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To Jan Von Kruger, the most important thing in the world to him was money.
Working as a banker may have lent itself to that— he placed such high importance on money and finding gold when they first moved to Fresco that all of his time and effort went into establishing the Van Kruger bank. It became his life's achievement, a culmination of everything he's ever worked for, the singular thing that he was the most proud of. It was a fortress of stone and ambition, built from the dust of a frontier town, a testament to his will. Every polished brass teller window, every leather-bound ledger, every heavy iron door of the vault whispered his name. It was his legacy, his shield against the chaos of a world that had already taken so much from him.
But of course— that was all before Abigail.
Abigail was dropped on his doorstep one day— no note, no explanation— a child, abandoned, left to rot in the biting cold winter of Fresco. He had found her there, a tiny, shivering bundle wrapped in a threadbare blanket, her small body already dusted with snow. For a long, terrible moment, he had simply stared. The world, which had finally begun to make a kind of cruel sense again after the incident with the White Fang, tilted on its axis.
He initially wanted nothing to do with her— he could barely take care of himself, let alone a child. Ever since his return, all of his time and effort had been focused and funnelled into reestablishing the bank and mending the fractured relationship with his brother, Timothy. The unspoken chasm between them, forged in the fires of Jan’s long and mysterious betrayal, was a wound that required constant, careful tending. It all paid off in the end when they were able to purchase the deed to the town, solidifying their power and their future, but he didn't need a child to look after on top of all that. She was a variable he hadn't calculated for, a liability in the grand equation of his life.
He planned to send her to the sheriff's office— let the authorities deal with it, a problem for someone else to solve. He had even scooped her up, her tiny body weightless in his arms, and started the short, cold walk towards the town's centre. But then, one look into her eyes, ones that shone the same shade of purple— a deep, startling amethyst, a colour he saw every morning in his own reflection— reminded Jan of his own.
Looking at her reminded him of himself as a child— eyes shimmering with hope and innocence, unaware of the devastation and tragedy that would befall him someday. He saw his own childhood fear, his own desperate plea for safety reflected in her gaze. Something about her eyes spoke out to him. It was a silent language of shared soul, a recognition that transcended logic. All it took was one look and suddenly, he was a father. He turned around, walked back into his house, and closed the door on his old life.
Timothy on the other hand, couldn't care less about the money— he didn't care about it when they first moved to Fresco and he sure as hell didn't care about it now— not on this stupid train, slowly trudging its way slowly to Paris. To him, currency was the warmth of a shared fire, the comfort of a familiar silence, the fierce, protective love he held for his small family. Gold was cold; people were not.
The only thing he cared about was the people he loved. He moved to Fresco only because he was following behind his brother's footsteps. They moved because Jan saw opportunity there— a town where they could make a name for themselves, create a home and earn enough money to live comfortably for the rest of their lives. Timothy, a scholar and a dreamer, had been content in their old life, surrounded by the history-soaked air of the Netherlands. He traded canals and ancient cobblestones for dusty plains and the raw, untamed west, all for Jan and the Von Kruger family name.
Sure— the money and gold was nice and all, but he also would've been fine staying in the Netherlands if it meant he could stay with his brother. The main reason he's even on this train in the first place is Abigail.
Abigail had been an unexpected but welcome addition into their lives. Jan had tried to hide her at first— confident he could handle looking after a child all on his own, not wanting to burden Timothy any further than he already had since his return. He kept her existence a secret for weeks, a ghost in the upper rooms of their home. But one day it all became too much for him. Timothy had found him in the study, late one night, the weight of fatherhood, of secrecy, of his own traumatic past crushing him. He broke down crying— a rare and terrifying sight— begging Timothy for help, to help him give Abigail a better life, so she didn't end up like him. So Jan himself didn't turn into the monster of neglect and coldness that had shaped their own childhoods.
Timothy was initially hesitant— Jan didn't seem like the type of person to impulsively adopt a child on a whim. But still, seeing how much she meant to his brother, and the raw, naked fear in Jan’s eyes, Timothy promised to help out as much as he could. Since then, they had grown closer than ever, working tirelessly to give Abigail the best life she could've hoped for— the best life they could offer.
Timothy became the fun uncle, the teller of stories, the softer heart to Jan's rigid discipline. He learned how to soften himself, how to laugh more easily, how to kneel down and listen when Abigail spoke with the earnest seriousness of a child who believed the world would listen back. Somewhere along the way, responsibility turned into devotion. He loved her without reservation, without calculation. And while they still hadn't truly moved past the whole disappearance thing, the gaping wound of those lost years, Abigail certainly helped them mend their relationship by bringing them all closer as a family. She was the bridge over the chasm.
Timothy had grown to love Abigail with all his heart— and he would do anything for his niece. He would have walked through fire for her, and boarding a luxury train seemed a small price to pay for her happiness.
Which is why he agreed to board the Harpy Express in the first place. Having never left Fresco before, a town that existed in a bubble of dust and ambition, Abigail was ecstatic at the opportunity for a vacation outside the country. When Jan announced he'd be leaving for a conference in Paris, a business trip that was all numbers and handshakes, she had to practically beg him to let her come with— to convince him that she was capable and independent enough to go on this trip along with him. She had used every tool in her young arsenal: the wide eyes, the solemn promises, the relentless enthusiasm.
