I redressed myself backstage with the kind of frantic, borderline theatrical urgency that only ever strikes when you realize—far too late—that you’re about to meet someone important while still coated in an alarming mixture of stage grime, sweat, and other bodily fluids.
The damp cloth in my hand did little more than smear the evidence around at first, but I persisted with the stubborn determination of a man who refuses to admit defeat to his own filth, scrubbing until my skin tingled, burned, and very nearly filed a formal grievance with whatever governing body oversees epidermal abuse.
My clothes followed in a flurry of fabric and mild indignity—my dress tugged into place, gloves yanked straight, every layer settling just enough to suggest respectability without actually achieving it. My hands trembled faintly as I worked—not from nerves, obviously, let’s not be ridiculous, I don’t do nerves—just a perfectly reasonable cocktail of leftover adrenaline, mild dehydration, and the lingering echo of having been pinned down on stage in front of an audience of obscenely wealthy, aggressively aroused nobles.
I straightened myself into something approaching presentable, deciding I looked acceptable enough if you ignored the fact that my hair was doing whatever it wanted and my eyes still carried the faint traces of smudged stage makeup.
Good enough. Whoever Julius had summoned me for would just have to accept that I came slightly disheveled and moderately feral, because that was my brand and I wasn’t changing it for anyone.
I strolled into the lobby with the carefully curated ease of someone pretending they hadn’t, moments prior, been sprawled across a stage in a scenario that would’ve made polite society faint dead away. Each step was measured, deliberate, my boots clicking softly against the plush red carpet in rhythm with my still-racing heartbeat.
The performance might’ve ended, but my body clearly hadn’t received the memo yet—it still thrummed with energy, every nerve alight, every sense sharpened just enough to make the world feel slightly unreal.
The lobby glowed with that same impossible artificial moonlight that had absolutely no right to exist in a place like this, painting everything in shades of silver-blue and making the fake stars overhead twinkle with choreographed precision.
That’s when I saw him. Standing directly in the center of that ethereal illumination—bathed in light like some kind of celestial painting come to life—was Tora.
My heart stopped. Actually stopped, like someone had reached into my chest and squeezed the damn thing until it forgot how to function, because gods above and every saint who’d ever ignored my prayers, he was beautiful.
His white robes flowed around his slight frame like liquid moonlight given fabric form, the material so fine it seemed to glow from within, catching every stray beam of light and transforming it into something softer, gentler, like he’d wrapped himself in captured starlight and decided that was appropriate casual wear.
The robes were pristine—impossibly so, considering he’d traveled through the slums to reach us—without a single wrinkle or stain. His white hair cascaded down his shoulders in waves that were slightly messy, artfully tousled in a way that made me want to run my fingers through it and mess it up further, individual strands catching the moonlight and reflecting it back in shades of silver and pearl.
And those crystal blue eyes—gods, those eyes—tracked nervously across the lobby like he was worried the walls might suddenly develop teeth and eat him. They sparkled with inner light that made me think of frozen lakes under winter skies—clear, deep, and completely devastating to look at directly.
But what truly marked him as something rare, something valuable, was that collar around his throat. A Glasswick’s collar—intricate, delicate, and absolutely stunning.
The glass shimmered with internal luminescence, pulsing faintly with each breath he took, and I knew from reputation alone that breaking one would require either tremendous force or incredibly stupid decision-making.
Glasswicks were ranked above Velvets in the slave hierarchy, so rare in the Velvet Chambers that most people went their entire lives without seeing one, valued not just for their skills but for their beauty
And here one was. In our lobby. Looking like every romantic fantasy I’d ever had about porcelain dolls gaining sentience and deciding to be adorable.
Without a second thought—because second thoughts were for people with better impulse control—I rushed up to him and pulled him into a hug that was probably too enthusiastic and definitely too sudden based on the startled squeak that escaped his throat.
He went absolutely rigid in my arms for exactly half a heartbeat before melting slightly, his small hands coming up to rest uncertainly against my back like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with them but didn’t want to be rude.
I felt him trembling—actually trembling, like a caught bird deciding whether to trust the hands holding it—and when I pulled back slightly to look at his face, his cheeks had bloomed into the most gorgeous shade of pink I’d ever seen, spreading from his nose across his cheekbones and down his neck until it disappeared beneath his collar.
"I—Loona—you—" he stammered, his voice coming out higher than usual, words fragmenting into adorable syllables that refused to form complete thoughts. "That was—very sudden—I wasn’t—" His hands fluttered between us like confused butterflies before settling on clutching the front of his robes in a gesture of pure flustered self-protection. "Hello," he finally managed, and even that single word sounded breathless.
