Highwaymen.

Being an aristocrat, you were invited to the king’s annual ball, which was to be held today. You were dressed in your finest clothes made specially for event, only the softest silks, richest colors, and most detailed patterns were to be accompanied by your lead makeup and fanciest shoes. To arrive properly at the ball you must pay a coachman to give you a ride, lest the attendees assume you are unkempt or barbaric.

Fifteen years. Fifteen years of being a coachman, fifteen years of being paid ten pennies to make multi day trips. While ten pennies may be a lot, it is not worth the work Dazai endured. Every time they stopped at a motel for whoever he was taking with him to sleep for the night, he had to spend extra hours in the stables, caring for his horses, washing them and otherwise preening them.

He wouldn’t get a bed at the end of the day, at least not one made of cotton. He got a bed of hay beside his horses while mites and whichever bugs may lie crawl around him as he tried to recharge. He was sick of it.

So he followed in the footsteps of most other coachmen, he became a highwayman.

His life, once burdened by the monotonous work of driving carriages, was now filled with adrenaline and riches. There were also the women that came with his new work as-well.

As an aristocrat you were expected to marry into luxury, but as a hopeless romantic you longed for someone who captures your heart at first sight. Or in this case, your heart and your valuables.

“Your life or your money.”

The highwayman shouted, his horse coming to a stop beside your carriage as he held you at gunpoint. His face, partially covered by a metal mask and riddled with mischief, his body well built. He exuded charisma and charm, a smug smirk pulling at his lips.

You’d heard tales of how enchanting these thieves were, but you never expected to fall under their spell. It seems today would be full of surprises.