...[Adastra, Luxamoris. 2028]...

Rain. People scattered in every direction, seeking any shelter nearby. Cars sped down the highway at breakneck speed, trying to get home as quickly as possible. The sky was silent, as though all the birds had disappeared...

Only he stood there, unhidden. The heavy raindrops trickled down his face, and his clothes were so soaked that it seemed they were about to fall apart. The young man simply smirked. The mask he had been scratching away at for years, peeling off his skin, finally slipped away, taking with it every cell that once spoke of him... as a living being, a human, a personality.

[I remember him saying he hated the rain.]

But the rain was the only thing before which he became so weak and vulnerable. Perhaps that’s why he didn’t like it... Or maybe he couldn’t love it? Though... how could you not love something that always erases your traces? Traces of despair and pain, loneliness and the most repulsive betrayal.

BETRAYAL OF HIMSELF...

He smoked cigarette after cigarette, standing at the very edge of the roof, not even trying to hide—denying his own vulnerability. No, he could be weak and miserable, insignificant and pathetic. He was just like everyone else. And that made him human.

It seemed as if despair had already caught up with him, and one wrong move could lead to the irreparable. Of course, he knew this, and with a ciga×ette clenched between his teeth, he stretched his arms out to the sides, as if denying the very existence of choice.

And the raindrops merged with tears of sorrow...

The 'something' smoldered, flying down in a blazing fire, at lightning speed.

The young man looked down, following the falling cigarette with his eyes. Later, it was 'finished off' by cars, oblivious to its presence. He furrowed his brows, and the corners of his lips trembled, falling.

— Pa-pa-paaa... tss, — he said comically, and with a sharp motion, his mood shifted.

— I’m a traitor, — the guy said with a suffocating laugh.

— My angel, I’m a traitor! — and his voice seemed to pierce the very sky. His gaze followed it.

— You cry with me! I cry because I lost you! And you because I lost... myself... — he swallowed the words of his pride.

— Ha-ha-ha! — and he fell to his knees, grabbing his head, unable to bear the weight of what he had said himself.

— They tossed me like this cigarette, and I kept coming back! They killed me, and I cherished... Like a curled soul, I came back, I forgave! — with a smile on his face, he said, and once again his gaze turned to the sky, and this look was filled with despair.

But he continued:

— And you watched me from the height of your flight and stayed silent, knowing I wouldn’t hear, — taking a breath, he swallowed his pride.

— But now I hear even your silence! I hear you telling me that I am a traitor, for all this time I was killing myself! I betrayed myself, — he hit himself in the chest, and a smirk appeared on his face.

— I’m sorry, but even in eternal rest, you’ll have to grab your head, because instead of the ci×arette, it could have been me! And here I am, like a psycho, talking to the sky... And as your SON — I’ll keep disappointing you... And one day, you’ll understand why...

The guy, rolling up his sleeve, extended his hand, and on his wrist was INFINITY:

— Because we are bound by despair, pain, and love! I am your continuation and the chaos and madness that will never betray its essence. N E V E R B E T R A Y.

He had turned, ready to leave, but stopped, adding:

— Watch over me from the sky... because life will show, AND I will fulfill.

With a slight smirk, the guy looked at the sky, and the moon appeared through the clouds. Captivated, he couldn’t tear his gaze away. He stood still, unmoving, and only his lips trembled. That’s when the guy realized that all this time, it wasn’t the rain he hated... but his weakness before it, his despair before the TRUTH.

...♡♡♡...

...[3 years ago. Adastra, Luxamoris. Office of the President and CEO of "Via Adastra"]...

A dusty folder with documents lay at the edge of the desk, and next to it — an unfinished, already cold coffee.

The man was flipping through the reports for the month, seemingly not noticing anything around him. And he had no desire to. Life had already shown itself to him in all its colors, and all he had left to do was pretend that everything was perfect.

He rose from the desk, took a drag from the bitter tobacco, and looked out the window. Life flowed, and everything went on as usual.

He was meeting the dawn, locked in the old office, as if denying the existence of his own family... And the family? It seemed they didn't object. The smoke filled the room, and the man only then realized that he hadn't opened the window. He reached for the window handle, but miscalculated the force - the hinged sash hit him right in the nose. Irritated, he snorted, and when he was about to leave, he accidentally met his reflection in the window.

On the outside, he appeared unshakable and self-assured, and this was how people saw him when they stumbled upon the headlines of his new victories. His face was recognizable: a well-groomed man in his sixties with deep gray eyes and coal-black hair, styled to the side, yet with messy strands in the front and gray streaks, as if deliberately painted at the temples. His sharply defined eyebrows accentuated his thin pale lips, creating an image of severity and unbreakability.

In articles, he was often portrayed as an emperor: either because of the tattoo "impéro," or because of his lavish public appearances, or because he truly "ruled" an empire of businesses in the city, or rather, he was rebuilding them from the ruins. Everyone sought to enter his circle, but many knew: the closest to the king were the pawns.

Despite the general recognition, the man did not see himself as either an emperor or a king. He looked out the window, and before his eyes, a blank board appeared, on which pawns moved along their predictable paths. And they only defended their hypocrisy.

And suddenly, there was a knock on the door, breaking the quiet peace. However, the guest did not wait for a reply — he immediately opened the door and entered.On the outside, he appeared unshakable and self-assured, and this was how people saw him when they stumbled upon the headlines of his new victories. His face was recognizable: a well-groomed man in his sixties with deep gray eyes and coal-black hair, styled to the side, yet with messy strands in the front and gray streaks, as if deliberately painted at the temples. His sharply defined eyebrows accentuated his thin pale lips, creating an image of severity and unbreakability.

In articles, he was often portrayed as an emperor: either because of the tattoo "impéro," or because of his lavish public appearances, or because he truly "ruled" an empire of businesses in the city, or rather, he was rebuilding them from the ruins. Everyone sought to enter his circle, but many knew: the closest to the king were the pawns.

Despite the general recognition, the man did not see himself as either an emperor or a king. He looked out the window, and before his eyes, a blank board appeared, on which pawns moved along their predictable paths. And they only defended their hypocrisy.

And suddenly, there was a knock on the door, breaking the quiet peace. However, the guest did not wait for a reply — he immediately opened the door and entered.

— As expected, — came the monotone voice, — to see you here, Mr. Evans.

— How... What do you want? — the man crossed his arms over his chest and looked sternly at the guest.

As always, he was in his best appearance. Dark brown hair lightly waved around his face, creating an impression of perfect dishevelment. However, what caught the eye the most were his plump, peach-colored lips, contrasting with his high forehead and refined, thin nose. The guest looked like a living Greek statue, and everything about him spoke of effortless chic. He approached Evans with the grace of a cat, smiling slyly.

The man adjusted his sunglasses, which perfectly complemented his dark suit and black-and-white fur coat, adding a sense of grandeur.

— Why are you staring? I don’t believe you’ve given up on unceremonious treatment, — said Evans, exhaling smoke directly into the guest's face.

— Ah! — the guest exclaimed. — How I hate it when you do that, Rei! — he hissed through his teeth, quickly stepping back from the interlocutor.

— You know, I can’t decide what I hate more: your perpetual peacock look, or the fact that you always wear those sunglasses, which most likely hide your contempt, or the fact that you’ve been barging into my office at 6 a.m. for several days in a row!

— Ha-ha-ha! Rei, I’m here because I know you’ll be here! — the man lounged casually in the chair. — Nevertheless, I’m here for another reason.

— I couldn’t care less about your reasons, — Rei leaned toward his interlocutor. — The door’s there! — he pointed at it, not taking his eyes off him.

— This is about business! We’re partners, after all, — said the guest, running his palm over Rei's cheek.

Evans grabbed his hand, looked straight into his eyes, and responded:

— The diablo himself made me sign a contract with you.

