Everybody knew that life was a bitch.
That wasn't just an opinion; it was a fact, as certain as the sky being blue, Atlas being colder than a Frostbite Fang in winter, or Arsenal bottling the league. Hell, the sentiment even transcended worlds. Life didn't care who you were, what you'd done, or how hard you'd worked, it always found a way to screw you over.
Life wasn't just a bitch.
What everybody didn't know, however, and what Jacques had scientifically proven, was that Jacques was her goddamn pimp.
For you see! Unlike most people, Jacques Schnee didn't roll over and let life kick him. No, he kicked back and harder. If life wanted to mess with him, it better do so after giving him his damn money.
Sure, it talked back from time to time, tried to swindle him, and got crafty in how it could mess with his head, emotions, and, worst of all, his money. But Jacques? He was craftier. He played the long game, smacked the shit outta her. He always came out on top. Well, most of the time.
The times he didn't were obviously meant to stirr up character development. So, take that!
And now, as he sat back in the plush leather seat of his limousine, one leg crossed over the other like a goddamn king, wearing a suit that cost more than a Bullhead, he figured he was still winning.
Jacques lokked out the tinted window at the festive lights of Atlas flickering by in the frigid night. Atlas, a city filled with cold-hearted bastards whose egos were bigger than the poles shoved up their asses. And yet, tonight, the people of this frozen city were somehow making asses of themselves in an uncharacteristically cheery way.
Unusual that it was, Jacques had to wonder if this was like some less-murder-y version of the Purge.
He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass. It was as sharp and handsome as ever. For a fleeting second, he considered winking at himself. Maybe even tossing in a seductive smirk for good measure. But he stopped short..
Mostly because it'd look like he was trying to flirt with his eldest daughter, who was sitting across from him.
Winter sat stiffly and as ramrod straight as ever while she droned on about her latest escapades with Atlas' security forces. Something about rooting out the scum of society, protecting the kingdom, and cracking skulls. Same old, same old, he supposed.
Jacques vaguely listened, nodding along as she spoke. He never asked her about any of this, but she seemed proud of her work, and Jacques wasn't one to kill someone's vibe. Especially not his little breeze: a term of endearment that felt increasingly ironic considering she was the same damn age as him.
He more or less got the gist of it: Atlas was full of damn terrorists, and somehow, his unparalleled brilliance had played a role in unearthing them. How exactly? He wasn't sure, but that hardly mattered. Jacques Schnee was simply too amazing at too many things to keep track of all his contributions.
He allowed himself a small smirk. No doubt, Winter's subordinates were now toasting his ingenuity though they probably owed him a better-quality vintage than they could ever afford.
When Winter finished her long-winded report, Jacques made sure to compliment her valiant efforts in keeping his backyard safe. Even if said efforts mostly involved her cracking skulls and sending minorities and the downtrodden off to some godforsaken torture room. He wasn't buying that "Bureau of Inquiry" crap. Let's call a spade a spade: it was a torture room.
"Good work," he told her sincerely, once she finally wrapped up. "I knew you'd be up to the task."
"Thank you, Father," she replied evenly with that same professional military flavored tism she used when addressing a superior officer, not her own dear old daddy. Honestly, Jacques couldn't decide if that was a good thing or mildly insulting.
Jacques shifted slightly to his left where Willow sat, pressed lightly against his arm. Normally, he'd relish the sensation of her warmth and the way his bicep was firmly nestled against Willow's side boob, a position that, under different circumstances, might have been heaven. But tonight? Not so much. Her tits were a lot less enjoyable when her pallor and the worried look in her eyes killed whatever appeal the moment might have held.
Kind of hard to enjoy the soft press of someone when they looked like they'd rather dissolve into the upholstery. (Look at him using difficult words.)
It wasn't just the kind of expression you didn't want to see on your wife at a high-society gala; it was the kind you didn't want to see on your wife ever.
He gave her a light nudge with his shoulder, a gentle push meant to shake her loose from whatever pit her thoughts had dragged her into. She blinked, startled, and turned her head to him. Her eyebrow quirked slightly as if to ask, What was that for?
Jacques matched her raised brow with one of his own, wordlessly asking her to spill whatever was eating at her.
For a second, her lips curved into what could almost pass for a smile. It didn't last. "It's nothing," she said quietly.
"Doesn't look like nothing," Jacques countered. He wasn't great at this...comforting, or whatever you called it, but watching Willow wallow in silence wasn't doing him any favours, either.
