The Frost on Hudson's Heart
The day was as gray and cold as Hudson's mood—if not more so. The city, its streets choked with rush-hour traffic, seemed to mirror his own impatience and bitterness. In his towering presence, the frost of indifference clung, settling over him like a cloak of ice. His every step seemed to crush the very air beneath him, and the shadows followed, darkening his wake.
Baiyi was quick to tease, his words sharp but his tone light, like a needle pricking at Hudson's impenetrable exterior. "Find yourself a woman, Hudson," he said, a mockery in his voice. "Lest that testosterone of yours transform you into the very beast you play at being."
Hudson's response was a single crack of his knuckles—a small, almost imperceptible gesture that spoke volumes about his unbothered, calculated demeanor. "Is that an instruction, Baiyi?" The words came slowly, each syllable as cold and deliberate as the last.
But Baiyi dared not meet that icy gaze. Instead, his smile broadened, a quiet amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. The mere idea of Hudson, with all his ferocity, needing something as fragile as human affection, was laughable.
They walked through the cavernous halls of his lair, a place filled with weapons and contraband. A den of power, where the air was thick with the smell of gunpowder and the hum of carefully orchestrated plans. Hudson's mind, always sharp and calculating, was already five steps ahead of everyone.
Yet, as they passed, a woman—no, a girl—caught his attention. She was curled into a ball by the street corner, her breath visible in the December air, each exhale a wisp of frozen desperation. Emilia. Her small body trembled, not just from the cold, but from hunger—an ache so deep it consumed her every thought.
Her gaze met Hudson's, but there was no fear in her eyes, only a desperate need. With trembling hands, she reached forward, clutching at his leg as though it were the last lifeline in a world she had long since stopped believing in.
Baiyi, ever the observer, couldn't contain a laugh. He had seen many things in his years with Hudson, but this—this was almost absurd. The great Hudson, feared across continents, brought to a halt by a scrappy, half-starved girl.
"She's bold," Baiyi chuckled. "But I wonder if she knows what she's gotten herself into." His voice carried the amused edge of someone watching a spectacle unfold.
Hudson's brow furrowed, his cold, calculating eyes narrowing at the girl clinging to him. There was a fire in her eyes, but no fear. Just hunger. She muttered in a raspy voice, "I'm starving. Please, just food."
Something twisted in his gut, but it wasn't pity—it was something more dangerous. Annoyance, perhaps. But also something else, something he didn't quite recognize.
She looked so small, so fragile, like a bird that had lost its way in the storm. She should have feared him. She should have trembled before the monster he was supposed to be. Yet there she was, demanding his attention like a child asking for candy.
"Do you know who I am?" Hudson's voice was low, a growl barely contained. His massive frame loomed over her, yet she stood her ground, her hands still clutching his leg.
Emilia, despite the panic seizing her chest, couldn't bring herself to look away. "I just need to eat," she whispered again, her voice breaking on the words. She felt the world around her tilt, her vision darkening, but she couldn't fall—not yet.
Hudson stood there for a long moment, his eyes cold and distant. His body, built like an iron pillar, was locked in place, yet the faintest flicker of hesitation crossed his mind. But only for a moment. His anger flared again, hotter than before, and he grabbed her roughly by the arm.
"Do you know what you're asking for?" His words were a thunderclap, and the crowd around them instinctively took a step back. The street was eerily silent, save for the sharp gasp of those who had witnessed the exchange. They knew better than to stay close to the storm that was Hudson.
Emilia, weak and barely able to keep her feet beneath her, was lifted into the air by his iron grip. The world spun as she tried to keep her bearings, but the hunger, the cold, the pain—it was all too much. Her stomach twisted violently, protesting the emptiness inside.
With a force that seemed to come from nowhere, she vomited—pale bile and bitter acid splashing across his clothing. The onlookers recoiled, horrified by the sight. But Hudson, for the first time, hesitated.
His chest heaved with a deep, violent breath as his mind raced, struggling to process the absurdity of it all. How could she...
Her frail form dangled helplessly in his grasp, her eyes fluttering shut, but not before a look of defiance flashed across her face. Hudson's eyes locked onto hers. She wasn't afraid.
Not of him. Not of anyone.
And for some strange, unsettling reason, that stilled him.
"You're not dead yet?" Hudson's voice was sharp, cutting through the fog of his frustration. He clenched his jaw, trying to suppress the inexplicable irritation that gnawed at him.
But when he looked at her again, her eyes were half-lidded, her body limp. He could feel her slipping away, her life force waning.
Hudson did not know why, but he moved. With a sudden motion, he turned and began walking, heading in the opposite direction—away from the ice of the street, away from the crowd, and towards something he couldn't yet name.
Baiyi, watching from a distance, narrowed his eyes. "Hudson," he murmured, "You really are a mystery."
