Chapter 4

...ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ...

[Adastra, Luxomoris. Police Station. Same Night]

Mark was taken straight to the police station, but he didn't care at all. The driver was clearly on duty and was boiling with rage. He was especially eager to punish people like Mark.

However, the man didn't take into account that Evans was not an ordinary guy. While the driver was filling out the paperwork — the evacuation report and the protocol on unauthorized entry — Mark, under the pretext of smoking, silently climbed into the cab of the tow truck. With the confidence of the last hacker about to break in, he pulled on the gloves found on the seat and opened the DVR's protective compartment, humming softly and moving to the rhythm.

The guy knew exactly which movements to perform and at what speed, so he was as relaxed as possible. He deftly extracted the SD-card and, whistling, hid it in his pocket. Then he pressed a couple of buttons — the screen confirmed successful formatting of the memory.

All the compromising recordings disappeared within seconds.

With a triumphant grin, lighting a cigar, Mark confidently closed the compartment and climbed out of the cab of the tow truck. No data will surface — this station isn't even equipped with external cameras. More precisely, they exist, but only for show. Of course, Mark knew that.

[Should I remind you how important funding is?]

— You do realize that this idiot is breaking the rules. The car had been parked in an unauthorized spot for several days, and I simply took it away when there was no foot traffic, — the tow truck driver reported to the police officer who had recently completed training.

— I need to speak with the senior officer, —he replied, eyes wide open. It seemed he doubted the reality of what was happening. Eh, rookie...— He'll be here in a few minutes... Oh, there he is, Sir Major Nivis! — the young man was relieved that he wouldn't have to haul this burden himself.

— Greetings. What are the violations? — a confident and self-assured man entered the station. He exuded the aura of a professional villain, but no — he was a cop on duty.

— Here's the guy, Sir Major Nivis — the junior sergeant said, pointing at Mark, who had followed the policeman inside. — He jumped onto the tow truck that had impounded his car.

— Greetings! — Mark shouted loudly enough to make the policeman flinch.

— What did he do?! Oh... don't you know how to solve this? Formalize the photo-fix, — the major said irritably. He had come here for a couple of hours regarding a completely different matter. He clearly didn't want to deal with anything unnecessary.

— Yes, sir Major Nivis! — the rookie nodded and eagerly got to work, fire in his eyes.

— Wow, a photo shoot at the police station – this will be a keepsake! — Mark exclaimed with anticipation, as if it were the first time in his life.

[What is this strange collection?]

— And me? — the driver asked, puzzled.

— You’re free to go! — the major replied shortly, not hiding his irritation. — Everything’s already been processed.

They started photographing Mark, but he made faces, sent hand signals, and completely turned the process into a comedy show. The rookie was lost, not understanding how to act. It was the first time in his practice that he had encountered such a character. The junior sergeant looked to the major, because no matter what orders he gave, Mark simply ignored them and acted on his own accord. Mark sensed authority.

The major received a phone call at that time, and he answered with a heavy sigh. For some reason, he wasn’t fazed by the unknown number that showed up on his personal cell phone.

— Delete my number, — a cold voice commanded abruptly, without any preamble.

— Lu...? — the major faltered, no trace of the mask of restraint and confidence left. He recognized the voice, but for some reason he was afraid of it.

— Keep quiet. A little birdie told me you made a case on the wrong man on your shift. Did you forget that any case against him leads back to you?! — the voice exploded with menace, not mincing words. It was a distant bird.

— Ahem... This guy? — the major glanced sideways at Mark in the distance but paid no mind to what he was doing.

— Exactly, — the voice cut him off curtly.

— All right, I’ll fix it, — the major said calmly. The dial tone sounded immediately — apparently, the caller hung up without overloading his schedule.

The major immediately rushed over to Mark, while the junior sergeant, stunned, kept filming out of inertia. As a result, the policeman ended up in the frame too — and not in the best light. By that time, Mark had already snatched his cap off and was playing the role of an important person. Meanwhile, the major was frantically waving at the rookie to stop fixing these moments.