Her eyes dropped to her lap, and her hands fidgeted with the fabric of her dress, twisting and untwisting the material. Whatever it was, she clearly wasn't ready to open up about it, at least not here and now.
Jacques exhaled a sound that was almost a sigh but didn't quite make it there. He leaned back in his seat, letting the muted hum of the posh music fill the space. Without really thinking about it, he slid his hand over and threaded his fingers through hers.
Willow didn't say a word about the gesture, but she didn't pull away or break a bottle of wine over his head(No, he's still not over that shit!), either. Her grip was light at first, but as the seconds ticked by, her fingers tightened around his. It wasn't much, but it was enough for Jacques to know that, for now, it was the best he could do.
Success!
Whitley was seated across from them, exuding an air of formality that would have been comical if it weren't so unsettling. The kid was all buttoned-up poise. His expression was carefully blank as he flipped through something on his scroll. Probably business projections or something equally ambitious for someone his age. Jacques couldn't help but smirk a little.
'As expected of Mini-more-responsible-but-less-awesome-me,' he thought, not without a touch of pride.
But even as Jacques silently applauded Whitley's precociousness, he couldn't shake the way his youngest kept sneaking glances at Willow, or rather, where his and Willow's interlocked hands with a frown.
"Whitley," Jacques called out to snap his son's attention away from whatever line of thought was brewing in that clever little head of his.
"Yes, Father?" Whitley's voice was smooth and polite, but Jacques caught the faintest hint of irritation beneath it. The boy was finally developing a spine! He'll be calling Jacques 'Old Man' soon. Ah shite, Jacques's eyes were getting misty from pride.
"Leave the scheming for tomorrow," Jacques said, pointing to the scroll in Whitley's hand. "Tonight, let's focus on presenting ourselves as a united front. It's a family event, after all."
Whitley's mouth twitched at the corners. "Of course," he replied, setting the scroll aside with care.
Good. That was one potential fire snuffed out, at least for now. Jacques shifted his attention back to something much more urgent.
Like how fucking pampered and slick he looked. Holy fucking shit! He'd fuck himself if he could.
You ever see someone and you just know: That guy fucks!
That guy thinks that when he sees Jacques.
Jacques inclined back, his arms stretching lazily across the seat like a man who owned not just the limo but the whole damn city it cruised through. The fabric of his suit whispered wealth, practically singing its praises to the gods of opulence. Those gold accents? They didn't just catch the light; they seduced it, bent it to their will, turning even the faintest glimmer into a declaration of superiority.
It wasn't just a suit; it was a statement. It said, I'm Jacques Schnee, and if you're not me, you're already losing.
He crossed one leg over the other, giving his golden-soled shoes their moment to shine. Literally. A glint caught his eye, and he tilted his head, marveling at the craftsmanship. "A true work of art," he mused, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "Perhaps the finest thing in this world... second only to me."
It was the truth. Clothes made the man, after all, and Jacques Schnee wasn't just any man. He was the Man of Men. The architect of Atlas' prosperity, the backbone of its industry, the reason the lights still flickered on in this frozen hellscape. Everyone knew it. Hell, they might as well start etching his name into Atlas' history books now.
He adjusted the sunglasses perched low on his nose. Granted it was a ridiculous choice, considering the time and place, but oh-so-necessary for the look. Were they practical? No. Did they make him look mysterious and untouchable? Absolutely. Let people speculate: Was he hiding something? Was he hungover? Was he looking at your wife's tits? Or was he just that effortlessly cool?
Spoiler alert: It was the last one.
Coiffed hair? Check. Jawline so sharp it probably violated Atlas safety codes? Double check. And that smirk. That damn smirk. It was the pièce de résistance that made you hate yourself for wanting to punch it while secretly wishing you could pull it off.
Jacques gave a quiet snort of satisfaction. If tonight went sideways, which, let's be honest, it probably would knowing his luck, at least he'd still look like a million Lien doing it. Or several million, really, if they were accounting for inflation.
All in all, it was an attire that would remind the whole of the aristocracy fucks of Atlas who was actually pulling the leash of this bitch.
The limousine rolled to a smooth stop. The driver quickly descended and waited next to their door. He had practiced this exact moment a thousand times. Outside, the noise hit like a wave: camera flashes popping off like firecrackers, reporters shouting over each other, and the faint whir of drones circling overhead. Jacques leaned back in his seat for a moment. Wait, his body's senses told him. The world outside was waiting, but they could wait a little longer. Timing mattered.