— How hurtful, — the guest smirked, puffing his cheeks. — But I know you love me, — he added with a grin.

— As much as coming home.

— Rei, are you hiding from the journalists again?

— Why would I hide from those paparazzi... — confusion overwhelmed the man.

— Oh, so you haven’t heard! Markus is back in the headlines, and now he’s creating even more buzz! — the guest said emotionally.

— What has that wicked child done again?!

— Shh. Here you go, — the man lazily handed over the newspapers.

— “That same 'Trust fund kid' is back in the headlines...” — Rei quickly flipped through the newspapers, more and more surprised by the headlines.

He had already come to terms with Mark’s ingratitude and temperament, but he couldn’t accept that his son was constantly featured in the most unexpected contexts and doing it loudly. And each photo spoke for itself: here he is on a yacht with women, there — in a bar doing a dance on the counter, and here he sends the journalist away without taking his eyes off him...

— How... — with all his anger, Rei threw the newspapers on the floor and frantically started flipping through his phone’s contact book.

— Calling Mark... or your wife? — the guest smirked, watching with genuine interest as the man seemed to have lost his last nerve cell.

Evans didn’t answer, just pressed the phone to his ear, growing more irritated with each dial tone and tapping his right foot, as if that would speed up time.

...♡•♡•♡...

...[Perispera, Luxomoris. Hotel "Hēlios". 7 hours until the call]...

And Mark was the complete opposite of his father. This was true even now, in the countryside hotel for the elite. Among all these serious faces, searching for only one thing — peace — Mark wandered around in a bathrobe with a bottle of absinthe, drinking on the go. While the others hid in their holes, he stepped out into the world, ironically, as no one even tried to stop him. Some women covered their mouths in surprise, and he winked at them, paying no attention to the stern looks from their companions.

Mark was convinced that any of them would jump into bed with him, as soon as he wanted. He knew he was lucky with his genes, and it was pure truth: his charisma, manners, gaze — all of it worked almost unfailingly, but it only complemented...

His sharp chin, straight nose, and slightly raised eyebrows, the confident gaze of his green eyes. Dark chestnut, thick hair, neatly styled upwards. Slightly tanned skin, and on his neck, there was a tattoo of a snake winding around the word "reputation" and a chain. Diamond studs gleamed in his ear, and below — a ring-earring. The cartilage was caught by a snake-shaped cuff earring.

His figure was chiselled, posture like a soldier's. His fingers were thin, like a musician's, and on each hand, there were three rings. On his wrists — gold watches and a bracelet. He was quite the magpie and knew it well, but he liked the way people looked at those shiny things. The young man curved his lips in a slight smirk, smiling and showing off his whitened teeth with a skyce. Surprisingly, they also sparkled, as if money were his second language. Now he winked at another lady, and she couldn’t take her eyes off his charming two moles under his eye.

There he was — the daring charm. There he was, Mark, and he was here to take what was his.

— Are you kidding me? — an epic scene is interrupted by a harsh voice.

Mark looks up and sees his friend standing with his arms crossed over his chest.

— Mark, what the hell are you doing here when we had a quad bike reservation half an hour ago?!

— Ostin, forgive the sinner, — Mark puts his arm around his friend’s shoulders. — I couldn’t resist when I saw this absinthe.

— Would you be making excuses if I saw you with someone in your room?

— You know... — the guy smirked. — You don’t make excuses for things like that, — and winked.

— Ha, Mark, just be a human being...

— Hmm, it’s hard when you’re the descendant of the diablo himself... — the irony in Evans' voice alone was enough to cause concern.

Ostin softened:

— Ahem... ahem, we need to go. The sooner we get there, the sooner we can return.

— Eh, maybe forget it... let’s just stay there.

— I appreciate your sick sense of humor, but go chan... — before Ostin could finish, Mark grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the exit.

Passersby only saw the silhouettes of two men. They argued endlessly — one kept throwing out curses, while the other tossed an unfinished bottle to the side before disappearing into the darkness.

...♡♡♡...

...[Perispera, Luxomoris. On the coast of the sea 'Fati']...

The guys went to a special place, and for each of them it acquired its own special meaning. Each of them had its own world, although it seemed that it was primary and simple: golden sand, calm waves reflecting glimpses of stars, tree leaves rustling under gusts of wind, and a bright moon leading to infinity.

However, everyone saw their own. But people are people that everyone is right in what he feels, and for everyone the world opens up in its own way. Therefore, Mark felt freedom and peace, and Austin — another test of willpower. It would seem that one world — why do they see it so differently? Because they themselves were different. Mark wreaked havoc but sought peace, while Ostin held on to order but feared silence.

Perhaps that is why their paths crossed — they found peace in each other.

— I love that sea, — Mark said, jumping off his quad bike. He straightened his shoulders as he enjoyed the wind caressing his hair and sliding on his skin.

— This is our first time here, — Ostin muttered, moving his eyebrows. He looked incredulously first at Mark and then at the landscape in an attempt to find something familiar.

— Don't believe in love at first sight? — Mark broke the idyll of peace with a ringing laugh.

— I believe in rationality and worship facts.

— "Facts?! "— asked Mark with a mockery. — Then catch the fact. We need to eat — look for firewood! — he shouted so loudly that the birds soared into the sky, and he himself was already digging into a bag of food.

Ostin just sighed, looked up to the sky, as if looking for patience there. However, he nevertheless resigned himself to his fate and wandered into the forest. What annoyed him more? Another incitement of Mark to break the rules or the fact that he himself goes to these measures, listening to primary desires? He himself could not figure it out. The young man did not know the answer.

When everything was ready, the guys sat near the fire, not caring about the sand and comfortable chairs. The silence stretched, broken only by the crack of firewood. Mark looked at Ostin and suddenly said:

— I know you don't like it.

— And I know you're not comfortable with that. But we're still here.

— Sometimes you have to give something up to get something. I have no principles, so I'm already easier than you.

— Come on! As if it affects so much.

Mark laughed, his head slightly back.

— What's so funny?

— Does not affect? If you were in a fairy tale, it would look like this:

"— Oh prince, save me from the evil dragon!

— Wait, I'm going to call the cops. We need professionals. "

— Ha-ha-ha. Ostin replied wryly. — Who even takes up a case that he does not understand.

— They say heroes, — Mark said with unexpected seriousness and looked at his friend, as if turning over every piece of his soul.

— In the modern world — fools, — Ostin did not give up his position, but did not dare to look back to friend.

— Everything must be right?— asked Mark sadly, looking out to sea.

— Why do what you already understand will lead to a mistake? Why do something that will obviously bring a bad result? — Ostin did not calm down.

— But without bad can't be right, — Mark replied calmly.

— Yes, without life there is no death, without the evil of good, without the chaos of order... What are you talking about? — it seemed that this phrase awakened in Ostin the part that he was not even going to understand.

— You don't understand me at all... — Mark sighed. — And you can hardly understand. You are too perfect to be worse.

Evans took a drag on his cigarette, looking at Ostin with slight confusion. The episode of his life when they'd first met crept into his head.

...♡♡♡...

...[Perispera, Luxomoris. Eight years ago (2018) at a forgotten rural disco.]...

Amid the hum of cheerful, drunken voices of friends, Mark went out to the trash cans, anyhow smoke. He looked at the moon admiringly and smiled, and only after a while noticed a guy standing nearby, who was frantically sorting through the remains of cigarettes. The pack was empty.

Mark handed him his cigarette, and he took it with a grateful smile. Evans even felt a little sorry for the stranger. He was wearing tattered shoes, and his hands trembled when he did not find nicotine. Clothes also looked worn, but not too - a long black coat with frayed edges, slightly crumpled, but still a decent shirt. It seemed that he did not care much about appearance, but still tried to create at least some image.