Initially Timothy wasn't supposed to come along— he was good with the business aspect of the bank, understanding the flow of numbers and the stories they told, but less so the talking part, the glad-handing and the social performance. He was happy to leave that all to Jan. But seeing how dejected Abigail was when Jan, ever the pragmatist worried about the dangers and distractions of a child, said no— he offered to come with to look after her and make this trip a family vacation. He would walk around and sight-see with Abigail, exploring museums and cathedrals, and Jan could join them after the conference, when the real work was done.
Jan was incapable of saying no to the both of them. The sight of them, his brother and his daughter, united in their hopeful pleading, was a force no bank vault could withstand. He sighed, a sound of long-suffering affection, and relented.
That was how the Von Krugers ended up on the Harpy Express, one of the most well-renowned trains in the world, a marvel of steel and luxury slowly making its way through the alps and across Europe, bringing them all the way to Paris. The train was a world unto itself, a gilded cage hurtling through a breathtaking landscape of snow-capped peaks and deep, shadowed valleys.
And he had to admit— the trip was turning out to be quite the journey.
Watching Abigail ooh and ahh out the window as they passed through the mountains was certainly the highlight— her small face pressed to the cool glass, breath fogging the pane, as she gasped at waterfalls that looked like silver threads and mountain goats perched on impossible ledges. He would do just about anything to keep that smile on her face.
But another thing that made the journey so interesting was the colourful cast of characters that were aboard the train as well. A gruff but kind-hearted sheriff from, a brilliant and solemn little German boy travelling alone, a sweet and kind princess with eyes that held a thousand secrets— it certainly led to an endless bout of interesting interactions. The train was a microcosm of the world, and for someone Timothy, it was a fascinating, living tapestry. One of those interactions being the one that now had his stomach in knots and a glass of whisky permanently affixed to his hand.
"I'll have whatever he's having."
The seat beside Timothy gets pulled out, making a loud, screeching noise as it drags across the floor. The man that pulls out the seat gestures towards Timothy before the bar-attender nods, moving around to make him a drunk. Timothy was currently drinking at the bar, after growing rather anxious following an interaction he had with Silas and Jan— and had decided his best course of action to be drown all his nerves in alcohol.
Timothy had met his new cabin mate, Dr. Silas A.P. Saparata, earlier in the day. The man was a professor of history, specifically an expert in ancient manuscripts and cryptography, and Timothy had been genuinely thrilled. Here was a kindred spirit! They had spoken animatedly about the fragmented gospels, the coded messages of alchemists, the lost libraries of the ancient world.
Silas was soft-spoken, with kind eyes behind wire-rimmed spectacles and a gentle, scholarly demeanour. He seemed like such an interesting man, a historian like him was sure to carry many interesting stories. They had agreed to continue their conversation over dinner.
But then something strange happened. When Timothy had introduced Silas to Jan, something shifted. Jan, usually so controlled and performatively charming, had gone still. His smile didn't reach his eyes. He looked at Silas not as a person, but as a puzzle box he needed to crack, a document to be scrutinized for forgeries. His gaze was sharp, assessing, cataloguing every detail about the man: the way he held his hands, the slight tremor in his left one, the precise knot of his tie, the specific brand of his spectacles. He was scanning for something, almost as if trying to scrutinise every detail about the man to see if he need be deemed a threat. The conversation had been polite, but strained, and Jan had excused himself and Abigail shortly after, citing fatigue from the journey.
Timothy didn't know it at first, chalking it up to Jan’s inherent distrust of new people, but after their brief encounter, Jan sent Abigail off to the observation car to socialise with the little German boy, Albert, before pulling him aside into a narrow, empty corridor between carriages. The clatter of the wheels was suddenly very loud.
"Do you know who that man is?" Jan's voice was low, devoid of its usual warmth. His eyes were fixed on Timothy's with an intensity that made him take a half-step back.
"Uhm— Dr. Silas," Timothy stammered, a knot of unease forming in his stomach. "He's a historian who worked as a professor before the war. We were just talking about—"
"I know who he claims to be," Jan interrupted, his voice a sharp whisper. He leaned closer, his hand gripping Timothy's forearm with surprising strength. "And do you know why he's important?"
Timothy shook his head, his mind racing. He had a terrible, sinking feeling the answer he had probably wasn't the one Jan was looking for.
Jan took a breath, his gaze flicking down the corridor to ensure they were still alone. "Listen to me, Timothy. This is not a game. Before the war, Silas was a nobody academic, scraping for grants, publishing papers no one would read. He studied historical manuscripts, yes. Ancient codes, forgotten languages. All harmless eccentrics."
He paused, letting the weight of his next words settle. "Then the war came. And men like Silas suddenly became very, very useful. He didn't fight in the trenches. He worked in a windowless room, trying to decipher enemy communications. Codes the opposition thought were unbreakable. He cracked them."
Timothy felt a chill that had nothing to do with the alpine air seeping through the train's joints. "He was a codebreaker?"
"A brilliant one," Jan confirmed, his voice grim. "And that's not all. After the war, he didn't go back to just ancient history. He started applying his skills to more… contemporary documents. He's been investigating financial records. Banking transactions during the war." Jan's eyes bore into Timothy's, willing him to understand the full, horrifying picture. "And he found a pattern. A banking company that was supplying money to both sides of the war. A company that profited immensely from the slaughter. A company that— through a series of shell corporations and dummy accounts, can be traced back to… us. To the Von Kruger bank."
The blood drained from Timothy's face. The gentle, scholarly man he had been so eager to befriend was a hunter, and they were seemingly his prey. The knot in his stomach tightened into a cold, hard stone. "He knows?"
