The Grand Azathoth Hotel - Chapter 21

Chapter 21

Issei Hyoudou walked with measured steps, his arms carefully balanced as he carried the heavy grocery bags for the elderly woman beside him. The weight was nothing—what mattered was the gesture. A gentleman did not merely help for the sake of being helpful. He did so with grace. With dignity.

The old woman smiled up at him, her silver hair peeking out from under her hat. “Oh, such a well-mannered young man! You remind me of my late husband—he was a true gentleman, too.”

Issei chuckled, adjusting his grip on the bags. “It is the duty of a gentleman to assist those in need, madam.”

They reached the crosswalk, and he took extra care to make sure she stepped onto the street safely. The traffic had already stopped, but he still glanced in both directions—vigilance was another trait of a refined man. When they reached the other side, he bowed slightly, placing the groceries into her waiting arms.

And then—he stopped.

Something was wrong.

A scent drifted through the air, subtle but unmistakable. Blood.

He inhaled deeply, filtering through the layers of city smells. Rust. Decay. The coppery tang of something fresh. His posture stiffened, but only for a moment. Then, he turned back to the elderly woman, bowing lower than before.

“My sincerest apologies,” he said, voice steady, “but I must take my leave. It is unbecoming of a gentleman to rush away after assisting a lady, but I have an urgent matter to attend to.”

The woman blinked, then chuckled, reaching up to pat his head. “You’ve already done so much, young man. A true gentleman, indeed! Your mother must be proud.”

Issei smiled softly, bowing once more. “I pray that she is.”

Then, with a final nod, he turned on his heel and strode away, following the scent of death, and he arrived to a warehouse. The abandoned building stood in eerie silence, its rusted metal walls stained with time and neglect. The sliding doors were left ajar, revealing only darkness beyond. But Issei didn’t hesitate. A gentleman never hesitated in the face of duty.

He stepped inside, his shoes clicking against the cold concrete floor. The scent was stronger here, thick and oppressive. And then—he saw her.

A woman with flawless, pale skin lounged over a torn-apart corpse, the last scraps of flesh disappearing between her lips. Her voluptuous figure was barely covered, her chest wrapped in a strap of black fabric that did more to emphasize than conceal. Her short white hair framed a delicate yet wickedly amused face, her gray eyes gleaming with dark hunger. Her lower body, however, was monstrous. A grotesque fusion of woman and beast. Gigantic legs, clawed and powerful, twitched lazily as she turned to face him. A long snake-like tail curled behind her, flicking in idle amusement.

“Well, well,” Viser purred, licking a drop of blood from her lips. “What a delightful snack has come to me on its own. How thoughtful.”

Issei adjusted his cuffs. “A gentleman does not leave filth unattended.”

She blinked. “Oh?”

“Your appearance is disgraceful.” He swept his gaze over her. “Half-dressed. Blood dripping from your mouth. Your posture—slovenly. No refinement, no dignity.” His expression darkened. “And devouring a person? Truly abhorrent.”

Viser laughed, tilting her head. “Oh, but I am a woman,” she said, trailing a claw along her bare collarbone. “Surely, you can’t expect a lady to act like a gentleman?”

Issei scoffed. “Nonsense. A true gentleman transcends gender. You are simply making excuses for your boorish behavior.”

Viser’s smirk twitched. Then, in a growl of rage, she lunged.

Her monstrous limbs crashed forward, claws tearing through the air. But Issei moved. Not frantically, not hurriedly—effortlessly. He sidestepped one strike, pivoted past another, his expression never shifting from mild disapproval. Her tail lashed out, but he bent at the waist, hands neatly tucked behind his back as it passed harmlessly over him.

“Sloppy form,” he noted, stepping lightly away from a strike that cracked the concrete floor. “No control. No grace.”

Viser snarled, swinging both claws toward him in a furious arc.

Issei sighed.

With one smooth motion, he lifted his hand—and slapped her across the face.

The impact was instantaneous. A deafening boom echoed through the warehouse as Viser’s entire body was sent hurtling backward. She crashed through one metal wall, then another, before slamming into the farthest wall with an explosion of dust and debris. Issei lowered his hand, adjusting his cuff once more.

“Unacceptable.” He shook his head. “Completely unacceptable.”

He turned toward the gaping hole in the warehouse wall, where Viser lay embedded in the rubble.

“Now,” he said, taking a slow step forward, “are you ready to act like a proper lady?”

— — — 

Jack Sparrow was many things—a pirate, a scoundrel, an exceptional swordsman when the mood struck, and, on occasion, a man with a plan. But at the moment, he was simply bored. And a bored Jack Sparrow was a dangerous Jack Sparrow. Not for himself, of course—he was a delight, always—but for anyone who had the misfortune of keeping him locked up. At present, that misfortune belonged to Lord Cutler Beckett. The insufferable, prissy, powdered-wig-wearing little man had thrown Jack into the brig of his own ship, the Endeavour, after some alleged crimes against proper trade regulations, which Jack found personally insulting. Pirates and trade regulations had no business being in the same sentence. Worse still, the guards were dreadfully lacking in conversation, and the only rat in his cell had refused to engage in meaningful dialogue.

He’d already tried making conversation with the guards, but apparently, “Would you consider letting me out if I said pretty please?” wasn’t as convincing as he’d hoped.

Which left him with one option.

Dig.

Dig, dig, dig. It wasn’t the most elegant escape plan, but Jack was nothing if not adaptable. He pried at the wooden planks, wiggled his fingers into whatever gaps he could find, and, to his utter delight, felt the earth beneath.

Jack paused.

Earth?

They were at sea. Floating, bobbing, moving across the waves. Not on land.

Yet, as he dug deeper, his fingers hit something soft, something that crumbled between them—dirt.

