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Hello, You’ve Reached the Daily Road Editorial Office – Part 04

The Eastern European Neighborhood, East Village.

More stalls lined the sidewalks, and the air buzzed with the chatter of shoppers. Cars whizzed by recklessly. Hooves clopped. Children shrieked with excitement.

A police officer in an NYPD uniform riding a horse stopped in front of a tobacco shop. Without dismounting, he bought a pack of cigarettes and took something long and silver from the shopkeeper before trotting along. Another police horse parked on the street began moving as well.

The old man at the tobacco shop leaned out to look at the horse, or rather, the horse’s tail. There was a small, pale hand sticking out from a manhole, grabbing the long strands of hay tangled in it. The old man looked harder. Following the hand, a thin arm emerged, then a head with silver hair that gleamed golden in places under the light. The person wore an oriental outfit, a pink fabric wrapped around the body, secured with a light blue sash.

“Hey, there’s a girl being pulled by the horse!” shouted a milk delivery boy as he passed by. The old man at the tobacco shop rested his chin on his hand and began nodding off again.

Victorique climbed out of the manhole completely and let go of the hay.

The sunlight was blinding. People nearly stepped on Victorique, who lay sprawled face down. Some cursed, while others simply stepped over her and continued walking. Men with black hair, black eyes, and swarthy skin, and tall women with blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes.

In this town teeming with large, wild-looking Eastern European immigrants, Victorique, with her shimmering silver hair, stood out prominently, a fairy that had descended from the night sky.

Long ago, in the Eastern European countries of the Old World, Victorique’s ancestors, the Philosophers in Fur Coat and Silent Gray Wolves, were feared for their remarkable intellect and petite, beautiful appearance. Pushed deep into the forest, they established the medieval-like fortress of the Kingdom of Saillune. As centuries passed, they gradually faded into legend as the enigmatic people of the forest.

Even now, Victorique possessed a sinister beauty that instinctively made people uneasy. People subconsciously avoided her as they walked by. Only an old woman in an old-fashioned, southern-style brown dress observed from behind a stall. Her cloudy eyes widened.

Victorique snorted and lifted her head. Sitting on the street, she crossed her arms and said, “Well, even I must admit, I’m surprised by this situation.” She narrowed her eyes irritably. “Where on earth is Kujou?” she muttered, looking around.

Seeing no sign of Kazuya, her eyes widened in surprise. Then, sensing someone behind her, she turned around in relief. “Kujou? Where have you been?”

Neigh!

A horse’s head loomed close, its smelly breath brushing her cheek, its saliva or snot dripping onto her hair. Victorique’s emerald eyes glinted ominously. Her plump, cherry lips lost their color. Irritation spread across her face.

“Kujou, you… you worthless idiot!”

She took out a radio and grimly stroked a chipped part. “Unbelievably foolish. He was supposed to take me across the Brooklyn Bridge to a town with pink cakes. After all that big talk, he’s now lost. Pathetic attendant.”

She pressed the radio switch. A familiar DJ’s voice began echoing down the East Village main street.

“Hey hey, baby! Hello, New York!”

“Ugh, not that loud guy again,” she grumbled, turning off the radio.

She looked around. Residents rushed past. Surrounded by such unfamiliar scenes, she became bored and turned the switch back on.

“Baby, are you feeling good this morning?”

She immediately turned it off, but then turned it on again.

“Today’s top news is boxing! It’s the champion’s third defense match. The fight between the champ, the rich kid, William Trayton, and the rising southern boy, Eddie Sawyer!”

“Oh? Wasn’t that on the news from this morning’s paper?” Victorique folded her arms and nodded at the radio.

“They say there’s some kind of connection between the two from the war. Something bloody happened when they were in the same unit. I believe it’s called the Christmas Ceasefire Murder. An American soldier was shot by his own during a voluntary truce on Christmas Eve. But it got lost in the chaos of the war and remained unsolved.”

