Roses Bloom in the Ivory Tower

My shoelace snapped. At the back door of the Blue Parrot dance hall, I stared at the dying lace dangling from my worn-out shoe like a hanged snake. God is dead, but bad luck and rent are still alive—that line came from the unemployed economics professor who always rambled at the bar. Right now, I couldn’t agree more. "Damn it!" I growled, kicking the damp wall beside me. A wiry woman poked her head out, the heavy scent of cheap perfume and sweat clinging to her. "Leonie? What’s wrong? You’re up soon." "My shoelace betrayed me." I shook my foot, my battered shoe grinning under the dim light. "Today’s just NOT MY DAY..." "You don’t look good." She studied the dark circles under my eyes, untouched by my thick makeup. "What’s really going on?" "Nothing... just family stuff, you know." I couldn’t be bothered to explain. It wasn’t worth the trouble. She sighed and stepped out fully. "Go home. I’ll cover the rest of your rounds." —Gisela was, without a doubt, the best friend I had here, and the kindest soul I’d ever met. I looked into her tired blue eyes. "You sure you can handle it?" "Better than watching you hop around on one foot." She forced a smile. "Go, before I change my mind." "Thanks." I didn’t argue. Any other words of gratitude stuck in my throat like stale bread. We never knew when it was safe to say such things these days. Not that there was much to be grateful for anymore. We were used to it. Soon, I was staggering down Spree City’s early winter streets, the cold shooting up from the soles of my feet straight to my skull. My cheap stockings had given up the ghost two hours ago, and I couldn’t care less. The air here smelled like a shroud soaked in cheap beer, sweat, and the sour stench of despair. The gas lamps? Haha. Those half-dead things struggled against the fog like the eyes of consumptives, barely enough light to keep you from breaking your neck—but ahead? Pitch black. PERFECT. Just like my savings. I hated ALL OF THIS. really. I hated the Blue Parrot behind me, hated almost every customer inside. I hated their sticky, inescapable stares. The thought of spending half my life under that kind of scrutiny made fear and fury gnaw at my bones. No—maybe I hated more than that. Maybe I hated my ENTIRE LIFE right now. Exhausted? Too gentle a word. Every day, I felt like phlegm spat into a gutter—thick, filthy, and unwanted. Right on cue, my stomach growled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten a thing today except for two watered-down shots before my shift. Hunger gripped my gut like an icy fist. The rock-hard roll Maria had slipped me earlier sat in the corner of my tattered bag—saved for my maman. MAMAM. That was the only reason the tiny, medicine-and-despair-soaked room at the top of Rat Alley could be called home. She might still be awake, hunched under the dim kerosene lamp, pointlessly darning socks that would never stay fixed. Or maybe she was curled up like a shrimp under the thin sheets, seized by another coughing fit. Go home. Now. Immediately. Back to that moldy little attic, a tin can of a room. It was falling apart, but at least I could lock the door and shut out this godforsaken world—along with my godforsaken job. My rat hole. My only refuge—if you could even call a drafty wooden box a refuge. But first, one last problem to solve. My throat burned, parched from the cheap beer and crass jokes forced down me by the Blue Parrot’s rowdy patrons. My ears still rang with the screech of jazz, drunkards’ howls, and the manager Karl’s sneering voice—"Flore! Move those hips! Smile! SMILE! You think customers pay to see that funeral face?" I patted my pocket. The crumpled cigarette pack was still there. Thank God for small mercies. Yes. Right now, all I wanted was the rough, bitter comfort of nicotine. I needed a corner. Somewhere far from groping drunk hands, far from the neighbor’s wailing baby, far from Mother’s muffled coughing. A place just for me, where I could smoke this cigarette in peace—and, if the word still applied to someone like me—with a shred of dignity. I turned into a familiar alley. This was the city’s crease, forgotten even by streetlamps. But these shadows were old friends—dark, narrow, and undisturbed. Then, just as I reached the last corner— A flash of gold flickered at the edge of my vision, like the trembling wing of a butterfly carrying a storm. Not entirely out of caution—more like Pandora lured by curiosity—I turned my head toward the deeper darkness of the next alley. And then— I saw HIM. Some people only need to stand there, and it’s like an oasis emerging from the desert, like the moon slowly settling into your palm. That golden silhouette crashed into my vision so suddenly. When my eyes finally focused, I saw a man with bright golden hair, neatly combed back, holding a cigarette between his fingers. The ember burned like a tiny orange lantern in the dark, casting a faint glow over his eyes—blue as crystal, clear and shimmering. Sharp brows, a straight nose, and a refined jawline formed a portrait too striking to be real. But his face bore faint scars, the most prominent one cutting across his right eye, from brow to cheekbone. His eyelids were lowered, as if weighed down by some sleepless worry. A tailored black coat draped over his lean frame as he leaned slightly against the wall, exuding a quiet, natural melancholy. Slowly, he exhaled. The smoke curled from his pale lips, winding around his slender fingers before dissolving into the dim air. My breath hitched. My heart pounded so loudly I feared he might hear it. A mix of excitement and panic churned inside me—I couldn’t bear to ruin this moment, this scene no painter or photographer would dare miss. Part of me dreaded being noticed, yet my feet refused to move. I’d never seen him before—strange, because I knew almost everyone in this district. Visiting relatives? Unlikely. What would someone like him be doing with family in a place like this? Maybe he’d just finished a fleeting tryst and stepped out for a smoke? Surely he wasn’t here JUST to smoke?—And then I remembered that was exactly why I was here, and I had no right to judge. For those few seconds, I lingered awkwardly, hesitating, until suddenly—he looked up. Those blue eyes locked onto mine, and we froze, staring at each other like actors in a silent film. In that moment, emotions needed no words. Time stretched, every second magnified, every glance sparking something wordless. That one look told me everything. My sharp instincts, honed from years of reading people, assured me—he wasn’t a criminal or a stalker. I could approach him. Of course, if I’d been a little clearer-headed then, I would have realized: beyond intuition, there was another explanation for all my reckless acts—I’d unconsciously fallen for darkness and danger. They held a terrifying pull over me. Then, as if in a dream, the weight on his face lifted. A faint smile appeared as he flicked his cigarette and asked in a voice both gentle and deep: "Need a light?" I nodded quickly, fumbling for my own cigarette. My hands shook, and the matchbox tumbled to the ground. I snatched it back up, shoving it into my pocket, but he’d already seen. Yet his expression didn’t change—just that same easy calm. "You won’t need those." He chuckled, pulling out a metal lighter and leaning in to light my cigarette. I took a slow drag, watching as he stubbed out his old one and lit a fresh cigarette for himself. Then, as if savoring the silence between us, he exhaled a stream of smoke without saying a word. Damn it, why did this man look so elegant even when smoking? I could barely manage to inhale and exhale to taste it, let alone bother with how I looked. As the cigarette burned shorter, I stole glances at him from the corner of my eye. But still unlike him, I couldn’t stand the quiet. Whether he was just a passing stranger or something more, this might be the only time I’d ever meet this man. I had to seize the chance—to understand him, even just a little. For that, I was willing to play the part of someone civilized and understanding. Never mind that my damned stockings and shoes ruined any pretense of dignity. So I ventured, "You don’t live around here, do you?"