When Jade Blooms White

Art by: Ryou (IG: @ryouart)

 

Prologue

Today marks a decade since I first settled in this town.

The children are well. Amelie's second boy finishes his master's next week. Sent me an invitation weeks before, saying having a grandfather who looks like his peer was "badass." Sweet child. Sweet, naive child. I hope Amelie told him about my discomfort with crowds.

I'll bring flowers, I think. Simple sunflowers, a fitting message for the occasion. The boy doesn't need gifts; his parents have likely planned a celebration already. It's a young people's gathering, so I declined to attend.

Gerald is aging. Time carves itself into his skin while Amelie remains untouched beside him, more daughter than wife in appearance, but their love tastes the same. They saw the aurora together. Lucky souls.

I saw it too, twenty-something years back. Alone.

As for Aurora. She writes of weddings while I was still riding through Sweden. She envies my wandering, hoping to embark on her own global journey with her partner. I wished her well. That was our last contact.

It was Gerald who inspired me to keep journaling. They flicker through my life like candlelight. Bright, warm, and then gone. Only Amelie, Joelle, and I remain to count the years. The rest are echoes, or a tale too brief.

So brief, painfully brief.

I've written everything about you. Every word, every sigh, every stupid joke. Sometimes I read them back like prayers to a god I'm not sure exists anymore.

What were we? I remembered you asked.

‘Divine kiss’, I think you'd say that, grinning that grin. Always the dramatic. Precisely your style. But some days I think we're more like fault lines or scars or painful connections. Beautiful breaks.

I once believed as much. But it was not.

I'd never have chased those lights across the sky without you telling me there’s one. Never would have taken your bike and your dreams, riding them north. I returned to that temple too. You know which one.

The ride never really ends, does it?

We are not a scar. Scars are simple, clean-edged things. You're something wilder. Canyon, cliff, or perhaps a sacred garden. I was adrift.

And then you touched me.

F.

*****

The front door burst open.

Before I could peek out from behind the counter to see who it was, a familiar blur had already darted to the time clock. The facial scanner pulsed green with a satisfied beep, logging her barely-on-time arrival.

I straightened up and continued polishing my workspace. Jane staggered into the staff room, her slender frame loaded down with an assortment of bags and oddly shaped packages. An eternal mystery, her need to haul what seemed like half her possessions to each shift.

I placed her apron next to the cash register so she wouldn't have to search for it later.

"Whew. Cut that one close," she exhaled, barely visible droplets of sweat glistening on her perfect skin.

"Why are you late today?" I asked, wringing out the cleaning cloth before folding it and setting it aside.

"Traffic was hell," she said, slipping on her apron and adjusting her cap over loose strands of hair.

"It's getting colder, and it's the weekend. People are probably out shopping for winter clothes. Oh right," I turned around, catching Jane booting up the cash register system with nimble fingers, "you don't need winter clothes."

Jane was a New Human.

Like others of her kind, particularly the women, she didn't need protection from ordinary winter weather. Temperatures that would leave ordinary humans shivering in multiple layers felt merely crisp to her. Strolling through snow drifts in a summer dress was entirely within her capabilities.

"You're wrong, I still wear them," Jane countered, resting one hand against the counter while wagging her index finger. "I can still catch a cold, you know!"

I laughed.

"Just admit it. You love shopping!"

"Like you're one to talk. Your little hobby costs way more than regular shopping."

"Mine's a legitimate sport," I explained, watching potential customers slow their pace outside the glass storefront, eyes lingering on our interior. "And Faucher Group donates all sports event revenues to charity."

"That's a rich person's hobby. Meanwhile, you're scraping by on instant noodles and still riding that secondhand bike to work every morning."

Well, she had a point.

Shooting sports remained firmly in rich people territory. Just the gun license alone ate up a quarter of my monthly salary, not counting range time, protective equipment, accessories... and of course, maintaining my beloved gun.

I jabbed the ice machine button, though I doubted we'd need much in this biting weather. Jane had already placed herself at the counter, taking orders from a pair of customers who'd ventured inside. I offered them a practiced smile before turning to the printer, waiting for order stickers to print.

Coffee shops must be rare these days.

A hand-brewed coffee costs as much as a day's meals for ordinary people. There's no special need to visit shops for drinks when automatic coffee machines or robots can handle everything. Even small cakes can be made with the push of a button.

Three months into working here, my curiosity got the better of me, and I boldly asked our boss why he insisted on running a café with barely any foot traffic.

