, the iron walls, guards, and mansion remained.
A gilded prison for a guy who was not trusted to be free.
But as the smoke rose, and the tune continued, the phonograph's soothing hum was abruptly suppressed by a steady and purposeful sound, which resonated from beyond the corridor.
clack… clack… clack…
The rhythmic hit of boots against polished marble floors became louder with each stride.
At the majestic entryway to the dimly lit hallway, two guards in spotless Revolutionary Army uniforms stood at attention, guns securely at their side.
Their gazes intensified as a figure approached, silhouetted by the weak glimmer of hallway lamps.
A short-haired woman emerged into view, her silver hair glinting in the light, her one lavender eye looking ahead while the other was covered by a black eye patch.
The two guards promptly gave a salute.
"Commander Najenda, ma'am!" they exclaimed in unison, their tones professional, disciplined, and reverent.
Najenda's eyes ran over them with silent dominance.
She only nodded once.
From a secure pouch, a guard retrieved a sleek, glass-like artifact.
It shimmered faintly under the dim lights, symbols flickering across its surface.
"Verification required, ma'am," the guard explained, holding it out.
Without hesitation, Najenda pressed her finger against the artifact.
A soft glow spread beneath her touch, the symbols aligning into a green crest.
"Identity confirmed," the artifact chimed in a mechanical voice.
The guard relaxed slightly, stowing the artifact away.
"All clear, Commander."
"Hmm," Najenda lowered her hand.
She then leaned her head toward the cage's hefty iron doors.
"Open it," she demanded, leaving no room for uncertainty.
"And clear the area. I want everyone to leave for the next 30 minutes. No ears and no eyes. Understood?"
The guards exchanged a quick glance, but neither questioned her.
"Yes, ma'am!" one of them responded.
With experienced efficiency, they unlocked the iron gate with a loud clang and creak, the old hinges groaning as it swung open.
The guards entered briefly, sending commands into their communicators.
Soon, distant footsteps and fading voices reverberated as soldiers stationed outside began to depart, leaving the mansion's inner cloister in complete silence.
Najenda moved past them without saying anything, her boots crossing the threshold as the doors closed behind her with a heavy, final thud.
She proceeded toward the individual dressed in bandages sitting on the velvet sofa, still holding his cigar and glass of whiskey, his humming quieting as he watched her approach.
Without asking, Najenda pulled up a chair opposite him and sat down, resting her elbow on the armrest, fingers brushing lightly against her temple.
She studied him for a moment, her lone eye rigid.
"…How are you holding up, Bane?" she asked quietly.
Bane exhaled a lazy puff of smoke, the cigar's ember casting a faint glow against the web of bandages on his face.
He stretched out languidly across the velvet sofa, one leg propped over the armrest, the other dangling loosely over the edge.
"Ahh… as you can see, Commander," he drawled with a grin beneath the wraps, swirling the whiskey in his glass, "It has been three days and I'm doing very well. You can even say that I am living the dream that every man desires."
He gestured around at the dimly lit hall, the iron cages surrounding them, the flickering chandeliers, the distant echoes of patrolling guards.
"Luxurious accommodation, fine liquor, a cigar to keep me company… hell, I've even got live music." He jerked his thumb toward the old phonograph, still spinning a faint melody in the corner.
With a small grunt, he finally sat upright, leaning forward with a slow creak of the sofa's springs.
Reaching into a nearby ashtray, he plucked another cigar, offering it to Najenda with a crooked smile.
"Care for one, ma'am?"
"....."
"Then how about some rum?"
"No."
Najenda shook her head, her expression unreadable.
"Suit yourself," Bane chuckled.
A mischievous glint in his eyes, he reached into his robe pocket and pulled out a brightly colored lollipop, its sugary surface glistening in the dim light.
He waved it at her. "How about this instead?"
"…What?"
Najenda froze.
For the first time in a while, an unguarded flicker of surprise crossed her face, her single eye narrowing slightly at the absurd sight.
Bane grinned wider beneath the bandages. "C'mon. Sugar's good for the soul."
For a moment, a strange silence hung between them, filled only by the quiet crackle of the phonograph needle.
Then Najenda's voice cut through with a sigh.
"…You got me."
At those words, something shifted.
Najenda's form rippled like ink bleeding through water. Her body shimmered, blurred, and then… changed.