The stranger tucked his curls behind his ear to keep it from getting in the way, lit a cigarette, and looked up at the sky with desperate longing. The guy stood almost motionless, even his gaze hiding something heavy and unrelenting. The young man’s body was tense, as if he were ready to defend himself at any moment. And perhaps this wasn’t the first time: on his hands, like strokes of pain, bandages were visible, wrapping around his fingers, wrist, and part of his forearm, reaching up to his elbow. His gestures, despite the icy calm, carried a certain strictness, almost harshness. It seemed like he was always ready — to dive into the abyss to defend himself and his life. And on him, the impenetrable mask of silence and cold eyes took shape.

— You don’t like cherry-flavored cigarettes? — asked Mark, looking at the stranger.

— The taste is specific.

— Everyone likes their smell, but not everyone is ready for the taste...

— Mmm-hmm.

— Mark! — the guy extended his hand.

— Ostin, — ignoring the gesture, the stranger replied.

— How long have you been here?

— My whole life.

— Haven’t seen you around before.

— I’m not from your circle, — Ostin replied, carefully examining Mark from head to toe.

— Not chatty? — Mark grinned, watching him with interest. He clearly knew the impression he was making.

— Let it be that way, — Ostin cut him off.

— Hey, Mark, are you coming? — a voice called from the door.

— I... — Mark hesitated.

— You’re seeing me for the first and last time. There’s no need for this, — said Ostin, not hiding the coldness in his voice.

— What if not?

— Life doesn’t bring such different people together.

— But I believe in fate, — said Mark with confidence in his voice.

— That’s foolishness.

— Fate will bring us together again if it sees meaning in it, — without waiting for an answer, Mark ran into the building.

...♡♡♡...

...[Perispera, Luxomoris. On the coast of the sea 'Fati'. Returning to the moment.]...

— She saw, — Mark said with a light smile.

— Who? — Ostin stared at his friend in surprise, not understanding his hints.

Mark smiled slightly in response, realizing that neither money, nor connections, nor work had changed Ostin. He remained the same boy with soft facial features and an ironically pragmatic character.

— It’s getting cold, — Mark noticed, looking at his shivering friend. — Let’s go.

— It’s fine, — Ostin shrugged. — It’s too early to go, especially since you’re drunk, and I don’t have a license.

— I’m too spoiled, let’s go! — Mark answered with irritation, impatiently tugging at his sleeve.

— Ugh... you’re pushing me, — Ostin smiled.

...♡♡♡...

...[Adastra, Luxomoris. Rei's Office]...

— You've called him ten times already! Enough! — the guest burst out and abruptly turned on the TV. Mark's father was still dialing his son's number, which caused great irritation.

— What right...? — Rei fumed, until he was interrupted by the news.

"Pampered son of the elite, along with his friend, became the center of an accident not far from Perispera. The condition of the two culprits is unknown, the police aren't giving clear answers..."

Evans's hands trembled, he didn’t even notice how his phone slipped from his hands and shattered into pieces. A buzzing filled his ears, the world stopped existing — he could hear nothing from the outside, only the faint beeping that tried to bring him back. It felt like he stopped breathing himself, and his heart clenched as if it were about to break into a million pieces.

Evans stared sharply at the phone, which in a matter of seconds became a useless pile of glass and microchips. On the once flawless screen, just below the cameras, cracks began to spread. They reminded him of the chaos that always finds a way out once vigilance is weakened. The cracks, as if mocking, formed a strange pattern. A pawn. Just a piece on a chessboard… But who is really the pawn, Evans?

Rei's gaze flicked from the TV to the phone, as if trying to find some solace... But in his mind, there was only an empty noise.

It seemed like one of those moments when life shows who really rules the game. Rei knew — the news were talking about his son. Something inside whispered that Mark was on the edge. But was he even still alive?

...▪︎♡▪︎♡▪︎♡▪︎...

[Perispera, Luxomoris. Sheriff's Office, 6 p.m.]

— Yes, I'm dealing with these... — he snapped into the receiver irritably: — But you must be misunderstanding me. I'm the only cop in this entire town!

The man was clearly on edge, but he continued to defend his position, which did not seem to be shaken even by the end of the world:

— What kind of assistant? I don't even have a trainee!

— Ugh... got it, — he exhaled and disconnected the call. Then his gaze turned to the guests.

These guys were pretty tense, but no more so than the sheriff himself. For the first time in a long time, he had a chance to actually do some work. Now the thought of retirement was finally out of his mind. Who would keep an eye on the scoundrels if he retired?

Despite his age, which was clearly making itself felt, the sheriff continued to maintain his 'polished soldier' image. Not for show, but for himself. It's easier to live when you fulfill even an illusory role.

— Hey, you! — he called out to the two boys who were staring at him, eyes fluttering.

— Yes, sir, — said Ostin.

— You've made such a ruckus I don't know how to keep it down, — the sheriff muttered with annoyance, his jaw clenched slightly.

— Hey, but, Mr. Moor, this isn't your first day on the job, — Mark said wryly.

— I'd keep my mouth shut if I were you, Sylvester, — the sheriff said, stepping close to the boy.

Ostin raised an eyebrow, a look of bewilderment on his face. But the sheriff didn’t plan on slowing down:

— Thank God your father ever checked in with me.

— I will. I'll even go to church when you let me go, — Evans smiled wryly. He clearly didn’t give a damn about the rules.

— Make the diablo laugh, — the sheriff said harshly, and retreated to a dark corner of the office.

— He's already called you, hasn't he? — Mark said confidently. Now it was a two-man game.

The policeman stiffened, then quickly composed and changed the subject:

— Are you kidding? Funny to you...? How would you laugh if your pictures of you in your hotel robe, taken at the scene of the accident, were all over the newspapers? — the man threw out indignantly, coming in from the sidelines. It wasn't his styl — he'd always been a man of action. It was Evans, however, who was forcing him into other tricks.

— Come on, sheriff. You wouldn't let it happen, — Mark knew what he was talking about, and there was a confidence in his voice that couldn't be faked.

And so it was. Sheriff Johnson Moor was definitely not one to sow seeds of doubt. Just one look at him, and it all seemed obvious. His facial expression always remained cold and composed, and no stray word would escape his ears. Life had taught him to hear words even in the pitch black silence.

His high cheekbones emphasized the sharpness of his features, and his cheeks were slightly sunken, as if testifying to the constant tension with which he conducted his dance of life. His forehead was crisscrossed with wrinkles - the very marks left by heavy thoughts and years of burden. The thin line of his lips said that he weighed each word carefully before letting it fall from his mouth. But what stood out most were his eyes - black, tenacious, piercing.

His hair was always perfectly combed to the side, neatly parted, as if slicked back, as strict and practical as that of a soldier who, even under a peaceful sky, is ready to strike.

Everything about him spoke of a dull austerity. The austerity of a man who had seen too much.



In all that faded gaze lurked the heart of a man who was used to counting on himself, but who had not lost all faith in his own principles.

Yet even he remembered whose debt he owed.

— Sylvester, it's been eight years, and you haven't grown up, — said the sheriff wistfully: — Sometimes even gold doesn't solve a problem.

— Not in this case, — Mark said, a slight smirk lighting up his face. It was the smirk of a winner, full of confidence.

The sheriff merely remained silent, taking a drag of tobacco. And then there it was... a devastating silence that spoke more than any words.

— What do we have to do? — Ostin couldn't take it anymore.

— And you haven't changed... — the sheriff said with a soft smile, but even in that gesture there was rejection.

— Mr. Moor, but you too! — Mark clapped his hands and shouted defiantly: — But we're here for a slightly different reason!

— I'm surprised the accident didn't hit you, — the sheriff said dismissively, staring at the ceiling. —It sure roughed Ostin up, though.

Ostin looked down at his tattered clothes, scratched hands and scraped knees. And again... More scars. Scars that would take a long time to fade.