"He suspects," Jan corrected. "But suspicion is a weapon. He's going to a conference in Paris— the same one we're headed to now. A conference on ethics in wartime finance, of all the damned ironic things. I have it on very good authority that his goal is to slip a piece of paper— a single page of damning evidence— to a journalist there. A man named Dubois, who has been trying to expose war profiteers for years. If that paper gets into Dubois' hands, it's over. The bank is finished. Our lives, everything we've built, gone. We'll be hunted."
Timothy swallowed hard, his throat dry. The luxurious train, the beautiful scenery, the happy smiles of his family— it all suddenly felt like a fragile illusion, a paper-thin reality about to be ripped apart. "So what do we do?"
Jan was silent for a long moment. The only sound was the rhythmic clatter of the train on the tracks, a sound that now seemed like a countdown. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, detached, as if he were discussing a routine business transaction. "We ensure he doesn't make it to that conference."
The words hung in the air, simple and terrifying.
Timothy's blood ran cold. "You don't mean—"
"I mean exactly what you think I mean." Jan's purple eyes were fixed on him, unblinking, calculating. There was no hesitation in them, no moral quandary. Just the cold, clear logic of a man who had already decided what needed to be done. "He's not just a threat to the bank, Timothy. He's a threat to everything we've built. To Abigail's future. To your life, and mine. If that paper reaches Dubois, we become hunted men. Is that what you want for her? For her to grow up fatherless, on the run, because we were too weak to do what needed to be done?"
Timothy wanted to argue, to find a loophole, another path. But Jan's logic was a steel trap, and he was caught in it. "How?" The word came out strangled.
"However you can. However you must." Jan's voice softened, just slightly. "I know this isn't who you are, Timothy. I know you're not built for this. But you're the one who befriended him. You're the one sharing his cabin. It has to be you." He paused, letting the weight of it settle. "I'm not asking you to enjoy it. I'm asking you to survive it."
Timothy's hand drifted unconsciously to his pocket, where the knife he'd packed for protection— a foolish notion, he'd thought at the time— sat heavy against his thigh. "And if I can't?"
Jan's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. Something that might have been sadness, or resignation, or both. "Then I'll have to find another way. One that might be messier. One that might put all of us at greater risk." He reached out, gripping Timothy's shoulder. "But I believe you can. You're stronger than you think, little brother. You always have been."
The endearment, unused since they were children, hit Timothy like a physical blow. He looked at Jan— really looked— and saw the weight his brother carried. The secrets. The survival. The endless, exhausting vigilance. Jan wasn't asking him to become a monster— he was asking him to become like him.
"I'm going back to my quarters— all of this socialising has really tired me out," Jan said, his composure snapping back into place like a mask. The vulnerability was gone, replaced by the polished facade of the successful banker. He reached out, pulling Timothy into a brief, firm hug. It was a gesture of affection, but also of something else— a final embrace, perhaps. A goodbye to the brother Timothy had been before this conversation. He pulled back, his purple eyes holding Timothy's. They were the same shade as Abigail's, but where hers held innocence, his held the cold, hard reality of a man who had done terrible things to survive.
"For your sake more than mine, Timothy," he said, his voice barely a whisper above the clatter of the wheels, "I do hope you're smooth with your knife. You're the one sharing a cabin with him. It has to look like an accident. A robbery gone wrong, perhaps. Or maybe he just… fell. The doors on these observation platforms can be so treacherous." He patted Timothy's cheek, a gesture that was both paternal and chilling. "If you end up getting caught— I cannot say I will hesitate to pull the trigger. I have Abigail to think of. I would mourn you every day, but I would not let you take us all down with you."
He turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the corridor, leaving Timothy standing alone, the weight of a knife in his pocket and the life of a man he had just begun to like pressing down on his soul.
That was two hours ago. Two hours of Timothy sitting rigidly in his shared cabin, watching Silas read peacefully in the armchair by the window, the very picture of scholarly innocence. Every time Silas turned a page, Timothy flinched. Every time Silas looked up with a kind smile and asked a question about their next stop, Timothy’s hand would drift towards his pocket, towards the cold, hard shape of the knife. He couldn't do it. Not like this. Not in cold blood, while the man was quoting poetry.
So he fled. He muttered an excuse about needing some air and practically ran to the club car, the train's elegant lounge and bar. Now, he was currently drinking at the bar, having decided his next best course of action was to drown all his nerves in alcohol.
The club car was a vision of Art Deco luxury, all polished mahogany, deep velvet seating, and frosted glass lamps that cast a warm, golden glow. It was supposed to be a place of sophisticated relaxation, but for Timothy, it was a refuge. He had lost count of the drinks. The first was to steady his nerves. The second was to forget Jan's cold, final words. The third and fourth were to silence the image of Silas trusting smile. The fifth, sixth, or seventh— he had lost track a while ago— was to simply feel something other than the crushing, nauseating dread that had made its home in his gut.
He stared blankly at the rows of glistening bottles behind the bar, their amber and clear liquids promising oblivion. The bar attender, a man with a professional, unreadable face, moved with practised efficiency, wiping a glass, straightening a bottle. Timothy didn't see him. He saw only Jan's eyes, then Silas's, then the glint of the knife in his pocket.
Which brings him back to the man at the bar.
"I'll have whatever he's having."
The voice was smooth, rich, and laced with an undercurrent of amusement. It cut through the fog of Timothy's despair like a hot knife through butter. The seat beside him was pulled out, making a loud, screeching noise as it dragged across the polished floor. The man that pulled out the seat gestured towards Timothy before the bar-attender nodded, moving around to make him a drink.