"Look at that latte in your hand, look at that latte art. Any machine can do better than you." Adrian, his features weathered by decades in the business, gestured dismissively toward my creation.

I swallowed nervously, silently pledging never to step beyond my station again. Without a professional culinary degree, I could only rely on these few remaining physical restaurants to build my résumé.

I couldn't afford to piss him off.

"But the people who walk through that door couldn't care less if the coffee tastes perfect or if the latte art is gallery-worthy. So why did you pursue cooking in the first place?" He turned his back, grinding coffee beans by hand. "Some people still appreciate things crafted with human imperfection, boy."

To be honest, I don't know why I insisted on becoming a chef. The idea just drifted into my head during high school, a nebulous dream that my parents supported despite everything.

However, our family's financial situation couldn't cover the steep tuition of a professional culinary school, so I enrolled at a state technical college, studying mechanical engineering while moonlighting at a local food stall. Churning out massive batches of utilitarian meals for workers' lunch boxes, sold at prices that barely covered ingredients.

On my twenty-first birthday, my father rode his ancient electric scooter clear across the city and returned with my first real oven. The memory of unboxing it still brings a lump to my throat. That unbridled joy, pure and uncomplicated.

From then on, I had no other thoughts of not wanting to be a chef. I watched online recipes, studied techniques and skills, and just started cooking.

I fell in love with the aroma of cooking wine hitting the wok, the way pasta softens in boiling water, and the shape of rising bread dough. I lived for my parents' joyful faces as they tasted my creations, the way happiness carved those crow's feet deeper around their eyes.

Gradually, I stopped obsessing over the title of 'chef,' but never missed a chance to create something with my hands after I graduated.

As for shooting (this fiscal black hole of a weird hobby) that only really began after I moved to this town. A dormant childhood memory, like embers buried beneath years of practicality, roared to life when I glimpsed that figure on the broadcast. 

In that breathless moment of witnessing Lady Deadeye's precision, I could almost feel the weight of the sniper in my palm, could nearly taste the metallic tang of gunpowder.

Of course, I never told my parents about taking up shooting. They'd done enough for me already.

Thoughts of family threatened to pull me under, so I shook my head sharply and redirected my focus to the cold milk in my hands, tightening my grip on the steel pitcher, concentrating on creating the perfect microfoam.

Maybe I should visit home next spring? I mused, tilting the ceramic cup with its half-measure of dark espresso, steadily pouring the steamed milk.

The creamy mixture swam toward the rim as I levelled the vessel, gradually reducing the pour rate. Gently swaying the milk pitcher, I created ripple patterns on the coffee's surface, then with one swift motion, completed a leaf design.

I positioned the finished creation on the auto-waiter's polished tray and pressed the serve function. The machine glided noiselessly toward the waiting customers, their eyes brightening with anticipation at the small luxury before them.

I returned their smiles, suddenly understanding Adrian's stubborn insistence on human craftsmanship.

The door swung open again, the bell's chime punctuated by the cadence of expensive leather soles against hardwood. Jane had gone to the kitchen to pull the cakes from the oven, leaving me to step forward to the counter, mentally preparing for what I assumed would be another ordinary weekend shift as a café barista.

"Welcome! Sir—"

The greeting died in my throat as I met the man's equally startled lilac eyes. Vibrant as amethysts, a colour so intense it seemed almost unreal, yet somehow familiar in a strange way.

Time seemed to freeze.

This wasn't just another customer walking through our door—this beautiful stranger standing before me had just turned my ordinary Saturday completely upside down. My mind went blank, and my heartbeat a wild thunder that seemed to drown out all other sounds in the café.

*****

When Jane came out from the kitchen, I was still staring at the gentleman.

After a few seconds of stunned silence, his gaze flicked to my nametag before returning to meet mine, as if confirming some private suspicion. Jane, sensing the weird tension, approached the counter only to freeze mid-step, a small gasp escaping her lips when she saw him.

"Lor—"

The tall stranger swiftly raised one elegant finger to his lips, cutting her off.

Jane swallowed whatever title had nearly slipped out.

He then lowered his hand, the corners of his eyes crinkling with warmth. His whole posture visibly softened.

"Pardon me. I'd like a hot mocha with double chocolate, please."

He avoided my gaze after that.

Jane stepped forward while I shifted aside, handing over the register. Her face was glowing with barely concealed delight and a blush, like she'd just met some long-admired celebrity. Her fingers actually trembled as she tapped the screen. She double-checked his sweetness preference, and he nodded with a smile.