— Did you know he was drunk? — the sheriff suddenly asked harshly, looking hard at Ostin.

— No... Not right away, — he said, tucking his curls behind his ear. — We were late, and I was pissed... I didn't even look at him, and he was already pulling my arm. It wasn't till we got back that I could smell his breath... I tried to stop him, but, you know...

— You're good at stopping, — the sheriff said grimly. — You should have seen it coming. Responsibility doesn't go away. Especially if you're friends.

— "Especially if you're friends," — Mark mocked him, curving his fingers into brackets.

The sheriff responded with a silent fist and a sullen glare.

Mark raised his eyebrows theatrically and covered his face with his palms as if he were afraid. Then he slowly settled down on the couch, leaning on the armrest, and with a fake groan, stuck out his tongue.

— That's it... I'm not going to make it through the night, — he muttered to himself. — Tell my mom I've been good... a couple minutes of my life for sure.

The sheriff rolled his eyes, but Ostin, for the first time in ages, smiled weakly. Until the sheriff's attention returned to him.

Braun looked away and exhaled. He didn't like feeling guilty, but even less so admitting that the sheriff was right.



— Hmm... The statement's been taken.

What else do we need to do, sir, Sheriff...? — Ostin asked, confused. He tried to keep a straight face.

— Get out of my sight. And forget your way in here. Don't make my life any harder than it has to be, — the sheriff glared at Evans, and added pointedly, — I've got enough to do without you.

— What about the hospital inspection? — Mark asked mockingly. He liked to play on the nerves of even the toughest dogs of the law.

— One more word and I'll lock you up for 24 hours! — shouted the sheriff. Oh, how he hated it when a situation took on shades of meta-irony.

— No need. You can't fit another skeleton in the closet, — Mark grinned.

- Out! You'll drive me into retirement before it, you know, — the sheriff muttered, and turned and walked out into the street, slamming the door loudly behind him.

— Why does he call you Sylvester? — Ostin whispered, confused.

The mysteries were getting bigger and bigger.

— I'm a multi-sided person! — shouted Mark, without looking back, and followed the sheriff. No, he wouldn't show his cards even to his closest friend.

— Isn't he a fool...? — muttered Ostin, full of irritation.

...▪︎♡▪︎♡▪︎♡▪︎...

[Adastra, Luxomoris. Evans House. 22.00]

"For some, children are a source of joy and happiness. And for some, they are a cold iceberg of problems and anxiety. But, in truth, neither of these options is better than the other. When your life state depends on someone else, you are already trapped in someone else's will. One may need a person, but the soul will never find peace in someone else. Only within itself. In the depths of its honesty. In its pure mind."

The woman listened to the young monk's speech over and over again, nervously stirring the cooled chamomile tea with a spoon. An empty packet of sedatives lay on the floor, as if absorbing the oppressive atmosphere. Although... could it be so bad in such a luxurious house? Unless... if you're lonely. Was she lonely?

Two yellow eyes suddenly flashed in the darkness, and the woman flinched in surprise.

— Oh! Space dog, I'll never get used to her, — she said with a shudder in her voice, not even noticing the chamomile tea on the floor.



The woman reluctantly began to wipe up the liquid, mingled with the scent of herbs and shards of glass, when suddenly there was a sharp knock on the door. The knock was so hard it sounded like someone was trying to break the door down. But her heart didn't race a beat. She knew exactly who was behind that door. Only one person could barge into her life so shamelessly without leaving her a moment of peace.

The woman didn't even go to the door. She just turned on the same video of the young monk at full volume. She seemed to have listened to it over and over again, as if hypnotized by the sweet but harsh speech.

— Rebecca! I know you're in there! Open up! — shouted a voice from outside. But there was no answer. It was just such a familiar voice — the kind that grated on your nerves.

— Oh, for heaven's sake. I'm getting the keys, Rebecca! — there was another shout, and again silence.

[Had he expected a reply?]

The door opened and there he was. The one whose attention was coveted by many, and the one who needed only her. Rei Evans himself.

The man walked briskly into the room, his whole appearance showing how annoyed he was. It seemed he was ready to tear everything around him.... even this fragile woman. But he only put his hand on hers, stroking it gently.

— Darling... — and it looked like he was going to start his speech, but the woman didn't even look into his eyes. — I'm here for you, — was all he could squeeze out.

How could it be otherwise? It was as if she were looking through him with her brown eyes, in which the traces of sleepless nights lurked at the bottom. Her wheat hair was disheveled with a careless parting, falling loosely over her shoulders, with a few strands disheveled as if the wind had just swept through it. And her lips... Oh, her soft lips were so childishly tight, as if she were holding back words that should have come out long ago.



But does a woman like that need extra words? And now she was already covering herself with a blanket, as if hiding from the one who was supposed to be closest to her. As if she hadn't the one who said "yes" to him in the darkest corner of the planet.

And he stares at her, as if he doesn't understand why she's frowning so sharply, her thin eyebrows pressed together, staring at the table. As if he hadn’t been the one who wanted to see her reflection there, too

— Why aren't you with Mark? — Rebecca whispered, a lion's share of judgment in her voice as she stared at her soulmate across the mirrored surface of the table.

— I asked Lyutsy to handle it, — Rei replied confidently, not questioning his actions. But he was looking at his wife through the mirrored surface, too.

— You're his father, not Lyutsy, — Rebecca snapped, lifting her gaze sharply to meet her husband's.

— You know why, — he replied, stepping back and turning away.

— Why didn't you answer the phone?

— I was waiting for Mark's call, — the woman said firmly.

— Do you need your son more than your husband? — resentment lurked in the depths of his chest.

— I'm responsible for him, — she said, a stern, serious expression settling over a face that had once been sweet and naive. It was clear she was more mother than wife.

— He's twenty-eight! — Rei snapped, and his softness was gone, along with his role as father.

— And you're fifty-four. And you're still afraid of your house, — Rebecca didn't like to hit people's weaknesses, but today she had to.

— This is my house! — Evans shouted, but he didn't seem to believe his own words.

—This is your empire... — Rebecca clarified softly, but her words were not a weak dagger.

— He wouldn’t answer the phone! — the man began to justify himself. But to whom?

— Then why are you here and not there?! — shouted the woman, but she knew the answer to that question.

— Because I was thinking about you, — for the first time he admitted his weakness.

— Is that why the guards wouldn’t let me out of the house? — shouted the woman desperately.

— That's why I'm here! — Rei knocked on her door as hard as he could.

— You're incorrigible, — Rebecca sighed.

— I can't be different with you, — Rei turned back to his wife, the pupils of his gaze trembling with inexhaustible deep. But even his wife, his soul mate, didn't accept such excuses. She was simply caged. A golden, diamond cage, but a cage.

Suddenly, a guard came up to Rei and whispered something in his ear.

— WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN, 'CLUB'?! — shouted Evans and immediately rushed to the door. The door slammed shut as if it had been hit with a hammer. Good thing it didn't have a sickle.

...▪︎♡▪︎♡▪︎♡▪︎...

[Adastra, Luxomoris. Club 'veravitae'. 22.00]

Mark was not one to waste time. As soon as the guys left the sheriff's office, and before Austin could even sink into his foggy thoughts, Mark immediately dragged him to the club. Of course, he'd grabbed his phone from the hotel first, ignoring the endless call notifications. It was so routine that he just knew what was waiting for him there. The club across the street was much more interesting. The one place where he could breathe easy. After all, 'decent people don't spend their time that way,' his father used to say. Which meant Mark wouldn't meet him there, and neither would his 'decent connections'.

