The city always looked different when viewed through the tinted glass of the Bluerose carriage — cleaner, quieter, as if the dirt and desperation were filtered away. I sat opposite Lord Bluerose, his silver hair neat as always, his expression calm but unreadable.

He was dressed in his usual navy suit, a mark of noble restraint. I, on the other hand, wore my guard uniform — black coat, white gloves, the emblem of the Bluerose household stitched on my left shoulder. The saber at my side felt heavier today.

"You're unusually quiet, Mr. Ashen," Lord Bluerose said without looking up from the papers in his hand.

That was the name I used — Noah Ashen — the false identity that allowed me to live quietly under their roof.

"I'm only thinking, my lord," I replied. "I didn't expect to accompany you to the Parliament today."

He glanced at me, eyes mild. "My usual guard has gone with my daughter. It's only fitting that someone accompanies me, even if it's just for presence. The city's been restless since the rise of these… masked syndicates."

His gaze lingered on me for a second longer than it should have, and I wondered if he suspected anything.

"I heard the nobles will be discussing that today," I said carefully.

"They will," he muttered. "And they will talk much and do little, as they always do."

Outside, the golden spires of the old Parliament rose like jagged teeth against the pale sky. Once a place for justice, now it was a theater — a performance of power and hypocrisy.

---

We arrived at the grand gates. I followed a step behind him as servants in white gloves opened the doors. Inside, the Parliament chamber was already alive with noise — the hum of aristocrats, the scratching of quills, and the faint echo of boots across marble.

The hall was circular, layered with seats rising in tiers. Banners of every noble house hung from the walls — Bluerose's blue and silver crest, Ashbourne's golden crown, and countless others.

I stayed behind Lord Bluerose's seat, as was my place. From here, I could see everything — every whisper, every smirk, every hidden exchange of documents beneath the tables.

"Order, order!" The Chancellor's voice boomed across the hall. An elderly man with a crooked nose and powdered wig, he struck his gavel three times. "The 217th Session of Parliament shall now commence!"

The murmurs dimmed slightly, but not by much.

"The first topic — the unrest caused by the so-called masked syndicates within our capital. Attacks on merchants, stolen goods, interference with trade routes—"

"Interference?" a nobleman from the opposite side interrupted. "You mean control! They're practically ruling the underbelly of this city while we sit here debating like cowards!"

Laughter erupted from some seats, scoffs from others.

Another noble — a heavy man with a golden monocle — slammed his hand on the desk. "These criminals must be rooted out! The Chrome Hearts, the Black Wraiths, the Demonic Sanctuary — all of them!"

At the mention of Chrome Hearts, I felt a faint pulse of awareness in my chest. My other self — Machiavelli — existed within that name. The one they feared yet didn't understand.

"I say," a woman's sharp voice cut through, "if these masked syndicates are growing stronger, perhaps we should ask ourselves why. Perhaps the people trust them more than they trust us."

Gasps rippled across the room. I turned slightly, catching sight of her — Lady Verena, the head of House Castille, known for her sharp tongue and sharper mind.

"Preposterous!" someone shouted. "You dare imply that the nobility is to blame?"

"I imply nothing," she said, resting her chin on her hand. "I only state that a weed grows where the soil is rotten."

The Chancellor slammed the gavel again. "Enough!"

The debate continued for hours. Words became weapons. Insults were traded like coins.

---

I stood quietly through it all, watching.

From where I stood, I saw nobles exchanging nods, subtle glances, folded letters. Deals. Promises. Bribes. I memorized faces — those who argued too strongly, those who stayed silent.

A young noble from the western bloc spoke up. "I believe the Syndicates are being manipulated — by external forces. There are rumors of weapons from foreign lands, strange currencies circulating in the underworld markets—"

Lord Bluerose finally raised his head. His deep voice silenced the room almost instantly.

"Rumors are dangerous, Lord Farnell," he said slowly. "But you are not wrong. The trade of illegal goods has increased, yes. However…" He paused, his gaze sweeping the chamber. "It is the fault of greed, not foreign lands. A weed grows when a gardener looks away."

It was subtle, but many nobles lowered their eyes. Even Lady Verena nodded faintly in agreement.

I hid a smirk. Bluerose rarely spoke, but when he did, everyone listened.

