Story Reader / Floating Record / ER10 Deceivers' Rapture / Story
ER10-1 Croupier, Tailor, Assassin, Spy
>Las Prados
Within the Transatlantic Economic Community
December 24
04:30 p.m.
The layout here differs from other parts of Las Prados.
The low, antique row houses conceal their tranquility beneath dark stonework, like modest accents to the golden city beyond the horizon.
Swirling snowflakes weave together into a downy blanket, absorbing even the faintest sounds into pure whiteness.
The world here is suspended, dreamlike in its stillness.
The girl in the lavish gown gently pushes the door open, its hinges swing through an exaggerated arc.
Wind chimes tremble with a clear, crisp sound as the cold draft sweeps through the hall.
Oh, you're right. Sorry, I...
She spreads her fingers slightly and instinctively brings them to her lips, seemingly surprised by this small mishap.
She firmly grips the brass handle and pulls it inward, sealing in the room's warmth.
Welcome to Rosewater Tailor Shop.
There you are, Eleanor.
The meticulously groomed man offers a subtle bow, welcoming his visitor into his establishment.
Hello, Mister Shopkeeper. Please, there's no need for such formality...
I should be the one apologizing for disturbing you at this hour.
How could Eleanor's visit during our regular business hours be considered a disturbance?
Besides, creating custom tailored pieces for clients is my personal interest...
This must be another order for Madam Monzano, I presume. How is she doing? Is her business still thriving?
He seems to realize his small talk sounds somewhat stilted, prompting an awkward smile.
As you can see, making a living with needle and thread leaves me little opportunity to frequent entertainment venues.
The situation over there... I can only ever learn about it through my customers' conversations.
It's alright, this city wasn't built entirely for card games.
There will always be those like you, Mister Shopkeeper—people who take more pleasure in life's quiet routines than in chasing endless profit.
The girl steers their conversation with impeccable grace.
My aunt is doing well. You see, the order I've brought today is a gift she prepared for herself.
The man known as the shopkeeper maintains a relaxed expression, yet a barely perceptible flicker of unease passes through his eyes.
Oh? Let me guess...
A collar piece? A cloak? No... it must be a hat decoration, right?
The girl doesn't respond. Instead, she pulls a silk-bound parchment scroll from her handbag.
Though an outdated recording method, it hardly seems out of place in this shop that still uses carbon granule telephones.
When it comes to my aunt's tastes... Well, no one understands them quite like you.
She unrolls the scroll on the glass counter.
The sharp-looking middle-aged man adjusts his gold-rimmed glasses with a slight push of his knuckle as he reviews the items listed in the order.
8-inch crocheted lace handkerchief, feather accessories...
You're here at just the right time! A fresh batch of top-quality materials just arrived for early winter...
While conversing with his visitor, he searches through the cabinet for a wooden box containing feathers.
Then, he pulls out a narrow purple box, proudly displaying its contents to his visitor.
Sourced from blackbird habitats in the southern peninsula of Las Prados, these are nothing like the bionic feathers you see everywhere.
And even the goldfinch, which never visits this inland region even during migration... Our shop has managed to collect feathers from this rare creature as well.
Here you are. If you have any additional requirements, feel free to let me know.
The girl's gaze lingers on the blackbird feather, its silk-fine barbs clinging to a dark, blue-black shaft.
Even summer mosquitoes are extinct... Being able to collect bird feathers from the forest is a true luxury.
The girl's expression flickers with a subtle hint of surprise.
Everything that allows us to reach the stars comes from the Earth itself. Before we set foot among the cosmos, isn't preserving our homeland's treasures in our memories the best way to honor her?
He gently picks up the feather resting on velvet, examining it carefully for a moment.
...Look at me, going off on tangents again.
After carefully replacing the blackbird feather in its case, the shopkeeper—suddenly aware of his impropriety—redirects his attention to the girl.
I'll take this one. The style is the same as usual.
She quickly returns to her usual smile.
Great choice!
As for the matching lace fabric, let me get some samples from the storage room for you to choose.
Thank you.
Would you like something to drink? The weather has been terribly cold lately. I've prepared some black tea in the lounge area. Sugar cubes and maple syrup are on the table. Help yourself.
Following the shopkeeper's gaze, the girl notices a low tea table newly added to one side of the shop, with an elegant metal teapot that looks almost like a decorative display piece.
Mister Shopkeeper certainly thinks of everything. As I always say, everyone should frequent little shops like this more often.
Madre, "Zero Energy Cowboy", "Lucky 38"...
Forget tourists—even the locals spend all day in those colorful casino halls.
Hunger can be satisfied at all-you-can-eat buffets, of course, but none of those places have the hot drinks you prepare, Mister Shopkeeper.
She acts as though pleasantly surprised, shedding her reserve to lavish praise on the shopkeeper's kindness.
The girl declined his offer of tea, instead wandering around the shop examining everything.
Come to think of it... I hadn't noticed before that you installed a new workbench outside the counter, Mister Shopkeeper.
She takes her position at the angled wooden counter.
Some customers' requests require little effort—adjusting stitches, trimming fabric, or simply reattaching a cuff link.
At times like this, I work more like a street cobbler. I can solve your needs right here at the counter, and you can be on your way without wasting a moment.