The younger Evans loved clubs — he interpreted them as freedom. A place where people tear off their masks. He looked at them and realized that there were no 'false saints' here. Here are those who are not afraid to appear wrong. Let everyone have their own goals, but a drink will reveal any motive. Mark, on the other hand, had no motive. A one-night stand? He could do it anywhere. And those who went to clubs to do it, he considered losers in life. They found courage in alcohol and mixed it with lust. It was like heavenly pleasure with a taste of the diablo.

Mark didn't come here for that, he came here for the music, the dancing and the bonding that only here could be candid. People didn't see his jewelry or status, just his face in the shadows, his wild passion for dancing, and the frenzied freedom that burst out of him.

— There's a reason your father disapproves of places like this, — Ostin muttered, ordering his wine absentmindedly.

— I love sabotage.... And one absinthe, please, — Mark said cheerfully, glowing as if he hadn't been the cause of the accident almost twenty-four hours ago.

— Biting the hand that feeds you? — Braun tilted his head to the side, looking at his friend with an incredulous squint.

— Up to elbow! Woohoo! — Mark waved his hand. No, he didn't care about anything else.

— Aren’t you afraid of the consequences? — Ostin couldn't find reason in Mark's actions.

— I'm afraid of denying myself, — Evans grinned and glanced down at his friend's glass. — And I'm afraid of people who order semi-dry red in clubs, — he added with feigned seriousness.

— I'm afraid of mixing crap with crap, — Ostin said dryly, his fingers tightening around the glass.

— It doesn't change the flavor, — Braun cut him off coldly, not even blinking.

— That’s why you stopped with that cigarette... — Mark reminded him, shaking the absinthe glass carelessly so that the green liquid in it flashed in the light of the lamps.

— Good lawyers don't go on smoke breaks, — Ostin straightened up and folded his lips into a thin line, as if he were pronouncing a sentence.

— They make connections there, — Evans retorted. He was well aware that he'd hit a sore spot.

And it was a low blow. Ostin held his breath for a moment, catching the emptiness inside. He understood every subtle jab from his friend. Mark read him all too well, mercilessly picking at old scars and exposing the boy's new weaknesses.

And it wasn't about that cigarette at all – it was about total isolation in a place where Ostin held onto every shana (a penny unit in Luxomoris). Now he just worked there. Like so many others, though – not for himself, but for the money. For the bank account. For false freedom. The price for this was higher than anything else — Ostin was paying with himself. It wasn't his business, it wasn't his story. It was his bread. And in that bread he was not Ostin, but just another lawyer whose name is remembered until the first trial is completed.

Ostin disliked Mark for the fact that he invariably reminded him of who he had once been. Evans silently judged him for who Ostin never became. And there was something tragic in that — you couldn't hide from the truth, no matter how much you hid.

It's scary, but it's in you until death... and maybe even beyond... in the words of others, on the coffin lid, and in the hollow speeches of the church minister.

— Don't reproach me for not get your chances, — Ostin said sharply, and took a nervous sip of wine. And that sip was so minuscule, as if someone else was footing the bill.

— Even if they're from the diablo himself? — Mark drawled, smirking at the corner of his mouth.

— Even if they're from your father, — Braun muttered darkly, frowning as if he didn’t even know where the nickname came from. Maybe he really didn't — because he'd never looked at Evans any other way. Not at any of them.

— Father... — Mark drawled, leaning back in his chair and lazily rocking it with his left foot.

He exhaled a thin stream of ashy smoke towards the ceiling, as if he himself dissolved into the space along with it. And everything seemed to disappear in an instant: the roaring crowd with music, Ostin with his empty sermons, and even the sharp scent of cigarettes with the flavor of cherry and absinthe lingering on his lips. It was as if in an instant the boy lost all five senses. It was as if he himself had become this space. And somehow, it felt insanely good to him.



— Hello, kitten, — a soft female voice came from behind him, and soft hands settled on Evans's shoulders.

The boy leaned his head back and smiled broadly, baring all thirty-two teeth

— You know where to find me, Stephanie.

— Was there ever any doubt? — the girl laughed.

— Yeeah... — Mark drawled, as if playing game.

— What? — Stephanie feigned surprise, pouting her lips.

— Laughing, — the guy said offhandedly.

— Oh! I was glad to see you, but I have my own plans! — said the girl and, spinning lightly as she turned toward the door.

— Did she call you? — Ostin asked, keeping his eyes on the girl.

— She doesn't bother me over nonsense, that's why she's with me, — Mark said sharply.

— Nothing?! Mark, you were in an accident! — Ostin snapped, raising his voice and drawing unwanted attention to them. And now he slumped into in his chair, his eyes darting nervously from glass to glass.

— You know how much I hate that purring, — Mark cut him off with an unaccustomed seriousness. He watched curiously as Ostin tried to drink the wine down to the bottom — but for some reason straight from the bottle.

Unable to hold back, Mark jumped to his feet and strode toward the center, shouting to catch everyone’s attention:

— Mark Evans on stage! — he yelled, and now he was in the center of the crowd, where all the focus immediately shifted to him.

Ostin pulled himself together a bit and started to search the crowd for his friend. But suddenly... Near the entrance, he noticed her — Stephanie. The girl was laughing loudly, while some unfamiliar man was standing next to her, twirling her snow-white hair with his fingers. Was Ostin surprised by this? Not particularly. He generally didn't understand Stephanie and Mark's relationship, so he stayed out of it. But what Braun didn't understand even more was why Mark never seemed to notice the guys who kept their predatory eyes on her. Ostin had never really liked Steffany.

But he couldn't deny her beauty. Her slim, curvy figure always turned heads. Especially such a blue-eyed blonde with curly hair and bold makeup. With a model-like gait, long legs that made a slight 'click-clack' sound.... And bright scarlet lipstick on her plump lips, which made her slightly childish face look stern. She's a gorgeous woman, of course. But what made Mark so sure she belonged only to him?



Mark wasn't sure. It just didn't bother him. He gathered a crowd around him and, without a second thought, climbed onto one of the free tables near the dance floor — ignoring the spilled drinks and leftover snacks. The protests of someone nearby dissolved on their own into the music and commotion. He ripped off his shirt and started dancing with his glass in his hand, as if the entire room existed only for him. He was having fun. Nothing else bothered him. He was just showing off his abs and singing another song. People jokingly tossed money at him, as if he were a stripper. Mark just laughed. No, Evans wasn't drunk - he was just in his own boat.

[ At that moment, his father was frantically staring at the digital clock. Ray folded his arms across his chest and just stared at the digits, at the seconds on the display... in a room with no light. In a silence that felt more like mourning... hoping to catch familiar footsteps.]



Ostin approached the guard, who hadn't taken his eyes off Mark.

— I beg your pardon, I'm going to, — he began, but then noticed the smile on the man's face.

The guard had no intention of doing anything to Evans, on the contrary — he watched his tricks with a certain admiration.

— Did you want something? — the man asked sharply as he saw Ostin standing there, pale and with his head bowed.

— No. Nothing. Thank you.

— Strange kid, — the guard muttered to himself, watching Ostin leave the club. As if it were not a place of fun, but a slaughterhouse.

...▪︎♡▪︎♡▪︎♡▪︎...

[Perispera, Luxomoris. Sheriff's Office. 8:00 p.m.]

The sheriff stared out the window, leaning against the doorjamb. His mind was in chaos — one thought eclipsing the next. It may not have been visible under the outward calm, but something inside was eating away at his soul.

Outside, a cold downpour whipped by, while he clutched a hot metal mug of bitter tea. The man cast a glance at his office. It was spotless - painfully elegant.

The room was scrubbed to a shine, the walls were freshly painted, and the air held a faint lavender scent from a diffuser. A massive oak table dominated the middle of the room. Next to it stood an armchair with beech legs and backrest upholstered in thick black leather.

To the left of the door stood a brown leather sofa of impressive size. Seemed to beckon invitingly, and beside it stood a glass table. And even there, awards were neatly arranged — in a row, and next to them, a vase with flowers — daisies and a plate of freshly baked pies.