Timothy tilted his head slightly, just enough to eye the new stranger out the corner of his eyes. He was a striking figure. He wore a maroon pinstripe suit, exquisitely tailored, with a silver vest and a black silk tie that was held in place by a simple, elegant pin. It served as a perfect compliment to the flashy, but undeniably expensive, gold watch on his wrist. But it was his head that drew the eye. He had snow-white hair, not the grey of age, but a pure, startling white, messily fluffed and styled on his head as if he had just run his hands through it after a passionate encounter. It was a bold, unforgettable statement.
And he also had on something which looked like… a fake… beard? It was a neatly trimmed goatee, but it was slightly too perfect, too uniform, and at the edges, Timothy could see a hint of the same pale skin underneath.
Y'know what— Timothy had seen weirder on this train. A man with a fake beard was practically mundane.
Timothy's mind was too blurred to focus on much, but he tried to direct his attention to the way the bar-attender moved, the mundane rhythm of his work acting as a strange anchor. He watched as the man grabbed different bottles, measured and poured, then skillfully mixed everything into a little silver shaker.
The stranger's drink was being made with a flourish, a small performance. Timothy himself didn't even remember what he ordered. Was it whisky? Brandy? It didn't matter. All the bitter and sweet flavours of the drinks he'd had had seemed to meld into one, a single, numbing taste of forgetfulness.
However, the weirder thing about this interaction was the fact that the stranger didn't seem to be acknowledging him, despite deliberately choosing the seat right next to him and ordering the same drink. He was content to keep staring on ahead at the bar attender, his profile sharp and elegant, a faint, knowing smile playing on his lips. He pretended Timothy wasn't there, a masterful act of indifference.
But Timothy, even in his drunken stupor, was an observer. It was his nature as a banker, constantly studying people and the little details that made up their personality. He managed to catch the stranger occasionally eyeing him out the corner of his eye. It was subtle, a flicker of movement, but undeniable. He'd give quick, assessing glances over, his gaze travelling from Timothy's dishevelled dark brown hair, to his tired eyes, down the line of his shoulders and the way his hand loosely gripped his glass. He was drinking in the sight of this random stranger by the bar as if he were a fine wine.
And Timothy might be a little drunk (okay, he was a lot drunk), but the attention felt weirdly good. It was a distraction from the horror show in his own mind. These random side glances from a stranger— this mysterious, beautiful, dangerous stranger, with the most gorgeous hair and the most beautiful eyes— they made him feel seen. Not as Jan's brother, or Abigail's uncle, or a potential murderer, but simply as a man. A man being looked at with interest.
"Here you go, sir." The bar attender returned, plopping the drink— a complex, amber cocktail with a twist of orange peel— down on a coaster before the stranger. "And who should I charge this to?"
If someone asks him about this later, Timothy will blame this entirely on the alcohol. On the numbness that made his tongue loose and his inhibitions dissolve. On the desperate need to connect with someone, anyone, who wasn't a target or a taskmaster. Because before the stranger could even speak, Timothy heard his own voice, slurred but clear, cut through the air.
"Put it on my tab."
The sudden interruption from Timothy caused both the stranger and the bar attender to turn and look at him. The stranger's expression was a perfect blend of shock and amusement, his eyebrows rising slightly, his lips curving into a genuine, surprised smile. The bar attender, on the other hand, looked like he was so done with this shit, his professional mask cracking to reveal a long-suffering weariness.
"And your name, sir?" the bar attender asked, his tone flat.
Right. He hadn't given a name just now in his haste and desperation for alcohol— he had just stumbled up, demanded the bar attender make him a drink, and waved a hand vaguely, with a promise he'd pay later. He probably looked like a mess.
Timothy briefly turned to look at the stranger. His look of shock had fully morphed into one of pure, delighted amusement. He had shifted his sitting position, now leaning back in his seat, his body angled towards Timothy. He rested his chin in his palm, his elbow propped on the bar, a supremely smug, expectant look on his face.
Timothy knew what that look meant. It was the look of a predator who has just realized his prey has wandered into the trap all by itself. It meant he was going to lose whatever game this was. Here, in this small, alcohol-fuelled corner of the world, the upper hand had just been handed over on a silver platter. But for some reason, looking into those amused, brilliant eyes, Timothy didn't care.
He turned back to the bar attender. "Timothy. Von Kruger."
The stranger's smile widened, a slow, deliberate curve of his lips. He didn't even glance at the bartender, his gaze still fixed intently on Timothy.
The bar attender nodded, making a note in a small leather-bound book, and retreated to the other end of the bar, leaving the two of them in their own private bubble of light and sound. The low hum of conversation from the other patrons, the clink of glasses, the distant piano music— it all faded away.
"A Von Kruger, huh? Well, well, well," the stranger said, his voice a low purr. He picked up his freshly made cocktail, the ice cubes clinking softly, and took a delicate sip. His eyes, a piercing shade of grey that seemed to hold flecks of silver, never left Timothy's face. "What's a well-renowned banker like yourself doing all the way out here? Paris is quite a long way from Fresco."
The mention of his hometown, so far from this glittering European train, sent another jolt through Timothy. So, this man knew who he was. Of course he did. Everyone on this damned train seemed to have a dossier on everyone else. But Timothy tries to brush it off, not allowing the shock to show on his face.
"Ah, so you know who I am?" he asked instead, trying to match the stranger's playful tone, though his voice was thicker, slower. "Are you a loyal customer or a long-term enemy?"