I gripped him by the shoulders, holding him at arm’s length so I could fully appreciate the view while practically vibrating with excitement. "Tora! Saints above, Tora! What are you—how did you—this is amazing! You’re here! In our theater! Looking like someone decided to sculpt perfection out of moonbeams and anxiety!"
I was talking too fast, words tumbling over each other in my haste to express enthusiasm, but his blush deepened so I counted it as a win. "What are you doing here? Did you escape? Are you on the run? Do you need hiding? Because I can hide you. I’m very good at hiding things. Ask anyone. Well, don’t actually ask anyone, that would compromise my hiding abilities, but trust me, I’m excellent—"
"I’m here on Director Thalen’s orders," Tora interrupted gently, his voice still carrying that trembling quality but with enough firmness to cut through my verbal avalanche.
I stepped back, my hand coming up to rub my chin in what I hoped looked like thoughtful contemplation rather than "brain currently rebooting after receiving unexpected information."
Director Thalen. Orders. Tora. Here. The pieces started connecting with almost audible clicks before my eyes went wide as understanding slammed into me with the force of a divine revelation.
My finger shot up, pointing at the ceiling with the kind of dramatic flourish usually employed by people having eureka moments in badly written plays. "You’re the director’s gift!" I announced, loud enough that my voice echoed slightly off the lobby walls. "The personal assistance he promised me after I won my match! The reward I completely forgot about because I’ve been too busy running a theater, investigating criminal factions, and occasionally getting mounted by merchants on stage!"
Tora nodded, a slight smile tugging at his lips despite the blush still painting his face. "That’s... accurate, yes. I’ve been assigned to assist you for as long as you remain in the Velvet Chambers."
Before I could respond—before I could express my absolute delight at having Tora as permanent assistance—the others in my crew began emerging into the lobby like they’d sensed fresh entertainment and couldn’t resist investigating.
Grisha appeared first, leaning over the second-floor railing with her massive frame making the structure creak in protest. She was completely naked, as usual, and she’d clearly been "dealing with a client" upstairs based on the satisfied expression painting her scarred features and the fact that she was covered in a light sheen of sweat.
Her amber eyes locked onto Tora with the kind of predatory intensity usually employed by large cats spotting wounded prey, and I watched her lips pull back into a grin that showed entirely too many teeth.
Tora took an instinctive step backward, his hands coming up to clutch at his chest in a protective gesture that was both adorable and completely justified given Grisha’s expression. "Oh," he breathed, his voice very small. "That’s... she’s very... large."
"Grisha!" I called up, injecting warning into my tone. "Don’t even think about it. He’s delicate. You’ll break him."
She snorted, which somehow managed to sound threatening. "Maybe."
Willow and Nara emerged from the bar and lounge area next. The instant their eyes landed on Tora they went absolutely insane. Like, completely unhinged, all semblance of professional composure evaporating as they descended on him with twin expressions of manic glee.
"Oh my stars!" Willow breathed, her wine-dark skin practically glowing with excitement as she circled Tora. "A Glasswick. An actual Glasswick. I haven’t seen one in decades. Look at that collar! Look at those eyes!" Her hands reached out to touch his hair, his robes, his face, fingers trailing across his features with the kind of reverence people employed when handling priceless artifacts.
Nara bounced—literally bounced—around him from the other direction, her white bunny ears twitching with barely contained energy. "So pretty! So delicate! Can we keep him? Please say we can keep him! I promise to feed him and take care of him and only let my bunnies nibble him a little bit!" Her hands joined Willow’s in their exploration, tugging gently at his sleeves and touching the glass collar with careful fingers.
Tora’s blush had progressed from pink, to crimson, to something approaching violet. His stammering had devolved into incoherent sounds that might’ve been words in some language I didn’t speak.
"I—that’s—please don’t—oh gods—" He tried to step away but they followed, maintaining their circling pattern, their compliments and touches leaving him absolutely flustered and looking as though he might actually combust from embarrassment.
I face-palmed myself with enough force that the smack echoed across the lobby, because of course my crew would immediately harass the beautiful delicate boy within seconds of his arrival.
"Ladies," I said with exaggerated patience, my voice muffled by my hand. "Personal space. It’s a concept. Look it up."
Julius appeared behind me with his usual impeccable timing, and that’s when I caught movement in my peripheral vision—Felix, hiding behind Julius’s elaborate robes like they were a shield against social interaction.