He adjusted his sunglasses with a flick of his wrist.
But as expected, his wife and son were, unsurprisingly, not at as ease as he was.
Willow looked like she'd swallowed a lemon, her hands smoothing out invisible creases in her dress. Whitley shifted just enough to glance out the window. He had one hell of a poker face, but his 'Jacques senses' were calling bullshit.
He didn't need to check Winter. His little breeze probably didn't know the meaning of nervous. Winter was cool like that.
"No need to rush it," he said softly. "We'll go when you're ready."
There was a brief silence in the car, the only sound was the low hum of the engine and the muted chatter from outside. Willow sighed, finally letting her hands drop to her lap. "I forgot how loud these things were," she said, tugging at the fabric of her lap. A habit?
Whitley nodded reluctantly. Jacques wouldn't blame them. Willow had been cooped up in her room for years, and this was his son's first Gala. Nerves were expected, since, unlike him, neither of them had a convenient muscle memory to fall back on.
Jack was also never one to shy away from attention. If anything, he was more put off not being the center of attention.
"It's just noise," Winter said reassuringly. "A sea of flashing lights and meaningless chatter. Nothing to be worried about."
Whitley met her eyes with a small, uncertain smile. "Easier said than done."
Willow gave her an apologetic look.
"You know," Jacques said with a grin, "I can always make a scene to distract them. Sick the dogs on them."
Willow raised an eyebrow, a small grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. "And I suppose you think that would let us go unnoticed?"
He shrugged. "Kinda hard for them to bother you when the journalists have a massive dog biting their asses."
Willow chuckled despite herself, shaking her head. "You're impossible," she said, but the tension in her shoulders eased just a little.
Whitley glanced at his father, then back out the window. "I'm not sure that would be the best approach."
Jacques grinned, tapping his fingers on the armrest. "Eh, maybe not. But it'd be fun to watch."
He allowed several moments of silence to pass, and in those brief moments, both his wife and son closed their eyes, taking in a breath. Then, without a word, they straightened themselves, shoulders relaxed.
They nodded to him. Jacques gave them both a brief look. They were ready. Good.
He signalled the servant.
The car door opened, and Jacques stepped out, the polished tips of his shoes hitting the pavement like the opening note of a fanfare. Eisen, who Jacques decided was definitely worthy of a raise after today's performance, draped a coat of rich, expensive material over Jacques' shoulders. With a swift tuning of his Aura to mimic Nue's ability, the electric clasps on his vest snapped into place, securing the coat effortlessly.
Wearing a coat properly was for bums with no style.
Cameras flashed wildly while reporters called out questions he had no intention of answering.
"Mr. Schnee! Over here!"
"Mr. Schnee, is it true the SDC—"
"Can I have your babies—"
"Any comments about Mantle—?"
He didn't even look in their direction. The cameras could fight over the scraps he left behind. Instead, he adjusted his cufflinks, gold glinting in the floodlights, and turned slightly, offering his most photogenic side to the lens.
"Is it true that there was an attempt on your life?!"
Those were the questions he'd definitely avoid.
Jacques faced the open door and lightly bowed, his hand extended in invitation inside. He tried to keep the cheeky grin off his face. A soft huff from inside, and a velvet-clad hand took his own.
Willow exited next with but subdued movements fluid, like a porcelain doll playing her part. The moment she stepped into the flashing chaos, the reporters fell momentarily silent, their cameras still in mid-click, as if unsure how to process the scene before them.
Willow, after all, had been hidden away from the spotlight for nearly a decade. Hell, most of the world actually believed that Jacques might have actually killed her long ago and taken control.
There was a brief lull. A stunned breath caught. And then, the photographers scrambled to catch up, their cameras clattering to life with the light from the flashes more intense than before.
Willow tried to put on a brave smile and locked eyes with Jacques. He brought her close, and she latched into his arm a bit too closely and quickly. An act that only made the shutters erupt again, and for a moment. it felt like the entire universe was watching just the two of them.
But as adorable as that would be, Jacques wanted the world to know clearly that it wasn't just the two of them.
From the other side, Eisen who still moved with the enthusiasm of someone gunning for Employee of the Month assisted Winter as she stepped out with the movements and confidence of someone who was used to this type of shit. Her expression seemed to say, "I could destroy you all without breaking a sweat and look good doing it." Jacques couldn't have been prouder of his little psychotic breeze.