“Hmm…”

“But who knows if it’s true? War always comes with strange rumors. Personally, I think the champion, William Trayton, the handsome son of the former Brooklyn mayor, is smart and cool. But I’d like to see a wild new champion from the South.”

“Oh?”

“So, which side are you on? Still rooting for William Trayton, the champ? Or are you cheering for the southern challenger, Eddie Sawyer? Either way, tonight’s match has the young blood of New York all excited.”

“Well, I don’t really know much about what happened, but there are many unsolved cases from the chaos of war. Too many people, the cops are being cops, and gangs are running wild. We can’t worry about every little thing. We can’t solve every unsolved case from the past, and we don’t have the time to think about it. We’re busy living in this new world.”

The DJ’s tone suddenly dropped dramatically. “But folks, there’s a strange rumor about the challenger, Eddie Sawyer.”

The clopping of hooves came closer and then receded.

“Word has it he’s been missing since this morning. No one’s seen him. Did he chicken out and turn tail? Or did he piss off the mafia and got taken out? Just now, someone saw his manager, Mr. Mitchie, leaving an Italian mafia office. The challenger’s supporters are freaking out. Hey, Mitchie! Where’s your boy Eddie? Mafia? Care to comment? And he’s gone! Wow, he’s fast!”

Victorique stared at the radio intently, pipe in her mouth.

“Radio, radio,” she sang softly.

“This is getting weirder and weirder. Is the promising challenger really missing? We can’t take our eyes off tonight’s match!”

“Kujou gave it to me.” Bored, she turned off the radio. Silence fell abruptly. She looked around idly.

The neighborhood was noisy. People walked by, and carts lumbered past. Blond children ran around. Laundry flapped from windows, colorful goods filled the stalls, dust swirled in the air.

At the tobacco store, tall, blond men stopped, took small silver boxes hanging from strings under the eaves, did something with their hands, let go, then walked away. Victorique wondered what they were doing.

A breeze blew, making her conspicuous silver hair flutter magically. Her green eyes began to gleam dangerously. She looked around irritably.

“The New World is filled with unsolved cases. Too many people, too much cultural diversity, gangs running rampant. Life in this young country is so busy that intriguing cases go unsolved.”

Her hair spread like the thin wings of a giant butterfly.

“But why aren’t these cases solved? Maybe the cases themselves don’t want to be solved. Why is that?”

Victorique looked around.

A dark-haired, dark-skinned boy, around ten years old, helped his mother carry a box of fruit. He placed it on a stall, and his mother turned to commend him. A girl, presumably his sister, tried to help, bustling around. Nodding, the boy handed a small box to his sister and pointed to the stall. The sister carried it, receiving praise from their mother. The children frolicked around.

Victorique watched them intently, then nodded. She raised her shoulders, took on a haughty attitude, and began walking down the unfamiliar avenue. A delivery man was coming up behind her, and as she hurriedly moved aside, she nearly got run over by a bicycle. Yelled at from both sides, she jumped in genuine surprise. A gunshot rang out in the distance, and she crouched in fear.

The old woman in the southern-style brown dress watched. Her posture was good, but she leaned at an odd angle, like an old tree about to fall. A crescent brooch on her chest glinted sinisterly.

Pursing her lips, Victorique resumed walking, cautiously, like a chick stepping out of a cracked eggshell for the first time.

“The mysteries of this new world,” she muttered.

Just then, a loud hiss came from nearby. Victorique jumped in surprise. White smoke began to rise from a small chimney on a nearby stall. Hot air wafted towards her. The stall had “Poorboys” scrawled on it.

Victorique backed away quickly and hit her head hard on another stall, producing a loud thud. The blunder made her tear up. Her legs wobbled from the impact.

The old woman in the southern-style dress stepped forward and, for some reason, gave Victorique a firm push on the backside.

Victorique turned around and snapped, “What do you want, you creepy ghost? First, you peep into the hole, then you mime!”