I sighed, turning to address the shy blonde disaster I’d somehow accumulated. "Felix, come out. I promise Tora won’t bite. Unlike some people in this theater, he’s actually civilized."
Felix peeked around Julius’s legs with those impossibly large eyes, took one look at Tora’s flustered expression, and seemed to recognize a kindred spirit in anxiety. He emerged slowly, his movements careful, then gave Tora a shy wave that he returned with equal timidity.
They stared at each other for exactly three seconds—two anxious boys having some kind of silent communication that involved a lot of blushing and no actual words.
I made a mental note to keep them away from each other if I wanted anything productive to happen ever, because putting two people with that level of nervous energy in the same room seemed like asking for a feedback loop of adorable incompetence.
Just then, the entire back of merchants from my interrupted performance came bursting into the lobby like someone had set off an alarm that screamed "entertainment is happening elsewhere," their costumes disheveled and their expressions ranging from annoyed to slightly curious.
Brutus trailed behind them with his single arm outstretched in a futile attempt to herd them back, his scarred face set in an expression of deep resignation that spoke to how little control he had over the situation.
The merchants froze solid the instant they saw Tora—and I mean froze, like someone had cast a spell that turned flesh to stone mid-step as they stared with widening eyes. In an instant, whispered conversation rippled through their group like spreading wildfire.
"Is that—"
"It can’t be—"
"The collar—glass—that’s a Glasswick—"
"How rare is that? I’ve never—"
"Holy shit, do you know what this means?"
Tora, clearly trained in social graces despite his obvious discomfort, gave them a slight curtsy—a curtsy, which was somehow both adorable and vaguely heartbreaking as they swarmed him in the very next second like a pack of piranhas sensing blood in the water.
"My dear boy, what’s your name?"
"You work with Director Thalen right?"
"I run a textile business, perhaps you could mention me to—"
"Such exquisite features, truly, you must tell me your skincare routine—"
They circled him, hands reaching out to touch his robes, his hair, almost his face before Tora gave a nervous laugh that sounded like crystalline bells shattering and tried to wave them off. "I’m just—I mean—I’m only here to assist, I don’t really—please, that’s very kind but—"
They pressed harder, sensing his vulnerability, their voices rising in volume and urgency as they competed for his attention and tried to establish connections with the Director through this beautiful intermediary.
I cleared my throat.
The sound cut through the chaos like a blade through silk, sharp and carrying just enough edge that every merchant immediately pulled back, hands dropping, voices cutting off mid-sentence. They turned to stare at me with expressions ranging from sheepish to defiant, which is when I gave them my best "I will remember this and make your lives difficult" smile.
The other nobles who’d been watching my performance began filtering into the lobby at that moment, drawn by the commotion like moths to a flame. They too stopped dead upon seeing Tora.
The awe on their faces was palpable, reverent almost, because Glasswicks were that rare, that valuable, and having one standing in a slum theater was like finding a diamond in a sewer—unexpected, confusing, and definitely worth staring at.
Tora seemed to be getting overstimulated in the most adorable way possible—his eyes darting between faces, his hands clutching at his robes, his breathing coming faster as the crowd pressed in with their attention, curiosity, and barely disguised attempts to use him as a social ladder.
His blush had spread down his neck and his pupils were dilated and he looked about three seconds away from either crying or teleporting to another dimension.
I noticed this—because I’m observant when it counts and also because watching Tora suffer was breaking something inside my chest that I didn’t know existed—and quickly grabbed his hand, pulling him away from the crowd with enough force to make him stumble slightly.
"Come on," I said firmly, not quite shouting but projecting enough that everyone heard and understood this wasn’t a request. "We have much to discuss. Important theater business. Very confidential. Definitely not something we can talk about while surrounded by nobles who are treating you like a curiosity in a museum."
I tugged him toward the stairs, toward privacy, sanity, and anywhere that wasn’t this lobby full of grasping hands and invasive questions. His smaller hand squeezed mine with desperate gratitude as he followed, his footsteps quick and light against the carpet.
Behind us, the crowd murmured with disappointment, but I didn’t care.
Tora was mine now—my assistant, my gift, my responsibility—and I’d be damned if I let anyone make him uncomfortable in my own establishment.
We had so much to discuss.
And also, I really needed to figure out how to keep my crew from accidentally breaking him through aggressive affection within the first twenty-four hours.
Oh, this was going to be interesting.