Jack tilted his head. “Huh.”

Then he shrugged and kept digging. Some things were better left unexamined.

Eventually, the hole was just big enough for him to slip through. With a satisfied hah!, he dropped down into the darkness below, landing with a soft thud. Jack straightened, adjusted his hat, and looked around.

The tunnel stretched forward, dark and eerily well-maintained for something existing where it absolutely should not be. He walked without hesitation, boots clicking on stone that should have been damp but wasn’t. As he moved, the walls shifted—from rough dirt to carved stone, then polished marble, then glistening seashells embedded in the archways as if the very ocean had decided to redecorate. It was all terribly fancy, but Jack hardly noticed. His focus had narrowed to something far more important—the scent curling through the air, rich and deep, a siren’s song of aged oak and molasses. Rum. Good rum. Possibly the best rum he’d ever smelled in his life.

Emerging into an impossibly pristine bar, Jack barely spared a glance at the polished wood counters, the dim golden lighting, or the neatly arranged bottles on the shelves. It was too clean, the kind of establishment frequented by people who used words like etiquette unironically, but none of that mattered. The rum smelled divine, and that was the only decor worth considering. He strode to the counter, dropping onto a stool with the confidence of a man who absolutely belonged here despite all evidence to the contrary. The bartender, a man with dark hair and an easy air of patience, glanced up as if unbothered by the sudden appearance of a rogue pirate in an underground (or, more concerningly, undersea) bar.

Jack tapped the counter. “Evening.”

“Evening,” the bartender replied, setting down a glass he had been polishing with unnecessary dedication. Jack was the only client. 

Jack tilted his head, considering him. “You wouldn’t happen to know how there’s a tunnel under a ship in the middle of the ocean, would you?”

The man—James, according to his name tag—shrugged. “Stranger things happen. And we opened yesterday, so I would not know.”

Jack considered this and found it to be an excellent answer. “Can’t argue with that. I could, but it’d be a waste of a perfectly good breath. Now, my fine purveyor of spirits, I find myself in desperate need of a drink, specifically of the rum variety.”

Without a word, James reached for a bottle and poured, the liquid catching the low light in a way that made Jack’s heart swell. He took the glass, lifted it in a small toast to nothing in particular, and took a slow, appreciative sip. It was everything he had dreamed of and more, warming his chest like the embrace of an old lover he had probably wronged but who forgave him anyway.

James smirked. “You smell like an old client we had once.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Flattered, truly, but I must insist that I bathed recently.”

“Not that kind of smell.” James leaned against the counter, studying him. “Reminds me of a woman who came through here before I was manager. Called herself Calypso.”

Jack froze mid-sip, eyes widening before an enormous grin spread across his face. “Ah-ha! So that’s how it is! Not a hallucination, then.” He slapped the counter in delight. “I was beginning to wonder if the rum had finally turned against me, but if the sea herself has been here before, then I’d say I’m in rather good company.”

James chuckled as he poured another drink, his movements smooth and practiced, the kind of ease that came from a man who had served more drinks than he had conversations. Jack Sparrow, delighted by both the generosity and the quality of the rum, lifted his glass in a casual toast to no one in particular before taking a slow, appreciative sip.

“You know,” Jack began, setting his glass down with a satisfied sigh, “this rum in divine. Kingly, even. Huh, is that even a word ? Well, whatever — this reminds me of a time I almost became a king.”

James glanced up, unimpressed but vaguely amused. “Almost?”

“Aye, almost. Technicalities, you see.” Jack leaned forward, drumming his fingers on the bar. “There I was, in the court of a savage people—well, they called themselves a kingdom, but what kind of kingdom doesn’t have proper chairs?—and naturally, they recognized my excellence and made me their ruler. Crown and all.”

James raised an eyebrow. “And yet, you’re here and not on a throne somewhere.”

Jack sighed dramatically. “A cruel twist of fate, that. Turned out they also intended to eat me. Not out of malice, mind you! A great honor in their traditions—told me I’d be part of them forever. Touching, really.” He tapped his chest. “But I’ve always preferred my insides to remain inside, so I made a strategic retreat.”

“You ran.”

Jack placed a hand over his heart, feigning offense. “James, please. I escaped with style.”

James snorted, pouring himself a drink. “I assume this ‘strategic retreat’ involved trickery, deception, and an unfortunate soul taking your place?”

Jack grinned. “Now that would be immoral. I’d never do such a thing.” A pause. “Twice.”

James shook his head, smirking. “And how did this end ?”

Jack leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as he regarded James with curiosity. “You’re a strange one, mate. Most men, when presented with my tales, tend to do one of two things—either gape in awe or demand I stop telling lies.”

James shrugged. “I’ve heard worse.”

Jack laughed, taking another swig. “Now that is concerning. What sort of characters pass through this fine establishment, then?”

“Men who drink and talk as much as you.”

Jack pointed at him, nodding in approval. “Good answer. Now, let me tell you about the second time I nearly got married—horrid affair, highly unpleasant. Wouldn’t recommend it.”

“And yet, it happened more than once?”

Jack exhaled deeply, as if the weight of his many, many almost marriages were a heavy burden to bear. “Aye. A pattern most unfortunate. Seems I have a talent for capturing hearts.” He took another sip, sighing dramatically. “And an even greater talent for avoiding the consequences.”

James shook his head, still amused. “This should be good.”

Jack grinned. “Oh, mate, you have no idea.”

And so they drank, and they talked, and Jack spun stories of adventure, disaster, and miraculous survivals, each tale grander and more improbable than the last. James listened with the patience of a man who had seen enough to know that, for someone like Jack Sparrow, the line between truth and embellishment was thin—and ultimately, irrelevant. James liked good stories. He liked them a lot. He lived for them, even.