The stranger's smile widened. It was a dangerous smile, full of charm and hidden edges. "Are those my only options?"
"Most people are one or the other," Timothy said, gesturing vaguely with his glass, some of the amber liquid sloshing over the side. "I've yet to meet someone who's either both or neither."
"Hmm," the stranger mused, tapping a perfectly manicured fingernail against his glass. "Consider me a fan, then. I've been following your work for quite some time." He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "The Von Kruger bank's rise in Fresco has been… remarkable, to say the least. A true testament to strategic… investments."
Timothy's muddled brain tried to process this. Was the man a rival? A curious admirer? A potential blackmailer? The word 'investments' hung in the air with a double meaning that made his skin crawl, thinking of Jan's warnings.
"You've been following me, huh?" he said, trying to buy time. "From how far behind? I don't know if I should be flattered or concerned."
The stranger laughed, a low, genuine sound that vibrated in the space between them. "Flattered, definitely. Concern is so… tedious. I prefer to keep things interesting." He took another sip, his grey eyes gleaming over the rim of his glass. "For instance, a man who orders seven drinks in two hours is either celebrating a great victory or drowning a terrible defeat. So which one is it, Mr. Von Kruger?"
The question was too close to the bone. Timothy looked away, his gaze falling on the rows of bottles again. "Just… pre-vacation jitters," he mumbled. "First time in Europe. Nervous about the sightseeing."
The stranger hummed, a non-committal sound that clearly said he didn't believe a word of it. He didn't push, though. He simply sat there, a warm, solid presence at Timothy's side, sipping his drink and exuding an aura of calm control. It was exactly what Timothy needed. Someone who asked questions but didn't demand answers. Someone whose presence was a balm, not a burden.
"Y'know," Timothy said, turning back to him, a little bolder now, the alcohol loosening his tongue further, "if you've been following me for a while, I think it only fair I know your name. Can't just be 'my biggest fan' forever."
The stranger's smile turned mysterious. He set his glass down and extended a hand. "The Proprietor."
Timothy looked at the offered hand, then up at the man's face. The name was odd, theatrical but somehow it seemed to fit him perfectly. Timothy took the hand. It was cool, dry, and his grip was firm, sending another unexpected jolt through his system.
"The Proprietor?" he repeated, the name feeling strange on his tongue. "The proprietor of what, exactly?"
The Proprietor’s thumb brushed lightly, almost imperceptibly, over Timothy's hand, bringing it up to his lips to place a small kiss on his knuckles before he let go.
"A little bit of everything and a little bit of nothing at the same time. I prefer to remain… flexible." He leaned back, his gaze sweeping over the club car. "I own a few establishments here and there. I facilitate… transactions. I meet interesting people."
He said it so casually, so smoothly, that it took a moment for Timothy to register the underlying implication. 'Facilitate transactions.' It could mean anything from real estate to running an underground network. Given the man's aura of polished danger, Timothy suspected it was closer to the latter. That should have been his warning. It should've been his sign to walk away lest he entangle himself further with danger. He was travelling with a secret that could get him killed, and he was flirting with a man who reeked of the underworld.
But instead, Timothy felt a thrill.
"Sounds… complicated," Timothy said, finishing his own drink in one long gulp. The world was beginning to swim pleasantly.
"It can be," the Proprietor agreed. "But it's rarely boring." He signalled the bar attender for another round for both of them. "So— tell me, Timothy Von Kruger. Besides sightseeing, what do you do for fun on a train like this? Read? Gamble? Stare moodily out the window?"
Timothy snorted. "I've been doing a lot of the staring moodily, apparently." He accepted the new drink. "I do read. History, mostly. It's… comforting. The past is already written. You know how it ends."
"Ah, a scholar and a banker. A man of contradictions." The Proprietor seemed genuinely delighted by this. "And what period of history holds your interest most?"
They fell into an easy conversation. Timothy, his tongue loosened by alcohol and the strange, safe feeling the Proprietor's presence gave him, talked about his favourite historical eras, the fall of empires, the rise of new ideas. The Proprietor listened with flattering attention, asking insightful questions, offering his own witty observations.
He spoke of history too, but from a different angle— the history of power, of secret societies, of the deals made in shadows that shaped the world. He talked about travelling through Europe, of seeing the aftermath of the war in the eyes of its survivors, of the fragile peace that hung over everything like a held breath.
It was the most normal, wonderful conversation Timothy had had in days. For a blissful hour, he forgot about Silas, about Jan's cold ultimatum, about the knife that felt like it was burning a hole in his pocket. He was just a man, talking to another fascinating man in a beautiful bar on a train crossing the alps.
The Proprietor was able to make him laugh, make him think, make him feel alive. The way the man's eyes crinkled when he smiled, the way his hand would occasionally brush against Timothy's sleeve to emphasise a point, the way his cologne— a subtle, masculine scent of sandalwood and something else, something uniquely him— wove itself into Timothy's senses.
He was utterly, completely, and wonderfully distracted. And he had no idea that the Proprietor's attention was not nearly as random as it seemed.
From the moment he had boarded the Harpy Express under a carefully constructed alias and a ridiculous false beard, the Proprietor had been working. The train was a hunting ground, a moving chessboard, and he was there to make a very specific move. His target was a man named Dubois, a French journalist with a penchant for exposing the powerful.
Dubois was rumoured to be meeting a source on this very train, a source with evidence of monumental wartime profiteering. The Proprietor's employer, a shadowy consortium of European powers who preferred their dirty laundry to stay firmly in the hamper, wanted that meeting to never happen. And they were willing to pay a king's ransom to ensure it.