But it was not the table or the sofa, not the atmosphere, not even the pies that drew the most attention. All of it was nothing compared to... Compared to the stunning trophy corner to the right side of the door.

Mounted on the beige walls were the heads of various animals that usually adorned hunters' lodges. These trophies were symbolic rewards for deeds, for a life once lived. They warmed the soul of a man no longer young, but still very much alive. As he looked at them with tired old eyes, memories of his youth’s exploits came rushing back.

The policeman felt stifled.

He abruptly grabbed the home phone with it's five-meter cord and, straining, dragged it toward the exit. The sheriff didn't care about the downpour or the wind that could have blown him away along with the green phone. He simply decided to call his son from outside, gazing into the depths of the forest, feeling as through he were at its very heart.

— Hi, son! — he said, his voice full of excitement.

— Good evening, father, — came the son’s guarded reply.

— You won't believe it! What happened, who I met! — the sheriff exclaimed joyfully. Then added, a little more calmly: — Rei's son, can you imagine?

— Sylvester? — the boy asked, astonished, his intonation expressing shock.

— Yes, I was surprised at first, too! — the policeman went on with excitement: — After all, they had moved to Adastra, got all city-field...

— I thought I'd never see Rei again, but then I met his descendant! The boy's grown up, turned out real fine. And I still remember him - that 16-year-old rascal who used to steal apples from trees and pelt people with them... Ugh! He was a lot of trouble! Folks even called him the local attraction… — the man said, his voice tinged with both joy and sadness.

Then he fell silent for a moment, sighed heavily and added, as if living through it all over again:

— Good times were ... - his voice quivered a little, and a tear slipped down his cheek.

— Father, aren't you confusing things? — the son asked sharply. His voice was filled with doubt and even a kind of worry.

— You think your old man's lost his marbles?! — the sheriff barked.

— I can still recognize that garden wonder evenl 20 years from now, if I live to see it, — the Sheriff said indignantly, and the words burned with rage.

— Never no, sir. I don't even doubt you, — the boy replied hastily and with conviction.

— That’s more like it!

— But... — the boy hesitated. His voice dropped, uncertain.

— But what?! — exclaimed the sheriff, not realizing what could follow.

— That Sylvester of whom you speak has been missing for 8 years...

...▪︎♡▪︎♡▪︎♡▪︎...

[Adastra, Luxomoris. 00:30]

Evans didn't immediately notice his friend was missing. Of course he didn't... Breathing in the endless cherry scent in his lungs, drowning in alcohol and dancing like a clown under a nuclear explosion. When hundreds of eyes are looking at you, you don't notice the couple who can't look. Even if you are Mark. Even if it’s Evans himself.

But it didn't take long for him to revel in his dancing with fire and still notice that very same couple missing. Here Mark distinguished himself by his quickness of reaction — and a couple of minutes later he was on the street, pulling away from the damn crowd he'd gathered with his 'reckless vibe'.

It was that night that Ostin's secret was revealed, a secret that only he and the smiling old man at the kiosk knew. By the nightlights at the edge of the road, Brown waved his hand in the hope of catching a cab, and in his left hand he held, with two fingers around it, a trailing, twisted... oh, what is it... a cigarette?

— Blowing stars? — Mark snuck up softly and smiled sadly, clenching his fists in his pockets.

Goosebumps swept over Ostin, and to his own surprise, he flinched — his hands trembling nervously.

— Zip up. You’re not a stripper, — Ostin replied coldly, teeth clenched.

— Has anyone told you you're terrible at changing the subject? I just want to be the first one, — Mark shot back, not even flinching.

— Okay, I lost it! We had a freakin' ATV accident, and then that sheriff and some lunatic named Sylvester and then you dragged me to this club where... — Ostin was shouting, completely out of control. It seemed that even a polished lawyer like Mark would’ve cracked too, and Brown had been like that.

— Where, what? — Evans asked, feigning surprise, but a quick grin slipped across his face.

— Where’s that Stephanie of yours... with her couldn’t-care-less attitude! —Ostin shouted and threw the cigarette to the pavement, stomping it down as if it were the cause of all thing that went wrong.

— That's not what you meant to say... — Mark whispered, turning his head, as if hurt, looking toward the road.

Silence was the answer. However, that didn't stop Mark in any way... mmm... only made him genuinely devilish, more like those who would drag out everything inside you just to get out any confession. Even a lie.

— You bought cigarettes at twelve at night in a neighborhood that's twenty minutes from your house, because you hate it so much you even refused to work there. And now you’d rather take a thirty-minute cab ride just to avoid hanging around here, — Mark recounted the events of Ostin's life as if bored, as if he were passing judgment. And with such a lion's share of sweet nonchalance.

— Where did that thirty come from? — Ostin seemed interested in the stupidest things. But like any lawyer, he wanted to know exactly how he screwed up.

— You called me half an hour ago and sent a message via that goddamn sms-mms that only my old man uses, — Evans said, holding up his phone and practically jabbing Ostin with the evidence of his own mistake.

— That's probably why you keep going to the same kiosk for years on end, avoiding even supermarkets. Such a familiar old... — Mark laughed, but there was only frustration and pity in his laughter.

— Okay, it's not the first time I've lost it... I... — Braun blushed, and his ten-minute confidence turned into a schoolboy's excuse.

— You can't lie. You're a lousy lawyer, — Mark concluded, straightening his shoulders.

— Shut up, — Ostin snapped, lowering his gaze.

— Let me smoke this crap with you and mix it with some other crap, — Mark said, literally ripping the pack out of Braun’s pocket.

— Hah... now you’re disappointed in me? — but Ostin was worried about something else entirely. He was just asking what he already knew the answer to.

— More like in myself, that I get so high I no longer notice the smell of tobacco... — Mark muttered and scratched the back of his head. — Not even cherry-flavored, — he added and laughed, drowning out the discussion.

The guys laughed, and their distant past came back to them. From the first joint intrigue with cigarettes — to the realization that the closer a friend is, the fewer skeletons remain in your closet.

— Go to the roof? — Mark said smilingly, spreading his arms and looking up. Actually, a motorcycle nearly ran into him, totally not expecting that turn.

— See that? It's honking! — Evans laughed and raised a finger up. — A message from heaven!

Ostin glanced first at the road, afraid the motorcyclist might return... then at the flickering cigarette butt underfoot... and then at Mark, grinning like a fool, as if death hadn’t just passed him by for the second time during this endless adventure. Evans... was always himself: shirt unbuttoned, sunglasses on, cigarette between his teeth. In the middle of the night — as if it were the start of the day, not the end of some damn weird adventure.

And maybe right now Ostin would have gladly opted for a warm blanket and cocoa, but he couldn't leave Mark without a friend and himself without an excuse.

— Let's go... — Ostin said hopelessly.

And they disappeared into the same club, leaving the streetlights without guests and the street without drama.

...▪︎♡▪︎♡▪︎♡▪︎...

[Adastra, Luxomoris. Roof. 01:00]

Moonlight gently touched her, and the wind fluttered her hair, but it brought her no joy — only irritation. Which was made clear by her tense posture and chattering teeth.

— Finally! — the girl shouted, hearing the doors slam shut. — What took you so long?!

— Stephanie! Why are you standing here in the dark? — Mark called, switching on the string lights stretched across the roof.

— How was I supposed to know! You just told me to get the wine and went off to get your Ostin! — the girl was hysterical, but there was no resentment in her hysteria. More like anger.

— She's a my nice woman, isn't she? — Mark joked, continuing to masterfully play on nerves.

— I thought we'd be alone, — Ostin whispered, but even in his whisper a complaint was heard.

— I'm sorry, I didn’t plan a romantic date on the roof. Only at the hotel, — Mark replied with a smirk and winked.