I quickly turned to face the printer, drawing a steadying breath that did absolutely nothing to calm the storm brewing inside me.

"Sir... how should I address you?" I heard Jane ask carefully, barely containing her excitement.

"Francis is fine, Miss Jane. How have you been?" he responded, voice lowered. I couldn't help wondering how the hell Jane knew such a distinguished guy. His status was unmistakable in every precisely tailored inch of his outfit.

The register chimed its payment confirmation.

Taking the order slip from the printer, I couldn't stop picturing his perfect profile, recalling how he'd looked when he first walked in.

That sleek black turtleneck hugging his throat beneath a masterfully cut long coat, impeccably tailored dark pants breaking perfectly over polished leather shoes that caught the café lights.

There was something about the way he carried himself that felt familiar, which was weird because it was making my heart do this annoying flutter thing.

Did I know him from somewhere?

While I worked the coffee machine, Jane continued her hushed conversation with Mr. Francis. I couldn't help stealing a quick glance. Jane had relaxed now, while he leaned slightly forward, his expression soft around the edges as he listened.

I pinched my forearm to snap myself back to reality.

Francis... nice name. Elegant, like the man himself. Calling this stranger with those incredible lilac eyes "beautiful" seemed somehow inadequate, but he was hands down the most striking New Human I'd ever seen. Wait.

Weren't New Humans exclusively women?

A sudden tap on my shoulder nearly sent me through the roof. Jane was making faces at me, silently instructing me to add extra marshmallows for this obviously important visitor. I pressed the brewing button, adding the double chocolate as requested, then glanced up to find the guy had already claimed a seat bathed in sunlight near the window.

"Your friend?" I whispered to Jane, turning back.

"What?! No, just..." Jane stared at the gradually filling cup with wide eyes, dropping her voice even further. "I'll explain later."

"He's far enough away now. Tell me, how do you know such a high-class hottie? He's absolutely stunning."

"Please shut up," Jane hissed through a strained smile, sneaking another glance in his direction. I lifted the finished cup to create the latte art, following Jane's line of sight.

Golden sunlight spilled generously across the potted plants beside him as he held a sleek tablet, though his attention seemed drawn to the street traffic outside. His dark clothes made his already fair skin appear almost... luminous.

I lowered my gaze to focus on the milk pour, expertly crafting a heart pattern.

I placed the drink carefully on the serving robot, lifting my eyes once more to check his location. That's when I noticed the areas beyond his facial features.

His profile, temples, the entire sweep of his neck, and the back of his skull were covered with charcoal-black metal and synthetic skin. I could also make out intricate dark patterns surrounding his left eye.

Full automated prosthetics weren't particularly rare these days, but modifications this complex and refined could only come from either a top tech company or... that place.

I set the small dish of marshmallows on the serving robot, unconsciously seeking him out with my gaze again. This time, whether real or just my imagination, he was looking directly at me.

Clang!

Lost in thought, I'd released the small spoon into empty air instead of onto the drone's surface, sending it clattering to the floor. Flustered, I quickly grabbed another clean one and hit the serving button. I exhaled slowly, moving to circle the counter and retrieve the fallen spoon, only to find Jane raising her eyebrows while looking me up and down. She didn't say anything though, just retreated to the kitchen, probably to prepare some dessert for our pretty guest.

Did he have a sweet tooth? Double chocolate, marshmallows, and now pudding.

After quickly collecting the spoon and returning to my spot by the coffee machine, I stood with my back to the seating area, feeling heat rush up my neck to my ears. God, the embarrassment.

Jane came out with the pudding, also using the serving drone instead of walking it over herself.

The man stayed quiet, barely changing his posture or expression, focused on his tablet with his head slightly bowed. As time passed, the sun rays slowly shifted, and his chosen spot melted into the awning's lengthening shadow. He blended so seamlessly into that secluded corner that neither Jane nor I noticed when he'd left.

When I realized his seat was already empty, I felt this strange sense of loss, and I had no idea why.

*****

"He... what?"

"Yes," Jane folded her apron and tossed it in the laundry basket. "That was him. Wait, didn't your history teacher tell you about this?"

"I was always dozing off," I said, brow furrowed as I tried to remember. If I wasn't mistaken, if the last monarch of that place were still alive, he'd be...

"Even if he were alive, he'd be pushing seventy by now."