In her place sat a pouting young woman with pale skin and long auburn hair, her pink eyes furrowed in displeasure.
A pair of butterfly-shaped headphones sat atop her head, and she wore a spotless white blouse tied with a red ribbon beneath a black vest, a red checkered miniskirt, and tall black leather boots.
The young woman crossed her arms, her mouth pursed into a slight scowl.
"Ugh, you always spoil everything."
Bane let out a low, rasping snicker, waving the lollipop mockingly in the air. "Ahh… Chelsea, huh? Gotta say you've grown up, haven't you?"
He leaned back again, taking a slow pull on his cigar as his stare remained fixed on her.
"But you're still playing dress-up with your 'Gaea foundation,'" he said, referring to a cosmetic case on her arm.
Chelsea's eyes narrowed fiercely, and her lips curled into a hiss.
"I'm twenty this year, you short bandaged idiot," she snapped, her hands planting firmly on her hips.
"Also, I don't wanna hear that from a sixteen-year-old brat."
"Oh, so you have sneaked into the base and read my profile, huh?" Bane said while raising one of his eyebrow.
"Of course, what do you take me for?" she harrumphed.
Bane let out a low click of his tongue, shaking his head in exaggerated disappointment as he leaned forward.
"Che, che," he chided, waving the oversized lollipop like a scolding finger. "Where'd that cute little Chelsea go, huh? The one who used to cling to my coat and sneak away from your...lovely 'lesbian' sisters."
At the mention of her fellow operatives, Chelsea's eye twitched, but she quickly smoothed her expression, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her flustered.
"Don't tell me," Bane mused, lips curling beneath the bandages, "you have finally embraced your organization's 'True Path to Happiness'? Have you crossed to the other side—"
"Shut up, bastard! I'm straight!" Chelsea barked, her face flushing with indignation.
Bane's grin stretched wider, a raspy chuckle rumbling from his throat.
"Now, now… no need to get so defensive," he murmured, eyes gleaming beneath the bandage. "Just look at you, you are now all grown up."
He leaned in, head tilting.
"You're not the little tagalong who used to trail after your sisters anymore. You're a fully fledged assassin from Oarburgh, one of the most ruthless assassination clan in the Empire. More feared than Night Raid, even."
He tapped the lollipop gently against her nose, a mocking glint in his gaze.
"And yet...you're still rocking that same pout from our first meeting way back then."
Chelsea puffed her cheeks, glaring as if daring him to keep teasing. Her fingers twitched, poised above the concealed, venomous needles.
"You're still insufferable."
With a mock surrender, Bane lounged on the sofa, legs stretched out.
"Glad to know some things never change."
Chelsea's glare softened, her arms folding under her chest as she tilted her head.
"You really thought you had me for a second, didn't you?" she said, her tone teasing.
"Hmm?"
"Admit it, you were fooled."
"I had everything down, the posture, the voice, the fingerprints. And because of you, I even smoked half a damn cigar to get her scent right. Every little detail was down to the perfection. So, smartass…how'd you see through it?"
Bane paused, letting the silence hang for just a moment before lifting his glass in a lazy toast.
"Easy peasy." He took a sip. "Najenda never calls me 'Bane' when we're alone, instead she uses my real name."
Chelsea's eyes widened, her lips parting in sudden realization.
"That's—"
"And even if you smell like her to everyone else…" Bane cut in as he flicked his tongue out lazily, tapping it against his teeth, "to me, who tastes scents?"
He grinned predatorily. "You're way off."
He pointed his tongue at her again, eyes gleaming.
"To me, you stink like a bouquet of raw female pheromones."
A crooked, knowing grin split across his face.
"Been playing a little… hide and seek with your sisters on the bed, huh?"
Chelsea froze.
Then her face burned bright red.
"Y-you… you disgusting half-snake bastard!" she shouted, stomping her foot.
This was all it needed to set him off.
Bane tossed his head back and laughed hard as smoke trailed from his cigar.
Chelsea threw a cushion at him, and it bounced harmlessly off his bandaged chest.
"What kinda freak smells people like a damn snake?!" she said, pacing in a circle and grabbing another pillow to hurl.
But Bane laughed even more, covering his covered face with one hand.
And so, inside the luxurious prison dressed like a mansion, the strange pair filled the dimly lit hall with a chaotic symphony of laughter, curses, and flying pillows, an odd, fleeting moment of harmless chaos in a place meant to be anything but.