His plan was simple: identify Dubois, identify his source, and acquire the evidence before the exchange can even take place. Permanently, if necessary. He had spent his first day aboard the train observing, cataloguing. The princess was a distraction, too public. The sheriff was too straightforward. The little German boy was probably irrelevant. But there was two people that immediately pinged his professional instincts.
The first was Dr. Silas. A nervous academic, trying too hard to look casual, clutching a leather satchel as if it contained the crown jewels. He had the look of a man carrying a secret, a man on the verge of something momentous. He was a strong candidate for Dubois's source.
The second was Jan Van Kruger. The moment the Proprietor had seen him, a chill of recognition had run down his spine. He knew the type: the cold, calculating eyes of a survivor, the controlled movements of a predator. He was a banker from a nowhere town, yet he moved with the confidence of a king. The way he had scanned the dining car, the way his gaze had lingered on Silas with an intensity that was far from friendly, told the Proprietor everything he needed to know. Jan Van Kruger was not just a banker. He was something else. Something dangerous. And he was clearly interested in Dr. Silas.
This changed things. It was no longer just about finding a source. It was about navigating a field with another player, one whose motives were a mystery. The Proprietor had been pondering this new variable in the club car, nursing a drink and watching the door, when a new element had stumbled in.
Timothy Von Kruger.
He was the complete opposite of his brother. Where Jan was ice, Timothy was a confusing mix of fire and water. He was clearly distressed, drowning his sorrows with a single-minded determination that was almost endearing. He was handsome in a softer, more approachable way than Jan's chiselled features. His eyes, a warm, golden shade of brown, held a depth of feeling that Jan's purple eyes carefully guarded against.
The Proprietor's initial instinct was to dismiss him. He was a civilian, a distraction. But as he watched Timothy drink, watched the way his shoulders slumped and his hand trembled slightly, a new, more intriguing possibility presented itself. Timothy was a weakness. He was the chink in Jan Von Kruger's armour. If the Proprietor could get close to Timothy, he could get close to Jan. He could learn his game, discover if he was friend or foe in the hunt for Dr.Silas' evidence.
And so, he made his move. It was a calculated decision, a professional tactic. He sat next to the sad, handsome man and ordered his drink. The plan was to engage him, extract information, use him. It was purely business.
Well, that was the plan.
But then Timothy had looked at him with those warm, hazy eyes and paid for his drink. And when the Proprietor had taken his hand, the slight tremor in Timothy's fingers had felt… real. When Timothy had talked about history, about the comfort of a story already finished, the Proprietor, a man who lived in the messy, unwritten present, had felt a strange pang of something he couldn't name. The man's vulnerability was not a weakness to be exploited; it was a raw, open wound that the Proprietor found himself wanting to protect.
He had to keep reminding himself of his mission. This was a means to an end. But as the hour wore on and Timothy's laughter became more and more genuine as his smile grew less and less sad, the Proprietor found the line between professional interest and personal fascination beginning to blur. When Timothy excused himself to use the washroom, the Proprietor watched him go, a thoughtful frown replacing his usual smirk.
This was starting to get complicated.
Soon, Timothy returns from the washroom, having splashed cold water on his face in a futile attempt to sober up. It hadn't worked. If anything, the world was now tilting on a more pleasant, more surreal axis. He slid back onto his bar-stool, a little clumsily.
The Proprietor was waiting for him, a new cocktail already in front of Timothy's spot. "Feeling better?" he asked, his grey eyes warm with amusement.
"Much," Timothy lied, taking a grateful sip. It was sweet and strong. "So," he said, emboldened by the alcohol and the company, "The Proprietor. You've evaded my questions all night. Tell me something real about yourself."
The Proprietor considered this, his gaze turning inward for a moment. "Something real," he murmured. He looked at Timothy, and for a second, the mask of the charming rogue slipped, revealing a flicker of something genuine beneath. "I am a man who is very good at acquiring things for other people. I have spent my life being a tool. And sometimes," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "I wonder what it would be like to want something for myself."
The admission hung in the air, heavy and intimate. Timothy's breath caught. The noise of the bar, the clatter of the train, it all faded into a dull roar. He was suddenly acutely aware of how close they were sitting, of the heat radiating from the Proprietor's body, of the way his own heart was hammering against his ribs. He was drunk, yes, but this feeling was sharper, more terrifying, and more exhilarating than any drink.
Before he could formulate a response, a new sound cut through the bubble. The unmistakable, lilting melody of a waltz began to drift from the far end of the club car, where a small string quartet had set up. A few couples were making their way to the small, polished dance floor.
The Proprietor's eyes lit up. He turned to Timothy, a mischievous glint in them. "Do you dance, Timothy Von Kruger?"
Timothy blinked. "What? I… no. I mean, not well. I had lessons as a child, but—"
"Perfect." The Proprietor was already on his feet. He extended his hand, a gesture of pure, theatrical invitation. "Then you won't be able to tell that I'm a terrible dancer either. We can be terrible together."
It was ridiculous. It was insane. Timothy knows deep down that he should say no. He should go back to his cabin and face the horrifying reality of Silas sleeping peacefully in the next bed. He should think about Jan's warning. He should think about the knife in his pocket.
Instead, he looked at the Proprietor's outstretched hand, at the genuine, hopeful smile on his face, and felt every rational thought dissolve. He placed his hand in the Proprietor's and let himself be pulled to his feet.
