His mind raced as he was led down a narrow hallway toward a separate room meant for chauffeurs and other staff. The contrast between the splendor of the mansion's main hall and the plainness of this corridor felt jarring, pulling Beom out of the surreal dream and into a much harsher reality. I'm stuck here, playing the part of a servant, while he's out there… living it up like he owns the place.
The narrow, dimly lit room reserved for staff felt like a different world compared to the glittering grandeur of the main hall. Beom stood there awkwardly, watching as other staff members busied themselves, adjusting their uniforms, and readying trays to serve the illustrious guests. The air was thick with the scent of starch and detergent, a stark contrast to the perfumes and polished wood of the mansion. Beom's heart pounded in his chest as he realized he needed to get out of this room immediately. There was no way he could be stuck here, playing the role of a nameless servant all night.
His feet shifted toward the door, but before he could make his escape, the same man who had dragged him here stepped into his path, his sharp gaze catching Beom like a spotlight.
"Where are you going?" the man asked, his tone laced with suspicion.
Beom froze for a moment, his mind racing for a plausible excuse. He forced his voice to remain calm, despite the panic surging beneath the surface.
"I was looking for the washroom," he said, keeping his expression as neutral as possible.
The man stared at him, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he didn't quite believe him. Beom held his breath, hoping he wouldn't press further.
Finally, the man relented with a curt nod. "Follow me," he said, turning and walking down a corridor.
Beom followed closely, his eyes darting around, scanning for an opportunity. I have to act fast. If this guy keeps hovering, I'll never get the chance to slip away, he thought, his nerves tingling with anticipation. The hallway felt oppressively quiet, the muffled sounds of the party in the distance serving as a reminder of the stark divide between his current predicament and the opulent world he needed to infiltrate.
As they reached a secluded area near the bathrooms, Beom muttered under his breath, "You have worked enough."
"Huh? What did you sa—ugh!"
The man's words were cut off as Beom struck with a precise blow, knocking him out cold before he could react. Beom's heart thudded as he quickly dragged the unconscious man into the bathroom, his mind racing. I didn't want it to come to this, but I didn't have a choice, he thought, justifying his actions as he leaned the man's limp form against the wall.
He wasted no time stripping the man of his uniform. The crisp white shirt, black vest, and matching pants were a perfect fit, almost as if they were made for him. Beom adjusted the bow tie, straightening it with steady hands as he caught his reflection in the mirror. The uniform transformed him, making him look the part of a waiter at this grand event.
This is better, he thought, running a hand through his hair to smooth it out. No one will suspect me like this. Now, I just have to blend in and find Sasha. He better have a damn good plan because I'm not doing this for nothing.
Before leaving, he checked the unconscious man one last time, ensuring he was safely hidden behind a locked stall. The weight of the situation pressed down on him, but Beom pushed it aside, focusing on the task at hand.
I didn't come this far to mess up now. If Sasha can waltz around like he owns the place, then so can I, he thought, determination hardening his features. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out of the bathroom and into the chaos of the mansion, ready to play his role.
The tray of wine glasses felt heavier than it actually was, but Beom-ki held it steadily, his hand gripping the edge tightly. The head chef had barely looked at him before shoving the tray into his hands, barking an order as if he'd been waiting tables his whole life. Beom-ki didn't argue; instead, he took the tray silently and made his way toward the grand hall, his steps measured and cautious.
As he crossed the threshold, the full splendor of the Vyshnevsky mansion's ballroom unfolded before him. Towering crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow across the room, their light reflected in the polished marble floors and gilded mirrors that lined the walls. The murmur of polite conversation mingled with the soft strains of live classical music, played by an ensemble tucked away in the corner. Beom-ki couldn't help but be momentarily awestruck. This was the kind of wealth and luxury he'd only seen in movies.
He walked through the crowd, holding the tray of wine glasses high to avoid bumping into anyone. The attendees were a sea of opulence, dressed in designer suits and extravagant gowns adorned with sparkling jewels. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and cologne, a reminder of the gap between their world and his.
Nothing familiar...just a group of people basking in their own wealth and power, Beom thought, his eyes darting from face to face as he weaved through the crowd. He couldn't shake the feeling of being an outsider, an intruder in a place where he didn't belong.
