At seventeen, Ambrose was no longer a wide-eyed boy.
He had learned the way of the world through ink-stained fingers and whispered promises.
He knew how to sweet-talk debt collectors, how to lie without speaking, and how to make men feel indebted without ever asking for anything.
It hadn't come naturally, not at first. The first time he was told to negotiate a debt, his voice had shaken. The first time a drunk patron grabbed his wrist, he had frozen. But fear was a luxury he couldn't afford, and Ambrose had learned quickly.
A well-placed smile, a soft-spoken threat wrapped in velvet, a ledger full of numbers that never quite added up. Those were his weapons.
But there was one thing he never let himself forget:
Seduction was a game, and he would never be the one to lose.
"Ambrose, you're too cold," purred one of the courtesans, draping herself across the desk where he was calculating the month's expenses. "Let me warm you up."
He didn't flinch. Didn't blush. Didn't react.
There was a time he might have, back when he still believed touch was intimate. That had been stripped from him long ago.
He merely glanced up, slow and unreadable, and replied,
"If you were as good at your job as I am at mine, Madame Sorella wouldn't be asking me why your client left early last night."
She had laughed, delighted, and patted his cheek. "Oh, you're dangerous."
Ambrose knew.
And so did everyone else.
. . .
By seventeen, he was richer than most men twice his age.
Not in wealth, but in knowledge.
He knew which nobles were bankrupt but still playing rich.
He knew which lords had skeletons hidden beneath silk sheets.
He knew which person were true to their vows and which whispered other people's names in the dark.
But most importantly, he knew that everything had a price.
"What do you want, Ambrose?" Madame Sorella had asked him once, watching him carefully. "Money? Power? A title?"
"I want nothing," he had replied. And it was true.
Because what he wanted had already been taken from him the night his home burned down.
What he wanted had already turned to ash.
But Madame Sorella only smiled at his answer, as if she knew something he didn't.
"Think deeply. Once you find what you truly want, come back to me."
Ambrose had left that night feeling... unsettled.
Isn't it best to want nothing?
If he desired nothing, then no one could control him.
If he chased after nothing, then nothing could be taken from him again.
And yet, his mentor had told him to want something.
For the first time in years, he found himself unsure.
. . .
Ambrose roamed the halls, weaving through dimly lit corridors and silk-draped chambers, searching for something he could not name. The rich perfume of incense and wine clung to the air, mixing with laughter, mocked secrets, whispered hopes, and the occasional sound of rustling sheets.
He watched the staff at work… maids hurrying past with trays, courtesans adjusting their jewelry before greeting their next guests, workers tending to the ever-turning machinery of the establishment. Everyone seemed to move with purpose, as if they already knew what they wanted.
He did not.
So he asked.
"What is it that you want?"
The answers varied.
"To live happily with the person I love."
"To leave this place someday."
"To never be hungry again."
"To be adored, if only for a little while."
Some laughed at his question. Others patted his head, amused.
"You'll understand in time," they said.
Ambrose wasn't sure if that was true. But he listened. And he thought.
The closest thing he could associate with wanting was Mr. Gloves.
That lingering presence, the lessons that sent heat curling through his spine, the way the man left him wanting. Never too much, never too little. Just enough to make him seek more.
But that wasn't quite right, either.
As he wandered, his thoughts drifted further, deeper. Back to a time before all of this.
His mother's hands smoothing his hair.
His father's quiet chuckle as he played with his younger brother.
Their home filled with warmth, laughter, and the simple joy of being together.
A family of four.
Now reduced to one.
And then, finally, he thought of the person responsible.
His chest ached. His breath hitched. Before he even realized it, tears streaked down his face.
He wanted them to feel it.
The devastation. The loneliness. The way the world could collapse in a single night and never return to how it was before.
He clenched his fists, his entire body trembling, as if the realization itself had shaken something loose inside him.
A hand touched his shoulder.
Madame Sorella stood beside him, her presence warm and grounding. Without a word, she pulled him into a loose embrace, letting him rest against her as his shoulders rose and fell with uneven breaths.
"I take it you already have the answer."
Ambrose nodded.
. . .
It hurt Madame Sorella to watch the boys and girls in her care suffer. Some came in already broken, their wounds invisible but deep, their eyes hollow. Others still had a flicker of light… fragile, but alive.
She had learned long ago that pain could not be erased, only endured. Time softened it, dulled its edges, and for some, even healed it.
But Ambrose...
Ambrose had too much potential to be wasted here.
He was sharp, perceptive. Too quick to learn, too quick to adapt. And yet, there was something in him that remained untouched, something that even this place had not managed to strip away.
It was dangerous.
This world would only teach him how to survive. Not how to live.
Madame Sorella had seen others like him before. Ones who never left because they had nowhere else to go. But this place was never meant to be a home. It was a passing stop, a bridge between what was lost and what lay ahead.
And like many others, Ambrose had to move on.
So she gave him a gentle nudge, pushing him toward something beyond these walls.
The boy had lost everything.
She could only hope that, someday, he would find something again.
. . .
When the time came for him to leave, there was no grand farewell.
Just a simple exchange of words.
"You've been a good investment," Madame Sorella said, handing him a final purse of coins.
Her gaze lingered, searching for something in his expression. "Try not to get yourself killed."
Ambrose accepted the weight in his palm. He smiled, but it never reached his eyes.
"No promises."
And with that, he stepped out of the place that had shaped him, stripped him bare, and rebuilt him piece by piece.
He had a purpose now.
A distant, untouchable thing. So out of reach, with no clear path to grasp it.
But he had time.
The world was filled with liars, while numbers never lied.
And he?
He would learn how to bend both to his will.
.
.
.
.