Chapter 90
The last sentence hit Charlotte like a sledgehammer, making her snap her head up, eyes sharp and cold.
"Who are you?! How do you know all this?!"
"I told you, that doesn't matter."
The man curved his lips into a slight smile, swirling his glass slowly, eyes fixed on the ripples spreading through the liquid. "All you need to know is that I'm your ally. That's enough."
"After all, the enemy of my enemy is my friend, isn't there?"
Charlotte narrowed her eyes at those words, staring hard at the man in front of her.
For some reason, he felt familiar, but she couldn't put her finger on why.
After studying him for a moment, she finally spoke.
"Your voice... I feel like I've heard it somewhere before."
The man's movement paused — barely noticeable — as if caught off guard by how sharp she was.
But he recovered quickly, letting out a soft laugh. "Well, I'd imagine quite a few people admire the Queen. Maybe I'm one of them. Perhaps we crossed paths at some event — who knows?"
The answer was deliberately vague, and it only deepened the suspicion already brewing in Charlotte's mind.
She lowered her eyes and thought for a moment, then reached for her glass.
She didn't drink from it though — just turned it between her fingers, breathing in the faint, sweet scent, her gaze drifting over the man across from her.
"I'm open to working together. But what I want goes beyond just evidence."
"I think you understand that."
The man smiled at her words.
"Of course."
"You can rest easy. Our partnership won't disappoint you."
"The gift I've prepared for you — we've only just started unwrapping it. Sit back and watch."
Charlotte watched him — calm, composed, completely in control — and quickly ran through the faces of people she knew. But none of them matched the man sitting in front of her.
After a moment, she pushed the question aside for now, stood up, and looked down at him still lounging on the sofa.
"Alright then. Looking forward to working with you."
Sensing the cool detachment in her voice, the man's lips curved into an amused smile beneath his mask. He raised his glass.
"Likewise, Queen."
"Watch yourself on the way out. It's not exactly safe outside Nightside Bar."
Charlotte didn't respond to the warning — didn't even glance back at him — and walked straight out the door.
Following the signs along the hallway, she found the staff corridor leading to the back alley parking lot without any trouble.
Compared to the noisy main entrance, this passage was quiet and empty — just a few drunk customers being helped out of the bar by cleaning staff, stumbling their way toward the exit.
At the end of the corridor, she pushed open the heavy door. The night air rushed at her, carrying the cool edge of early autumn.
The wind swept away the traces of perfume and alcohol that had clung to her.
She stepped into the one-way back alley, weaving between black trash cans and empty beer bottles, her mind still turning over what the masked man had said.
She thought about the way he carried himself and let out a quiet sigh.
As she rounded the corner, she suddenly heard the dull thud of fists hitting flesh, followed by a string of crude, ugly words.
"Where are you running now? Weren't you so fast a second ago?"
"I asked you to pour drinks — that's me doing you a favor! Who do you think you are?"
At the far end of the dim alley, three large, heavyset men had a young guy cornered.
From his black dress shirt and wine-red vest, it was clear he worked at the bar as a waiter.
But right now he looked rough — hair matted in clumps, his bow tie ripped off and hanging loose around his neck.
His expression, though, showed no sign of giving in. He stood with his back straight, jaw tight, glaring at the men in front of him.
"Get out of my way!"
"Oh, you've got nerve, kid! Telling me to move! Who do you think you are?!"
The man in front grabbed him by the hair and shook him hard. "You're not leaving until you finish that whiskey. Every last drop."
The young guy stared them down in cold silence, hands slowly curling into fists — but he didn't say a word.
Apparently reading his refusal, the big man's expression darkened.
"Stupid little—"
Before he finished, he swung his fist straight at the guy's face.
The waiter reacted fast — he tilted his head and dodged it cleanly, then fired back with a hook that landed hard in the man's gut.
The guy clearly hadn't expected this lean, seemingly fragile waiter to actually fight back. Caught off guard, he doubled over and stumbled back several steps.
The other two saw it and their expressions shifted. They spat on the ground and rushed in together.
The waiter moved well — when the nearest man swung at him, he sidestepped and swept his leg out, sending the guy crashing to the ground. Then he used a trash can's footrest to launch himself up, driving his knee hard into the other man's chest.
Charlotte watched the two of them stagger back and raised an eyebrow, rubbing her chin.
This kid had clearly been trained — either in sanda or some kind of combat sport.
But the problem was, it was still one against three.
No matter how skilled you are, numbers wear you down. Before long, the waiter was starting to fade — chest heaving, exhaustion creeping into every movement.
The men weren't about to let him go. One of them dug through a nearby pile of trash and pulled out an empty bottle, smashing it against the ground. It broke clean in two.
"You little bastard. You're not walking out of here tonight."
He grabbed the broken neck of the bottle — jagged glass edge and all — and lunged at the waiter.
At the same time, another man slipped around behind him and locked his arms, pinning him in place.
The waiter panicked, thrashing hard.
"Let go of me!"
But the man with the broken bottle was already in his face, grinning viciously.
"This is what you get for messing with me!"
Charlotte hadn't planned on getting involved. But when she saw the man drive that broken bottle toward the waiter's chest, she frowned despite herself.
It wasn't anything complicated. It was the look in the waiter's eyes that got to her.
No fear. No begging. Just a raw, almost reckless kind of stubbornness.
For a split second, she was back in her own past.
He reminded her so much of herself. That look in his eyes — it was exactly the same as hers had been.
The moment that thought crossed her mind, her body was already moving.