.---.---.---. 3º person.---.---.---.
"Sorry, sir, but I really didn't see anyone who looked like… that."
The faunus shopkeeper looked at the paper once more and then raised his eyes to the man in front of him, clearly confused.
On the drawing was a stick figure with spiky white hair, two large blue circles representing the eyes, and a brown scribbled hoodie wrapped around the body.
Doug took the paper back and studied it for a few seconds.
"Hm… maybe the hair should be a bit messier."
He pulled a pencil from his pocket and added a few more scribbles around the stick figure's head.
He examined the result, nodded in satisfaction, and showed the drawing again.
"And now?"
The shopkeeper stared at the sheet for a few more moments.
"Sir… I still can't tell if that's a person or a scarecrow."
Doug let out a short, rough laugh, scratching the back of his neck. It was the first time he had laughed in days, even if it was at himself.
"Fair enough. Drawing was never my strong suit," he admitted, putting the paper away again. "But the kid is real. White hair, almost silver, very light blue eyes, thin, posture way too straight for someone on the streets. Around fifteen or sixteen years old. He was wearing a brown hoodie the last time I saw him."
The shopkeeper shook his head.
Doug let out a low sigh.
"Anyway, thank you for your time."
He folded the drawing carefully, slipped the pencil back into his pocket, and turned to leave the shop.
As he stepped outside, he heard the shopkeeper's voice behind him.
"I hope you find your son."
Doug didn't bother correcting him as he left.
The shop bell rang behind him.
Doug stopped just outside, in the damp air of the outskirts. He pulled a crumpled cigarette from his coat pocket, lit it with a match, and took a long drag.
He knew the kid was a Schnee. Whitley lied well, but not well enough to fool someone who had spent his entire life as a Huntsman. Doug had recognized the signs since the tavern: the white hair, the icy blue eyes, the way the boy had looked at the newspaper with restrained anger when reading about Jacques' son's death. It was obvious.
Still, Doug hadn't pressed him back then. He understood. A rich kid alone in an unfamiliar city—he would've done the same: hide his name to avoid becoming a target.
What he found stupid was that the kid had kept the name Whitley, but he kept that to himself.
What really worried him was something else. He was certain that once Whitley reached the capital, he would go to the authorities, tell the truth, and return home safely. That's what any logical person would do. But days turned into a week, no news appeared in the papers, and the boy simply vanished.
Raindrops began to fall. Light at first, then heavier. Mistral's rain came fast.
Doug grunted when a drop extinguished his cigarette.
The rain was falling hard now, soaking the stone streets of the outskirts. Doug quickly searched for shelter. Ahead, warm light spilled from an open door. Without checking the sign, he pushed it open and went inside.
The bar was simple, smelling of cheap alcohol and smoke. Doug chose a table near the entrance and couldn't help but think.
'My bar was much better…'
He ordered a cheap beer from the waitress and sat there, slowly rolling the glass between his calloused fingers.
He would have to return to Roca Town in a few days to finalize the sale of his bar. He should've already gone back, but he had gotten caught up searching for Whitley.
Fortunately, the buyer was an old friend, so there were no issues.
'The kid's gotta be around here somewhere…' he thought, eyes lost in the foam sliding down the glass.
He was about to take another sip when the door was kicked open.
BAM!
The wooden door slammed into the wall. Three men entered, soaked. The one in front was clearly the leader: tall, with a wet dark ponytail stuck to his neck, and a crooked, swollen, purple nose—recently broken. The other two followed behind him, one bald and short, the other with a scar on his chin.
Doug narrowed his eyes slightly, pretending to stay focused on his drink. When they reached the counter, the yellow light revealed the same symbol on all of them: a stylized spider tattooed in black ink.
Spider…
He recognized it immediately. When he was still an active Huntsman, he had dealt with them two or three times.
The ponytailed man slammed his hand on the counter.
"Damn it! I've been tearing the whole capital apart and nothing! That kid is gone!"
The bald man pulled a chair closer.
"Relax, man. Everyone in Spider is looking for him. No need to stress. We'll find him eventually."
The ponytailed man suddenly grabbed him by the collar, his broken nose pulsing with anger.
"That little bastard broke my nose!" he snarled. "I'm the one who's going to get him! And the bonus will cover everything he stole from me…"
The third man chuckled while ordering three shots.
"Yeah, man. Listen to our baldy friend and relax a bit. The kid's got white hair and blue eyes—it won't be that hard. Didn't our informant just call saying where he was last seen?"
"That's exactly why we should be out looking for him right now and NOT DRINKING!"
"If we couldn't find him before, we won't find him now. Let's just cool off first."
The ponytailed man hesitated, breathing heavily. Finally, he shoved the bald man away and stepped back.
"Yeah... you're right. Just been really stressed. Sorry, man. You know I'm not usually like this, right?"
"Whatever, dude. It's fine."
They sat down and started drinking. Doug watched in silence, jaw tight.
'Stupid kid… I should've dragged him to the guards the moment we got to the capital. How the hell did he get involved with Spider?'
Regret weighed on him.
Nearly an hour later, the ponytailed man stood up, stumbling.
"I'm going to piss. Order another round or I'll break your faces too."
He staggered toward the bathroom.
Doug waited a few seconds, left some lien on the table, and followed him.
.---.---.---.
The bathroom was cramped, filthy, and lit by a flickering lightbulb. The man stood in front of the cracked mirror, inspecting his broken nose. He turned it side to side, touching the swollen purple flesh, grimacing in pain and rage.
"Ah…" he groaned.
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!
Someone knocked impatiently.
"In use!" he shouted without turning.
KNOCK! KNOCK!
"I said it's in use, damn it! Stop knocking!" he yelled, voice rough and drunk. "Wait your turn or go piss in the rain!"
He turned back to the mirror, grinding his teeth.
"When I find you… I'm going to break a lot more than your nose…"
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!
He lost his patience, grabbed the handle, and yanked the door open.
"I SAID IT'S IN—"
A punch smashed directly into his already destroyed nose. A wet CRACK echoed through the bathroom.
He staggered back, screaming, both hands flying to his face. Blood poured through his fingers onto the dirty floor. His nose, already broken, was now completely shattered.
"ARGHH!"
Doug stepped in, slammed the door shut, and locked it. Before the man could react, Doug grabbed him by the neck, forcing him down and smashing his face against the wall beside the mirror.
A slow, cold smile spread across Doug's face.
'This gives me flashbacks… good times.'
"Oi…" he said in a low, rough voice, tightening his grip slightly on the back of the man's neck.
"Sorry, mate. Just want to ask you a few things. Won't take long."