Arthur Nightingale.
Even with his near-total absence from social media, his name was practically legend—thanks, in no small part, to the three princesses and the noble girl who constantly surrounded him. He was a walking enigma, someone who thrived in the spaces between public spectacle and total obscurity. A shadow that occasionally stepped into the light, only to retreat again before anyone could truly make sense of what they'd seen.
Of course, I knew him.
More than that, I remembered him.
He had tried to recruit me into Ouroboros once, offering a deal that had been too good, something that had stuck in my mind long after I refused. His eyes that day—penetrating, calculating, as if dissecting my very essence—had haunted my dreams for weeks afterward.
At the time, I hadn't understood why he was interested in me.
But now…
Did he know?