"Exactly." Seeing my unconvinced expression, Jane blinked. "You must've noticed he's a New Human when you saw him."

Oh, right. The whole living-for-centuries thing.

No wonder I'd had that nagging feeling of recognition, like I knew him in person. The man had been staring back at me from textbook pages my entire school life.

"Why—"

"I know what you're gonna ask," Jane held up a finger to cut me off, shaking her head. "We don't know either. Nobody does."

The mystery of why Francis Faucher was the only male New Human. You wouldn't find answers in any historical archives, on the internet, or even from other New Humans themselves.

"Also," Jane added with a wicked smirk, watching my expression shift from eager curiosity to absolute horror, "that man has superhearing. So when you called him hot this afternoon, he caught every word. Crystal clear."

"Even from that far?!" I practically shrieked.

"He's Deadeye's father," Jane rolled her eyes. "Of course he can."

I felt my face go crimson as I yanked off my cap and stared at its inner lining, wishing it would sprout a black hole to swallow me whole.

Lady Amelie was universally celebrated for her superhuman hearing. Rumours claimed she could detect a pin drop from dozens of metres away, and according to Inoasian accounts, this extraordinary ability had been instrumental in saving the nation.

After Inoasis's liberation, her family had established foundations dedicated to global reconstruction, technological advancement, environmental restoration, and countless other projects.

That gentleman from this morning was the father of such an esteemed lady. Had that look he'd given me been a silent warning for my inappropriate comment?

While Jane turned off the shop lights and waved me off, I grabbed my thick coat and helmet, opening the front door to the winter night wind. As I zipped up my coat, marvelling at how convenient it must be for New Humans to shrug off winter's brutal bite, my thoughts kept circling back to Francis Faucher.

Mounting my scooter, I shook my head, trying to clear away the embarrassment.

That man was probably magnanimous enough to have already forgotten about me. And his visit today was likely a one-time thing that Jane and I could brag about for the rest of our lives.

On Monday, the temperature plummeted, driving more customers than usual into our little haven of warmth. Not exactly packed, but we'd served over twenty drinks by mid-morning, which was already pretty good for us.

By ten o'clock, there were hardly any empty seats left, so I took the chance to head to the back kitchen and check on the muffins in the oven. While whipping cream to stiff peaks, I glanced at the timer. Five minutes left. Once I topped each muffin with its cloud of cream, they'd be ready. Not many, just over a dozen.

I'd just filled the piping bag and was decorating the first muffin when Jane walked in.

"Today's blueberry, right? Just double-checking."

"Yep." I stayed focused, already finishing the third muffin.

Instead of leaving, Jane came closer and patted my back. I looked up to find her eyes stretched wide, hands flailing around wildly as she pointed back and forth between me and the display case before ducking out of the kitchen.

I had no clue what her weird signals meant. But it didn't seem urgent. I kept working, finishing the cream decoration in under thirty seconds, then carefully transferred all the muffins to a small tray.

Then I nearly sent the entire collection crashing to the floor when I saw those hauntingly familiar lilac eyes from two days ago.

"I'd like to try what you recommended, thank you." Francis said, pointing at the fresh muffins in my hands while talking to Jane.

"Of course!"

His gaze drifted toward... well, toward the pastries in my hands. I managed a polite greeting, stepping forward to slide open the display case, gripping the tray's edge like my life depended on it.

After paying, he didn't immediately head to a seat. I could see the hem of his coat and those matte leather shoes through the display case glass.

The embarrassing memory from Sunday crept up my neck and set my ears on fire. Fighting to steady my trembling hands as I arranged the muffins with obsessive care, I tried not to destroy the cream decorations while this tall, gorgeous man waited for... whatever he was waiting for.

"Mr. Jones?"

"Yes!!" I jerked upright. I swear I could feel Jane silently cracking up behind me.

"Your handiwork is also impressive."

Also? Was he talking about the coffee art from Sunday? The pudding? Or had Francis been secretly...

"Do you bake in your private time as well, sir?" The question tumbled out before I could stop myself.

"No."

I risked looking directly at him. He had that same composed, neutral expression, the warm display lighting softening his sharp edges. His attention wasn't on me but on the other pastries arranged beneath the glass. Those dark hairs partially hid those extraordinary eyes, but I still caught the sweep of his impossibly long lashes, the circuit plates embedded on the left side of his forehead, and patches of synthetic skin.