The Proprietor led him to the edge of the small dance floor, then pulled him into an old-fashioned dance hold. One hand held Timothy's, the other came to rest on the small of his back, a warm, firm pressure that sent shivers down Timothy's spine. They were closer than was strictly proper for a first dance, their bodies mere inches apart.
"I'm warning you," Timothy mumbled, his face flushed. "I'm going to step on your feet."
"I have very quick reflexes," the Proprietor whispered back, his breath warm against Timothy's ear.
The words sent a shiver down Timothy's spine that had nothing to do with the temperature. The Proprietor's hand was firm on the small of his back, guiding him into position, and Timothy was acutely aware of every point of contact between them— the Proprietor's cool, dry hand holding his, the warm pressure of his palm through the thin fabric of his shirt, the solid wall of his chest just inches away.
The music swelled, a lush, romantic waltz that seemed to fill every corner of the club car. The string quartet played with passion, the cello providing a deep, throbbing foundation while the violins soared above. Around them, other couples drifted onto the floor, but Timothy barely registered them. His entire world had narrowed to the man in front of him.
They began to move.
It was clumsy at first, Timothy stumbling, his feet refusing to cooperate with his brain. He'd had those childhood lessons, but they'd been in a sterile dance studio with a stern instructor and a metronome. Nothing had prepared him for… this— for the dizzying sensation of being held, for the way the Proprietor's body seemed to anticipate his every misstep and correct it before he could fall.
"Relax," the Proprietor murmured, his lips close to Timothy's ear. "Stop thinking. Feel."
Timothy tried. He really did. But thinking was all he knew— it was his defence mechanism, his way of coping with the chaos of the world, the only thing that kept him alive. But the Proprietor's hand was warm and steady on his back, and his grey eyes held Timothy's with an intensity that made it impossible to focus on anything else.
And slowly, miraculously, he began to find the rhythm.
The Proprietor guided him with surprising grace, his movements fluid and confident. He led without dominating, giving Timothy just enough support to follow without making him feel clumsy. They turned and swayed, a little island of two in the middle of the elegant car. Timothy stopped thinking about his feet and started feeling— feeling the music, feeling the strong, steady arm around him, feeling the way the Proprietor looked at him as if he were the only person in the world.
It was intoxicating.
Timothy became acutely aware of details he hadn't noticed before. The hard muscle of the Proprietor's chest beneath his hand, clearly visible even through the fine fabric of his waistcoat and shirt. The way his shoulders moved beneath Timothy's palm, powerful and controlled. The intoxicating scent of him— sandalwood, but also something deeper, something uniquely his, a mixture of expensive cologne and warm skin and perhaps a hint of the cognac they'd been drinking. A lock of that incredible white hair had fallen across his forehead, disrupting his usual impeccable appearance, and Timothy had to fight the urge to reach up and brush it back.
And all the while The Proprietor's gaze never left his face. It travelled slowly, deliberately, from Timothy's eyes to his lips and back again, as if he were memorising every detail. There was heat in that gaze, unmistakable and unapologetic, and it made Timothy's skin prickle with awareness.
They turned again, and the Proprietor pulled him slightly closer. There was no need— they were already at an appropriate dance distance— but Timothy didn't protest. He wanted to be closer. Wanted to feel the warmth of him, the solid reality of him. For the first time in days, he felt anchored. Present. Alive.
The song built to its crescendo, the violins soaring, and the Proprietor spun him— actually spun him— and caught him effortlessly, one arm strong around his waist, the other still holding his hand. Timothy gasped, half in surprise and half in delight, and found himself looking up at the Proprietor from this new, breathless angle.
The song ended.
The final note hung in the air, shimmering and beautiful, and then faded into applause from the other dancers. But Timothy and the Proprietor didn't move. They stood there, frozen in the final pose of the dance, breathing heavily, lost in each other's eyes. The applause sounded far away, like it was happening in another world entirely.
Timothy became aware of his own heartbeat, hammering against his ribs. Of his breath, coming in short, shallow gasps. Of the Proprietor's chest rising and falling against his, equally affected. The man's grey eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and there was something in them that Timothy couldn't name— hunger, yes, but also wonder. As if he couldn't quite believe Timothy was real.
"Thank you for the dance," the Proprietor murmured, his voice thick, rougher than before. It was the voice of a man who had forgotten to maintain his charming and mysterious facade.
"Thank you for… for all of this," Timothy whispered back. His voice sounded strange to his own ears— breathless, vulnerable, raw. His eyes, of their own accord, dropped to the Proprietor's lips for a fraction of a second. He couldn't help it. They were right there, slightly parted, and he couldn't stop wondering what they would feel like against his own.
It was all the invitation the Proprietor needed.
In one fluid motion— faster than Timothy could follow— he tugged Timothy even closer, dipped him slightly, and kissed him.
The world stopped.
The Proprietor's lips were firm and warm and tasted faintly of cognac. The kiss was not gentle. It was not tentative. It was hard, demanding, and passionate from the very first moment of contact. It was a kiss that spoke of hunger and longing and a desperate need to connect— a kiss that had been building all night, all evening, perhaps from the very first moment the Proprietor had sat down beside him.
Timothy's mind went blank. Every thought, every fear, every carefully constructed wall— all of it dissolved in an instant. There was only sensation. The pressure of the Proprietor's mouth on his. The strength of the arm supporting his back, holding him in this ridiculous, romantic dip. The warmth of his body, pressed against Timothy's from chest to thigh.
After a second of stunned surprise— one heartbeat, two— Timothy melted into him.