— Fff... — Ostin snorted. He was already used to Mark's shameless jokes, but they still irritated him.

— What are you two whispering about? And stop calling me a woman! — Stephanie was doing her best to get the guys' attention, although deep down she knew it was almost useless.

— About you, my love, — Mark said with a tilt of his head, and Stephanie rolled her eyes.

— It's a beautiful place... hadn't you talked about it before? — Ostin exhaled, greedily scrutinizing every detail. He was ready to drown in it with his whole head, which seemed too unnatural for a man of habit. But even a man of habit can see.

— Said... — Mark said sadly, scratching the back of his head and looking away.

— Oh, I'm sorry, I... — Ostin hesitated, unsure how to react. Whether to his poor memory or to the fact that his friend realized he was being listened to.

— About ten minutes ago, — Evans laughed, patting Ostin on the shoulder as he went over all the moments in his head.

— You... — Braun ground his teeth. He was being pulled again, as if he were a cello.

— I used to have barbecues here, and I used to come here often.... Ah, youth, — Mark said ironically, almost wiping away a tear.

— But how do you have access to this roof? — Ostin frowned, knowing very well how the law works. Or rather, it doesn't.

— You'd better ask his father, — the girl said, folding her arms across her chest.

— Yes-yes, ask the king where he got the keys to all the locks, — Mark drawled, stepping away from them and leaning on the edge of the roof. He hated it when everything always came down to his father.

— I'm just a prince, — he hissed and bit his lower lip.

— Think what you're saying, Stephanie! — Ostin barked like a loyal dog, realizing how this could turn out. He was ready to be the catalyst and the 'bad guy' of the evening. But he was never ready to hand Mark over to someone like Stephanie. Or maybe just Stephanie?

— What was there to think about? - she said coldly, without even glancing at the seriously irritated Braun. She thought it was his usual behavior.

— Maybe about... — Ostin didn't even try to stop the whirlwind of words from spilling out; on the contrary, it only made the guy more draconian. Once again, their next argument began.

They were arguing about Mark, in front of Mark, but without Mark.

Evans had tried to bring them together a hundred times, but he was the very reason their conflicts began. Sometimes silent, sometimes explosive and far too fierce. And he couldn't stop them — because doing so meant giving up on one of them.

The two of them argued so heatedly that they didn't even notice Mark drinking half a bottle of wine, staring at the moon, as if apologizing for his naiveté and silently counting the stars - as a personification of his own mistakes. And then, losing his balance by the railing, the boy fell hard onto the cold roof, nearly flying over the edge. Well, Evans wasn't another star after all.

— Mark! — Ostin leapt to his feet, grabbing at the air — he almost fell himself from the shock.

— Why did I even come here... — Stephanie drawled monotonously, not even moving.

— I don't know, Stef, — Mark exhaled with uncharacteristic anger, rising and leaning on the railing as if searching for support — not just physical. — Maybe because of me... or through me? — he added, taking a sharp gulp of wine and stretching the bottle toward the edge of the roof.

— Wonderful! When you find out — call me, — Stephanie snapped and rushed to the exit, her heels loudly clicking.

Ostin shifted his gaze in surprise — from the door, to Mark, to the bottle.

— Don't drink alone... my favorite wine, — Braun broke the silence, raising his eyebrows slightly, expressing regret, if only like that.

— Take it. I just took a couple gulps of what you started back at the club... — Mark smiled easily and suddenly handed the bottle to his friend.

— Oh... Why are you doing this? — Ostin asked — not about Mark, but about himself. He knew — Mark didn’t need specifics.

— Because you're bad at hiding... — Mark cut him off, his lips curving into a comically crooked smile.

— I'm not that alcoholic, — Ostin shook his head.

— No, and I'm not a chaos catalyst, — Mark shook his head even faster, then titled it back and smiled broadly.

The boys laughed. They were hopeless. They had no hope.

— I have to work tomorrow, — Ostin added flatly, lowering his gaze to the empty bottle.

— Today? — Mark asked, eyes wide as if he'd heard the wildest thing in the world.

— Never mind... — Ostin muttered, blushing and scratching the back of his head. No, it wasn’t him who messed up the timing — it was time that had messed with him.

— Downstairs, then? You love catching cabs, don’t you, — Mark winked and slowly headed for the exit. — I know you two will never get along. I'm just not ready, — he added at the door with such seriousness, even in his facial expression, that the very lights around him seemed to dim.

Ostin shook his head. — Then finish this, — he said, handing over the empty bottle, barely realizing it himself.

...▪︎♡▪︎♡▪︎♡▪︎...

^^^[Adastra, Luxomoris. 02.00]^^^

The boys stepped outside, and Ostin looked around, confused. This trip had really been a hot one: heated arguments with Stephanie, an evening at the sheriff's office, and nighttime rooftop forays from which Mark had nearly fallen. It seemed that even Braun himself couldn't believe that this whole fermi~la~comedy was finally over.

— Okay, shall we head home? — Mark suddenly snapped him out of his musings. — Come on, I'll give you a ride, — he added with a smirk, watching for a reaction.

— What? — Braun asked, snapping out of it.

— Yeah, I left my swallow here before our weekend, — Evans said with a sly squint and a relaxed tone.

— Mark, this is illegal! — the furious lawyer in Ostin instantly flared up, not even allowing the thought of breaking the smallest rule.

— Come on, it’s not my first sin! — Evans laughed and, waving his hand, added: — And who would dare to fine a car like that?! Ha-ha!

— Oh, — Ostin knew perfectly well that arguing with Mark was pointless. Besides, if he kept going, he’d hear about the greatness of this ‘drift cab’ a hundred times more — that’s what Braun’s boss called it.

No wonder. Mark was insanely proud of the 'swallow', as he called it. Yet in spirit, it resembled more a ‘Falcon’ — black as the very night, with thin golden accents on the body and matching centers on the wheels. Surprisingly, the Swallow had a matte paint finish that seemed to absorb all the cars around it.

[Was it real gold? Mark never talked about it, and Ostin preferred not to ask.]

Ah... that leather interior, soaked with all the indecencies in Evans’s spirit, immediately caught the eye... No wonder: it was literally screaming red, and, surprisingly, constantly stayed clean to the point of exhaustion.

'Falkonis' — was the first and only automobile company the Evanses invested in. More precisely, Mark — through his father's money. He didn't just want to own this sports car but to have a direct connection to it.

Mark, like a magpie, pounced on everything shiny and flashy, but no car could endure such an owner for long. Or he them.

The only way for Mark to at least put down some roots was to build a custom car. But the guy liked fast solutions, and 'Falkonis' was better than anyone at that.

And investments were a matter of principle: his father always taught him to 'buy luxury not for the name, but for the profit'. Well, Mark, as a complex man, decided to take the words of the elder Evans too simply.

So that’s how he got his 'swallow' — a sports car-beast, which so and glittered, standing in the distance on the wrecker-platform... as if calling to himself.... One word — pure fantasy, not a car!

— Is it just me, or is that your car being towed away? — Ostin shouted, spotting the sports car on a flatbed tow truck, clearly going wherever it pleased. As if it was totally normal to snatch cars in the middle of the night, right under their owners’ noses.

— That can't be real! — Mark laughed at first, but then suddenly stopped short and cried out in shock: — Wait... what?! — then he rushed forward, bolting after the tow truck.

— Told you it was illegal! — Ostin shouted after him.

— What is he doing... — Braun mumbled in confusion, looking toward Mark, and already bracing himself for his friend to stir up bustle again.

And he was not mistaken. By some miracle, Mark managed to leap onto the tow truck’s platform, grabbed the metal edge, and nimbly climbed into the cabin of his 'Swallow' through the open roof. The circus man didn't even notice the fallen wallet.

