The morning sunlight streamed through the leaves of the plane trees, dappling the living room on the second floor of the agency.
Vivian sat upright in a high-backed chair, her spine straight as a rod. In front of her was an exquisite Sèvres bone china tea set, which, according to rumors, Cicero had “acquired” from some noble—perhaps less than honestly.
“Relax, Vivian.”
She took a deep breath, trying to imitate the posture of those elegant ladies, curling her fingers delicately as she pinched the slender cup handle.
The movement should be gentle, her gaze dreamy, the corners of her mouth set in a smile.
“Graceful.”
Just as she summoned her poise and prepared to bring the cup to her lips—
Crack.
A crisp shattering sound rang out.
Vivian’s hand remained frozen mid-air in its elegant orchid-finger pose. But at her fingertips, all that remained was the lonely handle of the teacup.
The cup’s body dropped straight down. The scalding coffee traced a brown arc through the air and then—
Smack!
The cup crashed onto the tabletop, splattering coffee everywhere. Several droplets flew with pinpoint accuracy onto the face of the man reading the newspaper opposite her.
Time seemed to stop.
Cicero didn’t even blink. A bead of coffee slid slowly down his prominent nose, pausing at his lips, which were always pressed into a thin, sarcastic line.
He slowly, ever so slowly, lowered his copy of Le Figaro, revealing his eyes.
“Good morning, Boss.” Vivian still held the broken handle, forcing a smile more awkward than a sob.
“If I told you this cup bit me, would you believe it?”
Cicero said nothing. He simply, with utmost grace, produced a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed away the coffee stain on his nose.
“Sèvres Royal Porcelain Factory, crafted in 1775, ‘Madame de Pompadour’s Afternoon Tea’ series.”
His voice was as soft as reciting poetry.
“Market price: three hundred francs. Not counting the extra value from its historical provenance.”
“It’s… it’s so fragile!” Vivian tried to argue, but her voice grew smaller and smaller, “I really didn’t use any force! I just touched it as lightly as petting a kitten!”
“Really?” Cicero raised an eyebrow, his gaze settling on Vivian’s fingers. “Then your way of petting a kitten would drive the species extinct.”
Vivian lowered her head to look at her hand.
The porcelain handle lay quietly in her pale palm.
Something was wrong.
Something was very wrong.
Vivian’s heart skipped a beat. She quietly withdrew her hand beneath the table and clenched her fist hard beneath the cover of her skirt.
That feeling was back.
The same feeling she’d had when facing the Marie Antoinette doll, wielding a frying pan that weighed dozens of pounds and batting back the ball of steam and light.
She’d thought it was just an adrenaline rush, the surge of potential people get at the brink of life and death.
But now?
Vivian looked at her slender wrist, skin so fair and delicate it seemed boneless. Yet beneath this beautiful shell, there seemed to be an endless reservoir of strength.
“Have I… mutated?” Vivian screamed inwardly, horrified.
“Could it be, when I transmigrated, I was classified as an attack helicopter? But I’m just a Walmart shopping bag!”
Instinctively, she glanced up at Cicero.
The agency’s basement was stocked wall-to-wall with exorcism tools. From silver crucifixes to revolvers engraved with runes—he had it all.
If he found out his partner was actually a monster in human skin…
Images flashed through Vivian’s mind of herself bound to a cross, Cicero laughing maniacally as he read scripture and doused her with holy water.
No, he must never find out!
“Um…” Vivian quickly stuffed the porcelain remains into her pocket and tried to change the subject. “What does the newspaper say? Anything about our heroic deeds saving Paris?”
Cicero gave her a long look, but only snorted lightly and raised his newspaper again.
“There is a report about you,” Cicero said calmly.
“Really?” Vivian’s eyes lit up. “What’s the headline? ‘Paris’s Justice Superwoman, Rips Apart Modified Car with Bare Hands’?”
“‘Shocking! A Violent Maniac Appears in Place de la Concorde at Midnight!’”
Cicero intoned in a flat, unruffled voice.
“The subheading: ‘Is it a twist of human nature or a collapse of morals? A maiden in her prime attacks a national-level protected relic with a frying pan. According to eyewitnesses, the girl acted wildly, likely suffering from mania. Citizens are advised to immediately call the police if they encounter any suspicious woman wielding kitchenware.’”
“This is slander! He’s slandering me! This is an insult to my character!”
“And here.” Cicero ignored her protest and pointed to a corner of the newspaper.
“Regarding the public property damage that night, the city hall stated that although it was a ‘righteous act’, they reserve the right to pursue civil compensation against the person who destroyed the square’s tiles.”
He set down the newspaper, his eyes—half smiling, half not—fixing on Vivian.
“The ‘monster’ who stomped a pit in the square’s tiles, wouldn’t happen to be right in front of me, would she?”
Vivian’s bravado instantly deflated like a popped balloon.
“Uh… Maybe the tiles were just bad quality.” She shrank into her chair, hands neatly on her knees like a scolded schoolgirl.
“Shoddy construction, you know, the infrastructure of the Third Republic is a joke.”
Cicero sighed, took a sip from his surviving cup of coffee.
“Three hundred francs.”
“What?”
“For the cup. Your total debt now comes to three hundred seventy-five francs and sixty centimes.” Cicero pulled out a small notebook and jotted it down with practiced ease.
“I’d suggest you tie your hands together while in the office—or go buy yourself a straitjacket.”
“Are you the devil?!” Vivian wailed in poverty.
“I’m your creditor.” Cicero closed the notebook.
“And by the way, hiding the porcelain shards in your skirt pocket isn’t wise. Unless you want that already shabby skirt of yours to get torn.”
Vivian froze.
“I’m not hiding them!” Vivian pulled out the handle, forcing herself to keep up the lie, “I’m… I’m warming it with my body heat!”
“If you could fix porcelain with love, I could light up all Paris with love-generated electricity.” Cicero snorted.
He stood, walked to the window, and looked out at the bustling street below.
For all his sharp tongue, he didn’t ask further about Vivian’s unusual strength.
Having dealt with all sorts of unspeakable things for half his life, Cicero understood even better than Vivian what happened that night.
No human could go toe-to-toe with that steam core and live.
Cicero’s fingers idly caressed the ruby on his cane.
“As long as she’s still that greedy, reckless Vivian, that’s all that matters,” he thought to himself.
“Boss?”
Vivian’s voice interrupted his thoughts. She was crouched on the floor, trying to mop up the coffee stains on the table with a rag.
“What is it?”
“If…” Vivian hesitated, not looking up.
Cicero turned, sunlight outlining him in gold, making him look almost priestly for once.
Ding dong—!!!
The agency’s doorbell rang.
Accompanying it was an unpleasant metallic scraping sound.
“I’ll get it!” Vivian tossed aside the rag.
She rushed downstairs to answer the door.
A man stood outside.
He wore a black tailcoat, drenched in sweat. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, and he was trembling all over.
“You’re…” Vivian recognized the face.
It was the manager of the Paris Opera House—she’d seen him before at the “Guillotine Ball.” Back then he’d been a pompous fat man; now he looked like a deflated balloon.
“Is… is Mr. Cicero in?”
“He’s upstairs having tea. If you’re here with money, he’d probably teleport down like an Enderman.” Vivian stepped aside to let him in.
“Come in. I think you need a cup of tea first.”