---

The session moved on to laws, taxes, the allocation of guards in the city. I could see the fatigue creeping into their voices. The same pattern every session — argument, compromise, silence.

Then someone mentioned something that caught my ear.

"The Syndicate known as Chrome Hearts seems especially well-organized," said Lord Vant, a thin noble with a high-pitched voice. "Too organized. They've infiltrated our ports, our warehouses, even our lower guards. We should raise a bounty for their leader."

Another noble leaned forward. "And who is their leader? Do we even know?"

There was a pause.

"They call him Machiavelli," Lord Vant said, as if the name itself was poison. "A masked man who never shows his face. Ruthless. Efficient. He doesn't steal for pleasure — he steals for power."

Whispers filled the chamber.

I stood perfectly still. The weight of my own name echoed between those walls, though none of them knew I was standing there.

Lord Bluerose sighed, placing a hand over his mouth as if in thought. "Then perhaps," he said quietly, "we should be careful whom we call criminals. Power does not always wear a crown."

It was enough to stir another wave of noise.

---

During the short recess, I stepped out into the marble corridor. The Parliament was a maze of old halls and flickering chandeliers. Servants rushed by with trays of tea, and guards stood motionless at every door.

I found a quiet window overlooking the city. The afternoon sun bathed Veloria in gold, but I could still see the smoke rising from the lower districts — from where Chrome Hearts operated.

The world outside this building felt more honest than the one inside it.

"Sir Ashen," came a familiar voice. I turned. It was Lord Bluerose again, holding a file of documents.

"Yes, my lord?"

"You've been silent the entire time."

"It's not my place to speak."

"True," he said, smiling faintly. "But I can see it in your eyes. You're thinking of something."

"I was only wondering, my lord… if Parliament truly wanted to end the syndicates, wouldn't they start by cutting the roots that feed them?"

He gave me a long look. "You sound wiser than most men in that hall."

"Or more tired," I said.

He chuckled softly and turned to leave. "Come. The session resumes soon."

---

When we returned, the mood had shifted.

The Chancellor announced a new motion — an emergency act to authorize increased funding for the city guard, specifically to hunt down syndicate members.

The vote began. Some shouted in approval, others slammed fists in protest.

I watched Lord Bluerose lift his hand, calm and deliberate. "Abstain," he said.

It caused a ripple of surprise.

"You abstain?" Lord Vant exclaimed. "Then you are protecting criminals!"

Bluerose leaned forward, eyes cold. "I am protecting reason. If the guard grows stronger, who will ensure they don't become the next syndicate?"

The room erupted again. The Chancellor's gavel barely kept control.

I looked at them — all of them — and saw what I needed to see. The Parliament wasn't debating morality. They were debating profit. Who would gain from chaos, who would lose from order.

And there, among all their noise, I realized something cruelly simple.

They didn't want to destroy the syndicates. They wanted to own them.

---

Hours passed. The sky outside turned orange, then red. The session finally adjourned at dusk.

The nobles began to leave in groups, still arguing, still pretending to care.

Lord Bluerose stood, gathering his papers. "You did well, Ashen," he said quietly. "Your silence was worth more than their speeches."

"Thank you, my lord."

As we walked toward the exit, I couldn't help but glance back at the empty chamber. The golden seats glowed under candlelight.

That place, that room — it wasn't a hall of justice. It was a stage. And every man there was an actor reciting lines written by their own greed.

---

Outside, the night was cold. Our carriage waited under the street lamps. The horses snorted, tired.

Before stepping in, Lord Bluerose turned to me. "My daughter will be waiting at home. I trust you'll keep an eye on her until I return from my meeting tonight."

"Of course," I said.

He nodded once and entered the carriage.

As it rolled away, I stood alone for a moment under the lamplight. The Parliament's bell tolled in the distance, echoing across the city.

The sound was solemn, heavy. Like a warning.

I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a small folded note I'd taken during the session — one that had been "accidentally" dropped by a nervous servant.

It bore a seal — a crimson serpent biting its tail. The mark of the Demonic Sanctuary.

My pulse quickened.

Even here, among nobles, their reach extended. They were everywhere. And if the document I found last week — the one written in Hangul — was truly linked to them…

Then maybe I wasn't chasing a ghost.