Behind her, Whitley followed a second later. He moved with an air of practiced poise, the perfect image of a Schnee. Still, Jacques caught the slightest flicker in his son's eyes; just a hint of nerves. Whitley hid it well, though, better than Jacques had expected.
Not that it mattered. The boy was nearly invisible under the barrage of shutter flashes aimed at them. As his children walked a step ahead, Jacques and Willow followed behind, heading toward the bright spotlights marking the entrance. A red carpet stretched to the enormous glass doors, where uniformed staff stood at attention, ready to usher Atlas' elite inside.
The Schnees glided down the carpet, ignoring the rest around them. Reporters shouted questions and scrambled for photos behind the line of security guards, but Jacques didn't spare them a glance. They'd get nothing from him tonight. Not that it would stop them from trying.
The glass doors slid open as the family stepped inside. The noise from outside dulled to a low hum. The atrium was a gleaming showcase of the wealth expected of polished marble floors, impossibly high ceilings, and chandeliers that probably cost more than most people made in a lifetime. The room buzzed with quiet conversation as Atlas' most important figures mingled, pretending not to care who noticed them, or that they didn't hate one another.
Jacques noticed them. None of these schmucks came close to looking as good as his family. Let alone him. But as unimpressive as these aristocratic cousin-fuckers looked in their shitty clothes, they were still annoyingly dangerous. His body's "Jacques' senses" went haywire. The sheer amount of barely concealed spite, curiosity, and envy radiating from the crowd was enough to make his skin crawl. It was like walking into a pit of snakes dressed in glitter.
As soon as they stepped well inside, the room shifted. Conversations stopped mid-sentence, and every head turned in their direction. Eyes raked over them, some openly gawking, others attempting subtlety and failing miserably.
Jacques knew exactly what they were thinking.
These blue-blooded chucklefucks didn't like him. No, scratch that, they loathed his existence.
And why wouldn't they? He wasn't one of them. He wasn't born into this glittering cesspool of old money and incestuous dynasties. He didn't grow up sipping wine at age six or attending balls where cousins waltzed like it wasn't creepy as hell.
Jacques Gélé wasn't the heir to some ancient Atlas bloodline steeped in "noble" tradition. He was just a scrappy, ambitious bastard of a disgraced lowly maid and a miner from Mantle who'd clawed his way to the top and planted his flag where none of them could touch it.
They hated him for it. They hated that he hadn't spent generations waiting his turn or playing by their rules. He'd come in swinging, bought out their failing industries, turned their gossip into leverage, and made a small one-man house like the Schnee into an empire so vast they couldn't ignore it as it mocked them.
And now, every time they saw his face, it was a reminder no matter how much they whispered behind his back or threw him looks from afar like they'd smelled something foul, Jacques Schnee was still standing higher than all of them. Richer. Smarter. Stronger.
They'd never admit it, but deep down, they knew he didn't just belong here. He owned the fucking place.
So as much as they seethed, they knew better than to cross him. Jacques wasn't just a player in their little aristocratic games; he was the one flipping the board when it suited him. A single word, a signature, a well-placed document, he could ruin any of them without lifting a finger.
But when they saw the Schnee matriarch step back into the spotlight after nearly a decade of self-imposed exile—or noticed that Jacques had brought not one but two heirs in tow—they didn't see strength. They smelled weakness.
Unlike the gawking peasants outside, these vultures had an eye for detail. They saw the subtle way Willow clung to his arm, her discomfort about being here practically radiating from her. They saw the way her gaze flickered, self-conscious about every glance in her direction. And Whitley—despite his best attempts at poise—they caught the tightness in his shoulders, the hesitation in his step. A young, inexperienced boy thrust into the limelight for the first time.
They were too cowardly to challenge Jacques directly. Too cautious to test a seasoned huntsman like Winter. But the other two? They weren't off-limits.
Jacques felt it before anything was said. Willow's grip on his arm tightened, her body leaning just a little closer to his as if to shield herself. Whitley froze, his wide eyes darting nervously as the judgment of whom he was taught to be his lesser bore down on him. Winter's brow furrowed into a glare and her hand itched bit closer to her blade.
Jacques jaw clenched, and he felt a vein bulge in his neck.
These fuckers...
He exhaled sharply through his nose, glancing at his family. "Ten seconds," he muttered, just loud enough for them to hear. "I'll set them straight. Just endure it for ten seconds."