— Hey, Ostin! The swallow is safe! — Mark shouted joyfully, not caring about Ostin's five-kopecks eyes. It was as if his actions were perfectly appropriate.

Instead, Evans calmly rummaged through the glove compartment of the car. Well, as was to be expected he found a bottle of champagne and a corkscrew in there.

— Look what I've got... — he whispered under his breath and, with sparkling eyes, began carefully uncorking the bottle.

— How did you... — Ostin mumbled to himself, fumbling for words for his disheartening verdict, running a hand across his forehead and lowering his gaze. Then his gaze fell on Mark again, who was already sipping champagne.

— Completely... crazy, — the verdict was clear.

— Hey, what are you doing?! — the driver yelled out of control, seeing the guest, frantically hitting the klaxon and flashing his emergency lights.

— I'm taking back what's mine! — Mark snapped back in the same furious tone of voice and punched the klaxon angrily, drowning out the driver's shouts.

— Get out immediately! — yhe driver almost howled, waving his hand.

— I won't! Give me back my ride! — Mark yelled, leaning out of the hatch and waving a bottle of champagne.

— You'll come with me to the station! — threatened ominously the driver, who clearly didn't like to stand on ceremony.

— Drive! — Mark shouted, settling comfortably in the seat and crossing one leg over the other. — Let’s see how legal this is, — he added sprawled in the chair with a lazy smirk.

— Absolutely! — the driver roared and sharply jerked the wheel, turning the tow truck around.

— Whoo! With the wind! — shouted the brown-haired man, sticking the bottle in the air, ostensibly celebrating. Probably his upcoming arrest.

At that moment, Rei came up to Ostin, holding a phone to his ear. Apparently, he had been unsuccessfully trying to call Mark until his eyes accidentally fell on his son's car standing on the tow truck platform, and then on Evans Jr. himself.

Rei froze with wide eyes, and then, briefly in shock, clenched his jaws and screamed:

— Mark, damn you! How the hell are you in there... you are?! — Rei, waving his index finger, almost jumped with anger. His whole face twisted with extreme outrage.

— Oh, Daddy, long time no see! — Mark leaned his elbow on the edge of the open window and theatrically raised his hand to his forehead, as if ‘saluting an old comrade’. — Listen, such a cool phone you have… what century did you pull it out of? This antique, ha-ha… — the guy said ironically, playing with his eyebrows.— How’s life? Not young and boring, huh?! Wanna drink? — Mark lifted the bottle up as if proposing a toast and burst out laughing.

— Where did you get that… — Rei paused, clenching the phone in his hand with such fury it seemed he was trying to crush its metal casing.

— I told you I don't drive drunk.... — said Mark with a serious look and added: — I get a ride.... ha-ha-ha! — he stuck out his tongue and, leaning his elbows on the edge of the open window, grinned with satisfaction.

— Jump out of there! — Rei shouted furiously, barely aware of what he was saying.

— What? — Ostin blurted out, startled by Ray's words, rubbing his eyes as if trying to wake up.

— And why are you staring at that idiot? — Rei snapped, turning sharply to Ostin. — You want him to trash your reputation too?! — he threw at him in an accusing tone.

— I don't even... I don't understand what's going on here... — Ostin muttered, absentmindedly rubbing his chin.

— Do you think I do? But we have to do something! — Rei threw angrily, his gaze darting around as Ostin struggled to piece things together in his head.

— But... what? — was all Braun could manage, his lips pressing together slightly as he looked up at the sky.

At that time Rei noticed his son's wallet on the road, quickly picked it up, and silently shoved it into his jacket pocket. He was too sharp to linger where he didn't need to.

— You'll call me when he's released ... — Reisaid firmly, as if he had nothing to do with it. Then, with a snort, he added: — If they release him, — aftter that, he turned sharply and walked away, his steps thudding loudly.

Ostin did not look in his direction, only heard his footsteps. They were loud, like the marching stomp of military boots, drowning out everything around. Braun realized Rei wasn't coming back or even turning around. Furious, he clenched his fists and bit his lip until it bled. Deep down, he wished he could be as 'hardened', but then he would no longer be Ostin, but another puppet of ambition in power.

Ostin did not look after him, because he knew: if he did, he’d only see Rei’s back — moving farther and farther away... from morality, from the law, from love.

...▪︎♡▪︎♡▪︎♡▪︎...

[Perispera, Luxomoris. Sheriff’s office, basement archives. 23:00]

The man rummaged through the archives materials in vain, hoping to find at least some clue. He sifted through old records, documents worn down by life itself. Everything smelled of dust and dampness, and many cases were cracked, torn, with ten-year-old spilled coffee stains on them. But the sheriff was not afraid of dirt — he was accustomed to it. He lived and worked in it, carrying on the family business, but never managing to truly continue it properly.

It seemed these digs lasted a good hour. And any diligent policeman would have had all the files long sorted by alphabet and years... However, the sheriff himself did not believe in their order, even though it was he the one who had arranged the cases in such a way as to keep them out of the hands of others. And still now he rechecked every case, pulling reins on order and his time, as if they were endless.

The locals said the sheriff was too harsh and demanding towards others, but if they had seen his fussing in the basement — they would have bitten the gag.

[Either you are cruel to yourself, or to the one you were supposed to become?]

— Don't understand why Evans' file isn't here? — muttered the sheriff irritably, tossing one document after another without caring how they fell onto the dirty floor. — Keeping all the records. This is a high-profile case! — shouted the sheriff, and the lamp flickered in response.

He cautiously directed his gaze at it and shouted to it as if talking: — A man is missing! — he jabbed a finger at it, as if he had found the culprit of the mud celebration. — Yes, eight years ago, but there must be some clue.... — the man continued, furiously rubbing his palms over his face with such force that his skin became covered with red spots.

Then he slowly dropped down onto his knees, sitting down heavily. The sheriff was at a loss, pondering where to dig next and whether it was even worth it.

And then from the very light, even so desperately dim, as if from a window of hope, a night moth quietly settled on his shoulder. He did not chase it away, though he felt its fragile touch and saw its almost transparent presence; he just watched it, as if he had found a sign in it:

— Who led this case? — the sheriff asked firmly, extending his rough finger. The moth flew onto him unconditionally, trusting.

— Cryptus? Seclusio? REX? Umbra? — he whispered, recalling old colleagues, not taking his eyes off the celestial creature and slightly squinting.

And then, froze in amazement. Suddenly, he blurted out:

— Could ... it was me? — after which he jumped up as if he had been shot.

— Where was I eight years ago?! — he shouted at the cold metal filing cabinet, stomping his foot nervously.

The familiar silence. No butterfly. No sound. No hope.

The sheriff shook his head, gathering his critical thinking and detective flair back together. The man must have realized that talking to space was more the work of a criminal than a dog of the law. True, he now doubted who he was. The meeting with Sylvester had split his life into before and after.

But what made the sheriff decide that that guy was a descendant of Evans? Because Moor would have believed his son, but he did not believe his words. Let's say. But why would the son lie to his father? For the same reason that the sheriff lies to himself when he tries to believe him.

— No. No. No... I'm alone in the basement. So it's not clean, — the man summarized, clutching his chin.

And just in time.

After a few seconds, the door above creaked treacherously. Goosebumps instantly ran over the sheriff’s body.

Someone was in the house. In his house. The one who shouldn’t have been here.

Without hesitation, the sheriff ran outside through the emergency exit. He looked through the window of the house and barely made out the silhouette of a man...

The silhouette bent down — the sheriff pulled out his rifle. But he didn't even move: he began removing his shoes, then wickedly stretched his neck and slowly straightened up, looking relaxedly out the window, unaware of anything.

And then his pupils dilated like orbits, and a faint whisper revealed a tiny truth in a fraction of a second:

— Father...

But the bullet was already racing straight toward him.