How the hell am I supposed to gather any information in this circus? he thought bitterly. He passed by a cluster of men in tailored suits, their laughter loud and boisterous, though their words were impossible to make out over the music.
Then, his gaze froze on a figure standing near the center of the room. A tall man with a commanding presence, dressed in a resplendent military uniform adorned with medals and ribbons, was surrounded by a small entourage. His silver hair gleamed under the light, and his piercing gaze swept across the room with the quiet authority of someone who owned everything within it.
"Aleksei II Alexandrovich Romanov...the emperor," Beom thought, his grip on the tray tightening slightly. He'd heard stories about this man—the sovereign ruler of the royal family, a symbol of both power and intimidation. Seeing him in person was a different experience altogether.
Beom-ki's heart thudded as he quickly looked away, not wanting to draw attention to himself. What is an emperor doing here? This family must have some serious ties if they can get someone like him to show up at their party.
He continued scanning the crowd, his eyes landing on another notable figure—a shorter, stocky man with a sharp, calculating expression. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back, and his tailored suit was simple yet exuded wealth.
"Vladimir Vasilyevich...the vice president," Beom muttered under his breath, keeping his head low.
The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. All these big men here... Ministers, royalty, political leaders... What the hell is this party really about? This isn't just some fancy ball. There's something else going on here.
He moved carefully, his eyes darting around for Sasha, but the other man was nowhere to be seen. Typical. He gets to schmooze while I'm stuck playing waiter.
As Beom-ki balanced the tray of wine glasses with practiced care, his attention was drawn to a hand suddenly reaching out and plucking a glass from the assortment. His reflexes kicked in, his fingers twitching slightly, ready to steady the tray if needed. His gaze shifted upward, only to meet Sasha's smirking face. The man looked annoyingly composed, as if he belonged in this lavish environment, while Beom still felt like an imposter in his borrowed attire.
"You look good in that attire," Sasha commented, his tone casual yet laced with his usual teasing. His eyes roamed over Beom for a brief moment before he took a sip of his wine. "This place is really crowded with big men. Not expecting that, though," he added, scanning the room with a lazy confidence.
Beom bit back a retort, deciding it was better to focus on the task at hand than to engage Sasha in yet another one of his games. He glanced around the room, his sharp eyes picking out details—the glittering chandeliers, the elegant tapestries, and the air of wealth that clung to every corner of the Vyshnevsky mansion. The opulence was overwhelming, but Beom forced himself to concentrate. I'm not here to admire the décor. I have a job to do.
"The man chatting with the Emperor," Sasha began, his voice breaking Beom's train of thought. He tilted his head subtly toward a cluster of distinguished guests. "That's Vanya Vyshnevsky."
Beom followed Sasha's gaze to a well-dressed man standing close to Aleksei II Alexandrovich Romanov, the Emperor of the royal family. Vanya's posture was almost subservient, his every movement calculated, as if he were afraid to make the wrong impression. He nodded at intervals, his lips curved in a polite smile, but there was something hollow about his demeanor.
"You remember what Merlin said about him, don't you?" Sasha continued, his tone light but meaningful. "He's pretty close to his father. They call him 'Daddy's Puppet.' He does whatever Mikhail tells him to do."
Beom studied Vanya closely, his thoughts swirling. So, that's the puppet. Merlin wasn't exaggerating. If he's as devoted to his father as they say, he could be the key to everything. But getting close to someone like him... that's no small feat. The man looked like he lived and breathed under his father's shadow, a mere extension of Mikhail Vyshnevsky's will. Beom's stomach twisted uneasily. How do you even approach someone like that without setting off alarms?
"Yes, I remember," Beom replied softly, his voice low.
Sasha took another sip of his wine, his sharp eyes scanning the room like a predator surveying its territory. "The man who just entered…" he began, his tone shifting to something more serious. Beom glanced toward the grand entrance, his curiosity piqued.
A tall man with a commanding presence strode into the hall, immediately drawing attention. His dark hair was slicked back, and he wore a tailored black suit that emphasized his broad shoulders. But what truly stood out was the black patch covering his left eye. The man exuded an air of danger, the kind that made people instinctively step aside as he passed.
"That's Paul Petrovich," Sasha said, his voice low but filled with a peculiar intensity. "A patched-eye man. One of Mikhail's closest associates. He's practically his right-hand man."