Gotham's rain was especially cold tonight. Dense raindrops looked like hazy white mist beneath the headlights. The wheels of luxury cars always seemed to spin backward. The hood ornaments flashed brightly. Every umbrella boy in Gotham carried only a black umbrella, hiding his face as he walked to the car, gently pulled open the door with a white-gloved hand, then silently stepped back two paces to wait for expensive leather shoes to splash down onto the wet ground.
First came a foot, then a gaunt hand braced itself against the doorframe. Whenever it exerted the slightest force, the veins showing on its back evoked black reefs amid white breakers, like faint blue rust along the edge of a sharp blade.
That hand was exceptionally pale, carrying an icy chill even whiter than its cuff. The arm tensed slightly, and the man emerging from the car was tall and thin, with black hair neatly combed back. Gray eyes lay hidden behind faintly gleaming lenses.
The other side of the car looked as though it had caught fire. A stunning woman with flame-red hair straightened up, as though she had slowly burned her way out of the ground. Her red silk gown was sleek and soft, swaying with allure—a sight that had no place in this cold, gloomy city.
Her high heels kicked up tiny splashes. As her legs crossed, the silk gown rippled like a fishtail. She was like a siren who had swum here along the rainwater, her pale, slender fingers climbing over the hard fabric of his suit. Her dark-red nails seemed to record the heart that had once beaten beneath those hands.
"Let's go, Professor," she said.
The two of them walked up the manor's banquet hall steps together, arms linked and strides matched. They appeared so close,