The shopkeeper's enthusiasm fades slightly, and the girl keenly catches his brief but unnatural hesitation before he responds.
Speaking of time... I suppose you'll need to leave early for the evening banquet.
Just a moment, I'll go get the lace samples.
Clearly uninterested in further conversation, he turns toward the shop's storage room.
Click—
That's a sound he couldn't mistake. The flip-top workstation creaks open, resting lightly against the elegant wall decoration.
His nerve endings scream in alarm. The girl pulls out a pair of silver long-handled scissors from under the table, the sharp blades slicing through the air. His ears catch the heavy, muffled thud that follows.
You—ugh!
Then comes the dull pain, spreading through the body like ink dripping into blood vessels.
But foam already bubbles in the shopkeeper's throat, drowning his vocal cords in the dark red liquid gushing forth.
Shh—Mister Agent from Pollard, at least your disguise was convincing.
Embroidery scissors, long-handled shears, buttonhole cutters, serrated scissors...
You went through all that trouble collecting such fine tools—never imagined they'd be used like this, did you?
Ugh—cough cough cough...
Hot, wet liquid stains the double-breasted vest crimson, while the black suit jacket has fallen to the floor during his struggle.
His tensed, blood-filled muscles stretch the fabric of his shirt, revealing a robust physique that contradicts his craftsman persona.
These scissors entered through your right costal arch. By all accounts, they should have only pierced your spleen...
But thanks to the blade's length, that heart in your chest also gets to experience its sharpness.
A sound like crushed grapes escapes from the shopkeeper's mouth, the flowing liquid resembling nectar brewed deep in his trachea.
Oh my, can't speak anymore? Seems I accidentally pierced your lungs as well.
So filthy, how undignified! Even my clothes are...
Well-trained instincts finally override his shock. The shop owner steadies himself, veins bulging as his hands lunge toward the small figure in the lavish dress before him.
Trying to get my dress dirty too? Don't be so stingy now.
The girl nimbly dodges to one side, letting the dying man's final struggle waste away in meaningless momentum.
His limbs still twitch, but the body lying on the peach wood floor no longer contains life.
What a bother. More physical labor for me now.
She holds the shopkeeper's hands, feeling rough calluses between his thumbs and index fingers—hardened skin formed from years of handling firearms.
Then, she skillfully drags the corpse to the storage room behind the counter. That cramped, lightless space contains all the shopkeeper's secrets, but the assassin no longer needs to verify them one by one.
Huff...
The girl raises her right index finger, using her nail to trace an incomplete arc and a cross in the darkness.
She leaves the room, gently locking the door behind her.
Oh dear... how did I still get my sleeve stained with filth...
Her voice carries nothing but surprise and regret.
The crimson stains, now drying between folds of dark purple fabric, become impossible to discern.
The arterial blood spatter is surprisingly neat. The girl quickly cleans the floor with hydrogen peroxide wipes from her handbag. Moments later, it's as if nothing ever happened in the shop.
After confirming everything has been taken care of, the girl returns to the main shop from the hidden room.
Mister Shopkeeper, Mister Shopkeeper?
Mr. Rosewater?
The girl stands between the workbench and display case, tilting her head as she softly calls out the shopkeeper's name.
The echo chamber of metal and pure wood remains utterly silent.
How thoughtless of me—expecting a shop to be open on Christmas Eve.
Then I should... Ah, I almost forgot.
She examines the treasure on the counter, noticing faint crimson streaks running through the black feathers.
Not that Aunt would mind—after all, a blackbird's true colors are black and red.
Besides, she'll also bring back the classified dossier from the workstation as a gift for Aunt, won't she?
I'll take the sample. As for the lace, we'll discuss that later.
The girl slips the purple slender box into her handbag, then lifts her gaze toward the street beyond the display window.
Snow conceals the true color of the row of low buildings, and she knows that beyond the horizon, the city center presents an entirely different scene.
The falling snow traces delicate diagonal lines, like celestial ladders inviting people into a world of pure white.
(Under Babylonia's dome... I might see living birds again.)
(At least, that's what Aunt promised.)
She gently strokes the curtains, causing the tassels to scrape against the glass with a delicate tinkling sound.
Then, the girl leaves the shop.
Turning past the alley by the tailor shop, the street scene suddenly opens up. The falling snow has ceased.
Stylish decorations and signs adorned the buildings, yet the scattered pedestrians refused to linger and admire them. They are eager to return to the warmth indoors, to enjoy their feast of turkey and eggnog.
Some, however, appear to be in rather... undue haste.
A figure collides with her head-on, nearly sending the girl tumbling to the ground.
The package in the newcomer's hands falls onto the street.
S-sorry.
I should be the one apologizing. I was completely distracted while walking.
Lowering herself into a poised crouch, she gathers the leather folio from the floor.
Her peripheral vision catches the gold-stamped pattern on the package:
Your things. Are you hurt?
No. Thanks.
She swiftly accepts the offered package with a curt word of thanks.
Merry Christmas.
Huh? Oh, Merry Christmas Eve.
Even as she acknowledges the courtesy, the stranger remains shrouded beneath her hood, her face unreadable in the dim light.
Their intersecting paths diverge once more, their footprints forming two parallel lines in the snow.
Huh... my dress got wet after all.
The girl notices traces of melted snowflakes on the hem of her skirt and mutters a complaint to herself.