But he was genuinely... beautiful. Despite the implants and modifications, or maybe because of them. An almost perfect face that genetics and technology had somehow crafted together. I closed the display case and looked away before my ears could get any redder.

"I simply believe that when one receives a compliment, one should respond with appropriate appreciation in return. Common courtesy."

My eyes shot up, but he had already turned to find a seat.

*****

Francis had been showing up at least four days a week since then, a pattern that'd continued for half a month now.

Jane would cheerfully take his order, usually just a hot drink, with cakes or desserts only occasionally.

Some customers recognized him. Even those who had no clue who he was would be captivated by his otherworldly beauty. They'd show carefully restrained delight, but more often, expressions of disgust or undisguised wonder.

Some customers visibly stiffened when he walked in, their body language turning rigid and defensive. These people would bolt within two minutes of his entrance.

Their fear, their reverence, their hushed murmurs and thinly veiled mockery—I could sense it all even from my spot behind the counter. Jane would glare daggers at their retreating backs; her lilac eyes filled with fury like she wanted to hunt them down.

Clearly, not everyone was a fan of this former prominent figure.

I'd done some research, too, on Francis's history and original identity from three decades ago. Beyond the dry encyclopaedia entries, countless articles and forum threads online offered wildly different takes on the Faucher family. Pro-Inoasis voices mostly celebrated Faucher's decision to liberate and reform, while the opposition... well, words like tyranny, slavery, brainwashing, and even massacre popped up in critical articles.

I'd also found this stark portrait of Francis from his past: hands folded authoritatively over a sceptre of power, jawline sharp enough to cut glass, fitted black outfit, and the Faucher family head's signature brooch with its blood-red ruby that gave the whole photo this unsettling, fierce vibe.

But it was worlds apart from my first impression of him.

Against the increasingly grey winter streets, his black figure always stood out. I'd spot him the moment he appeared on the walkway outside. My gaze would unconsciously drift to his thin-gloved hands, remembering that portrait of him standing ramrod-straight, his metal right prosthetic reflecting cold light.

Now, I watched as he pushed open the café's glass door, fresh snow still clinging to his long coat's shoulders, eyes downcast.

"Good morning, Mr. Faucher."

"Morning, Jones."

"What would you like today? The usual mocha?"

"Uhm..." Francis paused, still glancing down, "Yes, please."

He wore a blue wool scarf; his chin and cheeks nestled in the soft fabric. All the sharp edges of kingship, both physical and historical, were hidden beneath his clean-cut dark coat. And the light grey cardigan. Okay that was new. A different colour today.

Francis pulled his card from his pocket, gently placing it on the scanner. The machine chimed to confirm payment after a brief moment. Even through his gloves, I could picture his long, elegant fingers as he flipped the card over before sliding it back into his pocket. Casual, relaxed.

I took a deep breath and spoke.

"Thank you. May I ask..." Come on, EJ, you've got this. "Do you like matcha? I experimented with some chocolates with matcha filling yesterday, and I wanted to get some customer feedback. Would you mind trying them?"

Francis always perked up at the mention of sweets. Something I'd learned about him during these past weeks. His expression lifted slightly, those composed eyes meeting mine. 

"I would be delighted."

"Thank you! I really look forward to hearing what you think."

"I will."

I watched him drift toward his usual corner while loading the ground coffee into the machine. After setting the brewing process, I arranged the matcha chocolates on a small porcelain plate.

As I placed both coffee and chocolates on the serving drone, I noticed the women who'd been chattering nearby were now whispering among themselves, occasionally casting glances toward Francis by the window. Meanwhile, he stayed completely unbothered, quietly watching the falling snow outside, his expression peaceful. Knowing he could hear every single word they were saying made me want to laugh.

He's the hero of the New Humans. He's the one who saved us.

Jane had unexpectedly shared pieces of her past a week ago when we were talking about Francis. I'd never dared to ask—it was probably a traumatic memory—I only knew all New Humans had been forcibly transformed.

Saved from where?

Hell. I don't remember much.

I'd stolen a glance at her then. She kept her head down while washing the trays, her cap hiding her face. I made a small sound of acknowledgment and didn't push any further.

I pulled myself from the memory at the sound of traffic outside, those tiny snowflakes drifting lazily downward. Another thing I'd learned was stealing glances at Francis during these quiet moments. His lilac eyes just as deep and bright as they were in that old portrait, though maybe a little gentler now.

*****

(If you wish to read the whole fic, you know where to find me. :))) -xoxo ZY)