And with that, Hudson, with the girl in his arms, disappeared into the night, leaving behind a trail of unanswered questions and unspoken thoughts.
In the distance, the lights of the city blinked like stars in a dark, indifferent sky.
The Beast's Lair and the Unlikely Guest
It was an odd thing, a puzzle that Hudson couldn't quite crack, like a puzzle box that refused to yield its secrets no matter how hard you twisted and turned. He was a man who lived by simple, brutal rules—control, power, and indifference. Yet here he was, standing in the cold, pristine marble floors of his lair, holding a child in his arms as if he were some errant knight on a fool's errand.
What madness was this? Surely, it must have been the wine, he thought. The rich, intoxicating elixir from his cellar—those deep, red wines that could make even a man like him feel the stirrings of something he hadn't known for years. But no. He had drunk far less than usual tonight—only seven hundred milliliters of the finest brew. Hardly enough to cloud his mind. Yet, here she was, this small, trembling creature, cradled in his grip.
Hudson was not a man prone to sentimental fits, nor was he one to be moved by the suffering of others. But somehow, in that fleeting moment, his hands had not pushed her away. They had instead, foolishly, drawn her closer. Why?
The cold of the city had seeped into her skin, leaving her frail body shivering uncontrollably, her breaths shallow as she fought against the depths of her exhaustion. The terror from earlier—the fright from their strange encounter in the streets—had pushed her to the very edge. It was only the instinct to survive that kept her from collapsing completely.
Peter, the Twelve Eagles' finest physician, had moved with swift precision, administering injections, his hands steady as ever. "Hudson," he had said, his voice steady, "she is suffering from hunger, cold, and shock. It's a miracle she's even conscious."
Hudson had listened absently, his eyes never leaving the girl, still wondering what on earth had possessed him to bring her back. He barely noticed Peter's retreat, the man leaving with a swift, efficient nod, only to be replaced by Jason, his ever-vigilant subordinate. Jason's eyes flickered nervously as he leaned in, lowering his voice.
"Hudson," he began, a trace of concern creeping into his words, "this girl... her background is unknown. She could be from an enemy faction, trying to deceive us... I fear she's a pawn in some larger game."
Hudson didn't even flinch. The faintest trace of amusement passed across his features as he took another sip of his wine. "Worried that she's using some... charm against me?" His voice was dry, almost sarcastic, yet there was an unsettling undertone to it.
Jason's heart skipped a beat, and the words tumbled out in a hurried apology. "Forgive me, Hudson. I misspoke. I—"
Hudson's cold gaze silenced him instantly, his voice as hard as the stone beneath their feet. "Then go find out who she is. Her origins. Every little detail, Jason. And make it quick."
Jason scrambled, his mind already racing through the possibilities. The girl was nothing but a stranger—a shadow in the dark—but in Hudson's world, even shadows could be deadly. "Yes, sir," he muttered, backing away, still unsure whether his feet were moving fast enough to escape the weight of Hudson's stare. But before he could leave, his voice faltered, hesitant. "Or... perhaps she should stay in the twenty-eighth floor for now? It's safer there, given... your reputation."
Hudson's lips curved ever so slightly, the slightest mockery in his expression. "You have until the effects of her sedatives wear off to report back to me. After that... she'll either be useful, or not."
Jason's face paled as he realized the cruel time frame given. A few hours. That was all he had to gather answers. He wasn't sure if he could even find her name in time, let alone uncover her past. He glanced at the child in Hudson's arms, her body limp and fragile, her life hanging by the thinnest of threads. He imagined the wolves of the world circling, ready to tear the unknown girl apart—and the chilling thought made his legs tremble.
He turned and fled, his footsteps echoing down the hallway, every footfall a reminder of the danger that lingered, both for the girl and for himself.
Hudson remained still, his eyes fixed on the child. The room around him felt colder than the winter streets outside, and yet, it wasn't the temperature that made him uneasy. It was the silence. The strange, uncomfortable stillness in the air that followed the girl's fragile breathing. The softness of her presence in his arms felt like an intrusion in the iron-clad fortress of his heart.
He looked at her—this girl who had dared to cling to his leg, whose gaze had burned with a quiet defiance he could neither dismiss nor ignore. He had thrown her into a place where nothing mattered, where only strength survived. And yet, here she was, lying at his mercy. A child who should have been crushed beneath the weight of her circumstances, but who instead... survived.
Was it pity that moved him? Was it something worse? Hudson, the man who had crushed empires, who had torn down the very foundations of order and law, now found himself standing before this fragile, silent creature, uncertain. For the first time in years, he questioned his own motivations.
But that would not do. He was Hudson. He did not ask questions. He only acted.
"Let's see what happens next," he muttered under his breath, the words a promise as cold and final as the winter wind that whipped through the streets of the city far below.
And so, the Beast's lair was silent again, its only occupant a child who had been dropped into a world she could neither understand nor escape from.