His arms, which had been hanging limply at his sides, wound around the Proprietor's neck. His fingers threaded through that incredible white hair, finally giving in to the urge he'd been fighting all night. It was even softer than he'd imagined, silky and cool against his heated skin. He pulled the Proprietor closer, deeper into the kiss, and kissed him back with equal fervour.
The Proprietor made a sound low in his throat— surprise, satisfaction, need— and his arm tightened around Timothy's waist. The hand holding Timothy's released it, coming up instead to cup his jaw, tilting his head for better access. His thumb traced along Timothy's cheekbone, a surprisingly tender gesture that contrasted beautifully with the intensity of the kiss.
Timothy poured everything into that kiss. All his fear about Silas, all his confusion about Jan's demands, all his desperate need for escape from the nightmare his life had become. He kissed the Proprietor like he was drowning and this man was his source of air. He kissed him with abandon, with hunger, with a passion he hadn't known he possessed.
The Proprietor kissed him back just as fiercely. His tongue swept along the seam of Timothy's lips, asking silent permission, and Timothy granted it without hesitation. When their tongues met, Timothy actually moaned— a small, helpless sound that was swallowed by the Proprietor's mouth. The Proprietor's response was to pull him impossibly closer, deepening the kiss further.
Time lost all meaning. It could have been seconds or hours that they stood there, Timothy arched backward over the Proprietor's arm, wrapped in each other, oblivious to the world. The other dancers had returned to their seats. The quartet had moved on to a different song. None of it mattered. There was only this— only the heat of the Proprietor's mouth, the taste of him, the way his fingers trembled slightly against Timothy's jaw as if he, too, was overwhelmed.
The kiss evolved, shifted, changed. What started as desperate hunger softened into something deeper, more exploratory. The Proprietor's lips moved against Timothy's with deliberate slowness, learning the shape of him, the way he responded to pressure here, to a gentle bite there. He kissed the corner of Timothy's mouth, then his upper lip, then his lower, nibbling gently before soothing the small hurt with his tongue. Timothy's head spun.
When they finally broke apart— both gasping for air, both utterly undone— Timothy's head was spinning more than any drink could ever make it. His lips tingled, swollen and sensitive. His heart was hammering so hard he could feel it in his throat. His entire body felt alive, electric, as if the Proprietor's touch had awakened something that had been sleeping deep inside him.
He looked up at the Proprietor.
The man's usual smug smile was gone. Completely absent. In its place was an expression Timothy had never seen on him before— raw, undisguised wonder. His grey eyes were dark, nearly black, his pupils blown wide. His lips were reddened and slightly swollen, matching Timothy's own. The lock of white hair had fallen further across his forehead, and he made no move to fix it. He looked, Timothy thought dizzily, utterly and completely wrecked.
And Timothy had done that. The realisation sent a thrill through him.
"Well," the Proprietor breathed, his voice husky and low, a shadow of its usual smooth charm. "That was certainly worth the price of a drink."
Timothy could only stare, speechless. His lips formed words, but no sound came out. What could he possibly say? How could any words capture what had just passed between them?
The Proprietor's expression shifted slowly, the wonder fading into something warmer, more amused. His thumb traced along Timothy's cheek one more time, a gentle caress, before he slowly, reluctantly, pulled Timothy upright. His hands lingered on Timothy's waist, as if he wasn't quite ready to let go.
"I should probably let you breathe now," he murmured, though he made no move to step away.
"Probably," Timothy agreed, his voice a rasp. He cleared his throat, tried again. "Probably."
The Proprietor's smile widened, returning to something closer to his usual charm, though softer around the edges. "You're blushing, Timothy Von Kruger."
Timothy's hand flew to his cheek. It was burning. "I am not."
"Oh, you absolutely are." The Proprietor's eyes sparkled with delight. "It's charming. Everything about you is charming." He leaned in, close enough that his lips brushed Timothy's ear as he whispered, "I can't wait to do that again."
Timothy shivered, his eyes fluttering closed for just a moment. When he opened them, the Proprietor was watching him with that same intense, wondering gaze.
"I should take my leave now, lest I end up doing things much worse to you here in public. Goodnight, Timothy Von Kruger," the Proprietor said softly, his voice carrying a weight that made it feel like more than a simple farewell. He pressed a kiss to Timothy's temple— soft, tender, a stark contrast to the passionate kiss they'd just shared. "Sweet dreams— I know I'll be having some."
And then, with a final, lingering look, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the club car. His departure was quiet, dignified, but Timothy could have sworn he saw the Proprietor's hand come up to touch his own lips as he went.
Timothy stood alone on the edge of the dance floor, his lips tingling, his heart racing, his entire world turned upside down. He could still taste the Proprietor on his tongue. Could still feel the phantom pressure of his hands on his waist, his jaw, his back. Could still hear the echo of that husky, wrecked voice saying his name.
He didn't know how long he stood there. Long enough for the quartet to finish another song. Long enough for a waiter to ask if he needed anything. Long enough for the other passengers to filter out, one by one, until he was alone in the club car with nothing but the memory of the most extraordinary kiss of his life.
Finally, he moved. His legs felt unsteady, as if the ground beneath him had shifted. He walked back towards his cabin on autopilot, his mind replaying every moment of the night on an endless loop. The Proprietor's smile. His eyes. His hands. His mouth.
Timothy pressed his fingers to his own lips, still tingling, and smiled in the darkness of the corridor.
Whatever happened tomorrow— whatever Jan demanded, whatever Silas represented, whatever danger lurked in the shadows of this train— tonight had been his. And no one could take that away.