The Obsessive Male Lead Is Actually Scary
Chapter 28: Whispers from the Empire

Chapter 28: Whispers from the Empire

Something shattered inside me.

’They’re using children like tools. Lying to them. Hurting them. And they don’t even flinch...’

Alessio leaned close, speaking just above a whisper.

"We’ve seen enough. Let’s move."

We slipped back the way we came, crouching low until we were out of earshot. Once we rounded the corner of the alley and ducked behind another set of crates, Alessio pulled the pendant out again.

"Caleb, you’ll want to hear this. Belmont’s at the center of it. The warehouse is the transfer point—for whatever they’re smuggling. It’s tied to the black market network banned under imperial law."

A beat.

"We’ll need to intercept the auction route. Get the imperial records on Count Belmont’s recent activities. Find out which of his holdings are tied to House Wittelsbach."

A pause, then Caleb’s voice answered, crisp and low.

"Understood. I’ll reach out to our intel and get things moving on our end."

Alessio tapped the pendant once, and the glow faded.

"You okay?"

I nodded stiffly.

"Now," I said, my voice harder than I expected it to be, "let’s make a plan to rescue that boy and his sister first."

* * *

Mateo ran like wind through the city.

His steps were light, fast—barely brushing the cobblestones as he darted through narrow alleys, under hanging laundry, and past stunned bystanders who barely caught a glimpse of his figure before he disappeared into the next shadow.

With Khan’s connections to the local intelligence guild, Mateo had secured fresh leads. Now, he moved alone.

His target was clear: the boy’s younger sister, last spotted in one of the southern quarters near the slums. The guild had narrowed her likely location down to a rundown building often shared by dock workers and widowed seamstresses—poor, overcrowded, and largely ignored by authorities. It was exactly the sort of place a sick child could vanish without notice.

He slowed only when he reached the street. The building was old, its timbers bowed with age, the roof patched with mismatched tiles. The windows were covered in cloth instead of glass, and the wooden door looked ready to fall off its hinges.

Mateo pushed the door open. It creaked softly, the hinges moaning in protest.

Inside, the room was dim and humid. A single cot lay tucked in the far corner, its straw mattress thinning and its linens patched in mismatched scraps. The floor was bare, the walls cracked. Dust floated in beams of late sunlight that filtered through the cloth-covered windows. It smelled of damp wood, stale herbs, and something metallic—faint, but unmistakable.

Lying on the cot, gasping for breath, was a little girl.

Her skin was pale, and her lips had lost their color. Sweat glistened on her brow. Her small frame trembled with every shallow inhale, as if each breath was a battle.

Mateo stepped forward quietly.

The girl stirred. Her head turned toward the creaking floorboard.

"Who... are you, Mister?" she whispered, her voice so faint it barely carried across the room.

Mateo paused for a moment, his expression unreadable.

"No need to get your guard up. I’m here under orders to save you."

The girl blinked slowly. "Save... me? D-did my brother... send you?"

There was a pause. Mateo’s eyes softened just slightly.

"Yes. He did. Now, may I carry you? We have to move quickly before the bad people come."

The girl gave the smallest nod.

Without another word, Mateo bent down and gently gathered her into his arms. She was so light it startled him—a brittle weight, more air than flesh. He secured his cloak around her, and then, like a whisper through the wind, he vanished.

By the time the door creaked again, it wasn’t Mateo returning. It was the sound of heavy boots thudding against the wood.

A group of men burst into the room.

"Get the girl—!"

But they stopped short.

The room was empty.

"Where did she go?!" one of them snarled.

"Search the area! Now!"

They fanned out in every direction, kicking over crates, yanking open cupboard doors, even checking beneath the cot. But there was nothing. No sign of the girl. Nothing to suggest how she’d vanished.

It was as if she’s disappeared into thin air.

* * *

Elsewhere, far from the panic they’d left behind, Mateo arrived at the inn where Alessio and Sonia were staying. A room was already prepared for the girl. Sonia had suspected it was owned by Alessio—and the waiting arrangements all but confirmed it.

Khan was waiting inside.

The moment the door opened, he stepped forward. His expression, usually relaxed with a hint of teasing amusement, had hardened into something grim.

"Lay her down on the bed," Khan instructed, gesturing to the cot in the corner.

Mateo did as told, placing the girl down as gently as he could. Her breaths were still shallow, her forehead damp with sweat.

"I’ll go fetch a doctor—" Mateo started, already turning toward the door.

"That won’t be necessary," Khan said, cutting him off. "His Highness already informed me that she’s ill. I summoned the doctor the moment you left. He’s on his way."

Mateo paused, then nodded. "I see."

The girl’s condition was worsening. Her skin was ghostly pale, and she trembled beneath the covers even though the room was warm. Her breathing was uneven—sometimes gasping, sometimes fading into frightening stillness before jerking back to life.

Khan crouched beside the bed, brushing damp hair from her forehead with surprising gentleness.

"Just hold on, little one," he murmured.

Moments later, there was a knock at the door.

The doctor entered without waiting for an invitation—a man in his fifties with tired eyes and a heavy leather bag in one hand. He moved quickly to the bed and opened it, revealing rows of glass vials, wrapped bundles of herbs, and a slender wooden tube—his crude but reliable tool for listening to a patient’s chest.

He examined her carefully—checking her pulse, peering into her eyes, feeling the clammy heat on her skin. Then he straightened, rubbing his jaw with a troubled look.

"How is she?" Khan asked immediately. "What illness is it?"

The doctor sighed.

"It’s feverflux—a lung condition common among malnourished children living in damp areas. Her breathing’s shallow because fluid’s built up in her lungs again. She must’ve been in the middle of a flare for days now."

"Is there a cure?" Mateo asked sharply.

"Yes. But she needs to be treated immediately." The doctor began pulling supplies from his bag. "I’ve brought what I could—tinctures, herbs, and tools to ease the worst of it. She’ll need warmth, clean air, and steady watching. If she makes it through the night, I’ll bring more by morning."

"Then do whatever it takes," Khan said. "We’ll pay you whatever you ask. Just keep her alive."

The doctor nodded and got to work.

As he began grinding herbs and boiling a tincture over a small flame from the fireplace, both men stood back, watching in silence.

Neither spoke.

But the worry in their eyes said enough.