Three nods met his words, two far less sure than Jacques would have liked.
The smirk vanished from his face, replaced by an ugly look that sent a chill down all the bastards below.
The anger he'd held back for months surged to the surface. Rage that had been simmering since his talk with Sieben in the garden two weeks ago, frustration that had been building for years, and darker, more corrosive feelings he could never name all came roaring forward.
Every single shit he went through and bottled up inside his chest was pushed to the surface.
It wasn't just anger; it was heavier, cruel and dangerous that coiled inside him like a predator waiting to strike. it was the same violent emotions and tendencies he'd used to unlock his aura.
He didn't hold it back this time. Jacques let it pour into him, fuel his soul, and burn away every shred of restraint. When he stepped forward, his heel slammed into the marble floor with a force that echoed in the hallroom.
Then his Aura exploded outward.
The air sizzled as the very room had been pulled into his orbit. He wasn't going for subtlety, so it crashed over the crowd like a wave, freezing them in place. Every guest felt it, from the seasoned huntsmen to the weakest hangers-on. The raw wrath of Jacques' presence tried to crush their souls.
The whispers died instantly. Heads turned, and eyes widened in shock or fear.
It wasn't enough.
They still weren't scared enough.
Jacques dug deeper, into a place where even his own soul seemed to shudder. He reached past the glowing spheres—seven already within him—and ignored the ninth and sixth. His hand went straight to the last one, the one where the monster waited, snarling and clawing against its chains.
He didn't hesitate. He called it.
And it answered.
His Aura exploded outward, like a beast unleashed. The room went dark. Every light above flickered and then died, leaving nothing but the flickering red glow of his burning Aura.
The air turned heavy. Thick. Impossible to breathe. Like something was pressing down from every direction, suffocating them. The walls seemed to close in, and even the ground underfoot felt unstable.
The only light now was the hellish red of Jacques's Aura, glowing like fire in a pitch-black room. His shadow stretched across the floor, distorting, twisting, as if it had a life of its own.
He spoke, and his voice was cold with the breath of power ancient and deadly.
"With this treasure..."
The mansion shook, the glass windows splintering into shards, the floors cracking beneath the pressure of his power. The air vibrated with pure and raw force.
The guests, who had once sneered and whispered behind their masks, now stared in horror. Some staggered back, others dropped to their knees, gasping for air that didn't seem to exist. Their eyes were wide, pupils pinpricked with fear as if they had seen something in him, something they couldn't understand and were terrified to try.
Jacques didn't need their screams. Their silence was enough. The fear in the room was more than enough.
Ten seconds finally passed.
Jacques slowly unclenched his fists and dismissed the summoning ritual. A deep breath later, his Aura returned to normal.
The lights flickered back to life, but the effects of his power didn't fade. The guests, or at least those who had dared to look were still on the floor; some were kneeling; others were pale in their faces, unable to move, and paralyzed by the lingering fear.
No one made a sound.
No a single soul dared look in their direction.
Jacques turned his attention to his family. "You okay?" He asked low but sincerely
Winter was the first to respond. "I'm fine," she nodded a bit curtly, her knuckles white from how hard she gripped her sabre.
Willow gave his arm a tight squeeze, her voice tinged with appreciation and reluctant joy. "I'd rather you just sicced the dogs on them, but... thanks."
Jacques smiled, but his eyes were already on his son. He turned to Whitley, who hadn't spoken but was staring at him with wide eyes. It wasn't fear, though.
Forget stars, Jacques could sear he could see entire galaxies in his son's eyes. Jacques couldn't help the pride that swelled in his chest.
they walked past the security guards at the entrance of the ball, he noticed how their bodies pressed into the walls, shaking like leaves in a storm. Soft whimpers escaped their lips as they stood rigid in place.
He descended the stairs into the ballroom to the now silent guests as they rushed to part and make way for him and his family. With a friendly, almost jovial tone, he greeted them as if nothing had happened at all.
"The upstart, low-born dust seller and his humble family humbly greet the mighty and esteemed of Atlas," Jacques declared smoothly and thick with sarcasm. He bent low, mocking the extravagance of the moment with a flourish.
The so-called mighty and esteemed of Atlas, their pride wounded, lowered their heads even further.
How humble of them. NOT!
Know your fucking places peasants!
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An approximation of what Jacques looks like at this point in the story.