Arthur cast his gaze beyond the glass once more, where a family moved along the cobbled streets, a stark contrast against the faceless tide of the city.

A father, a mother, and two children, an ordinary sight, yet something about the simplicity of their presence held his attention.

The younger child, a boy of no more than six, clung to his mother’s hand, shading himself under the umbrella she held, his tiny fingers wrapped tightly around hers as if afraid to let go.

The elder, a girl whose dark braids bounced with each step, skipped ahead in the pouring rain, her laughter light, unburdened.

They walked together, close enough that even the cold night air could not sever the warmth between them.

Arthur watched them closely.

The city around them churned with motion as the nobles slipped past in carriages with lace-curtained windows. Meanwhile, merchants beckoned to passersby with smooth, practiced calls, and common folk weaved through the streets with the efficiency of those who could not afford to linger. Yet, in that moment, the family seemed untouched by it all, wrapped in the quiet comfort of each other’s presence.

A slow, unfamiliar ache settled deep in his chest.

Even now, years after he had woken up in this world, the echoes of his past life remained sharp. He could not recall the warmth of a mother’s embrace, nor the steady presence of a father’s guidance.

His memories of family — if they had ever truly existed — were distant, hazy shadows, fragmented by time and loss.

Something in him tightened.

'If only I also had ordinary parents.'

"Don’t dwell on those feelings."

Demetrius’ voice cut through his thoughts, quiet yet absolute.

He turned to him, finding his gaze already on himself. His fingers idly tapped against the glass of whiskey he had yet to finish.

"You will never have a family like theirs," he said.

His words were not cruel, nor were they meant to wound. They were merely a statement of fact, delivered with the same detached certainty that accompanied all his observations.

And yet, the truth of them settled heavy upon Arthur's shoulders.

Arthur exhaled, slow and controlled.

"Haa... I’m aware of that fact."

My grandfather studied me for a moment longer, then exhaled through his nose.

"Haah..."

He swirled the remnants of his drink, the amber liquid clinging to the glass.

"Have you figured out the answer to my question yet?"

Arthur turned his words over in his mind, piecing together the fragments of his observations.

Westmere was not like Ashbourne.

The people here moved with a distinct rhythm, one shaped by ambition rather than discipline. Everything about them, their words, their gestures, even the way they carried themselves, spoke of a ceaseless hunger, a relentless pursuit of something just beyond their grasp.

The nobles sought recognition, each conversation a careful maneuver in an endless game of influence.

The merchants bartered not only for coin but for standing, for connections that would elevate them above their peers. Even the common folk, those who had no claim to power, navigated the streets with purpose, their eyes ever watchful, ever calculating.

This was a city built on perception.

A place where survival hinged not on strength alone, but on the ability to command the attention of others.

Arthur drew in a breath, his voice steady as he spoke:

"The people here are driven by ambition. They seek recognition. Everything they do is a display, an effort to prove that they matter."

"Mmm..."

Demetrius hummed, neither confirming nor denying his answer. Then, setting his glass down, he turned to face him fully, his gaze sharp with meaning.

"Close, but not quite there yet."

He leaned back slightly, one hand resting against the counter.

"Let me put it simply: Westmere is a city of peacocks."

Arthur frowned slightly, waiting for him to continue.

"They wear their pride and ambition like feathers, always preening, always seeking to outshine one another. Here, a man is only as powerful as he appears to be. They flaunt their wealth, their connections, their carefully crafted images, each one desperate to be noticed, to be acknowledged."

His eyes held Arthur's, cool and unwavering.

"But we, Ashbournes, do not concern ourselves with such frivolities."

His voice lowered, taking on a measured gravity.

"We do not flaunt what we have. We do not seek to be seen. Power is not about appearances, it is about endurance. We do not need to display our worth for others to recognize it. The Ashbournes are concerned with substance, not spectacle."

The weight of his words settled over Arthur, sinking deep into his bones.

Slowly, he nodded.

"I understand."

A flicker of something passed through Demetrius' expression.

"You’ve got brains, don’t you?"

His lips curled, not quite into a smile, but something close.

"Not bad for someone your age."

Then, as if the conversation had already reached its conclusion, he pushed back his chair and rose to his feet.

"Let’s head back."

He pulled a handful of coins from his pocket, leaving them on the table with an air of finality.

Arthur exhaled, his mind still turning over the weight of their exchange, and he stood as well.

"Yes, Grandfather."

The carriage ride back was filled with silence. Outside, the city pulsed with life, the glow of oil lamps casting elongated shadows across the streets. Westmere remained as vibrant as ever, its heart still beating with the rhythm of ambition and whispered schemes.

By the time they reached Ashbourne Manor, darkness had fully settled over the estate. The towering structure loomed against the night sky, its cold grandeur a stark contrast to the lively city they had left behind.

Demetrius stepped out first, pausing at the threshold before casting a glance back at Arthur as he remarked dryly.

"Don’t look so sullen, boy. I shall still grant you a wish. Think of it as a present for spending time with this old man."

Arthur blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected gift.

'What? Really?'

Before he could respond, Demetrius turned and strode into the manor, his presence swallowed by the dimly lit halls.

The cool night air brushed against Arthur's skin as he followed, his thoughts still lingering on Demetrius' words.

'I guess I'll have to take my time and think over before asking for anything.'

The moment he stepped through the entrance, a familiar voice greeted him.

"Young master, your meal has been prepared."

Julia, Arthur's personal maid, approached with her usual composed expression.

"Alright. I'll be having my meal in my room."

"Yes, young master."

She left to carry out his order.

Arthur made his way to his chambers, the quiet hum of the manor pressing in around him. Yet, even as he settled into the familiar solitude of his room, his mind remained restless.

A slow smirk curled at the corner of his lips.

"Heh, now that I have a trump card, I’ll be sure to use it wisely."

It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

***

The morning light filtered through the tall windows of his study, casting elongated shadows across the mahogany desk as he worked. The air was crisp with the scent of aged paper and ink, mingling faintly with the lingering traces of herbs burning in his pipe.

As he exhaled a slow breath, a voice broke the quiet.

"Young master, why do you use that?"

Arthur glanced toward Eloise, who was seated at the side table, diligently working. Her gaze flickered to the pipe in his hand.

"Ah, don’t worry. It’s not tobacco, Eloise. It's just herbs."

Her brow furrowed slightly.

"May I ask why you inhale those herbs? I’ve seen you using that pipe often. Are you perhaps… ill, young master?"

Arthur turned his eyes back to his papers.

"Never mind it, Eloise. Ashbournes don’t show weakness."

'I don’t trust you enough to reveal my weaknesses.'

A brief pause. Then, she nodded.

"I understand."

She returned to her work without further questioning.

Arthur had been taking these herbs twice a day for over a decade now. His body was weak from birth, so without them, he would have never made it to adulthood. It was a quiet truth, one that he allowed no one to see.

A knock came at the door, interrupting his work.

"Enter."

The door opened, revealing Butler Robert.

"Young master, the detective assigned to investigate Lord Frederick’s death has arrived at the manor. He requests an audience with you at your earliest convenience."

Arthur set his pen down.

"I see. And what did Grandfather say?"

"He said to do as you wish."

What Grandfather truly meant was:

Arthur leaned back slightly.

"Where is he now?"

"I had a servant lead him to the drawing room."

"Good. See that he is served tea and refreshments in the meantime."

"Yes, young master."

Robert gave a slight bow before exiting. Then, Arthur turned to Eloise.

"Finish your work. I’ll return shortly."

She nodded, and Arthur rose to his feet, adjusting his coat as he made his way to meet the detective.