Well, a classic display of Mark’s spirit.

— Go away, the case is closed, — the major shouted at Mark. Mark was already looking at him with a serious expression, as if he were a criminal, squinting in feigned contemplation and tilting his head from one shoulder to the other.

— Sir Major Nivis, but why? — the rookie asked, clearly upset by the situation. Perhaps he took it as a personal verdict.

— What about the swallow? — Mark threw, completely unconcerned about who was in charge.

— Quiet. I'll talk to you later, — said sharply the major to the junior sergeant, then, looking at Mark, added brusquely: — And you — you're not in a zoo.

— I'm talking about the sports car, — Mark said to the major with such surprise, as if all sports car drivers called their cars ‘swallows.’

— You mean that monster on the tow truck? — the major asked ironically, grinning cheekily.

— Keep your mouth shut! — Mark clenched his fists and bared his teeth. He was ready to tear someone apart even for a single word against his car.

— You'll have your swallow. Go with God! — threw the major and, without looking back, headed to his office to deal with other, more important matters.

— More like hand in hand with the diablo, — Mark snapped with a sneer, shoving his hands into his pockets. He hadn't even thought about leaving without his swallow. But seeing Ostin outside the window, he changed his mind.

Braun couldn't sit still. He just paced back and forth, kicking everything in his way. Sometimes he'd freeze, staring into the void. Terrible sight.

Then he looked straight at Mark, with the pity of a forsaken puppy. A friend was still more important than any sports car, even a glossy one, so Mark simply turned and walked away without a 'thank you' or a 'goodbye'.

...ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ...

[Persipera, Luxomoris. Sheriff’s Cabin. Same Night]

The sheriff froze, poised for battle. Cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He fired. He fired at his son — the only child the world had sent him. And he did it without even pausing to consider: was it worth it? It wasn't just his failure as a cop — it was his failure as a father.

But today, the world didn't take him. It took something deeper... his own pride and sense of professional worth.

[Even when you pay, the world will take it piece by piece — sometimes in ways too cruelly intricate.]

The son immediately burst out of the house, barely regaining his senses. No wonder — just one wrong move, one micro gesture — and the world would disappear, and you with it. He lunged at the sheriff and slammed him to the floor with all the strength and fury blazing in his mind. Yes, it was reckless. But still, in those few seconds, he couldn’t come up with anything more sensible. It's not every day you get shot by your own father…

— What are you doing?! — the young man screamed hysterically, clutching his ancestor’s clothing almost to the skin. — Say something... — it sounded like despair, but in fact behind it lay a sense of injustice and the utter insignificance of his life… one that could be taken away in less than a minute. As if it were worth nothing. As if it were a bolt that could be swapped for another in an instant.

— Sorry... — the sheriff slowly stood, brushed the dirt off his clothing, and stowed his revolver. He acted irritatingly casual, as if it were not his mistake that would be fatal. — Let’s go to the cabin, — he said in a monotone, as if his son no longer mattered to him.

[Did he mean anything to him, or do years and thoughts of retirement simply make you stop believing in the power of people?]

His son looked at him with a pale face, then rose, but simply couldn’t move. It seemed as if another flash of rage was about to overwhelm him. He clenched his fists tightly, bowed his head, and, ignoring the bangs falling over his eyes, simply entered the house. Without uttering a sound.

— Are you hungry? — such a simple fatherly question seemed utterly insignificant.

— You almost killed me ... — the guy couldn't hold back, but spoke as if to himself. Quietly and without even glancing in Moor's direction.

— I told you: sorry… — the sheriff faltered. — And one ought to warn me before visiting. I didn’t know that after all these years you’d remember your father existed… — and the excuses began to pour out. Why can’t such a stern law dog admit his own mistakes? Or is that exactly the reason?

— Listen, I’ve been busy… — the son knew full well that his father was simply shifting the blame onto him. But he also understood: his father would never admit it. Not even in his own thoughts.

— Three years? — the sheriff straightened abruptly.— Tell it like it is: you decided I'm crazy, that's why you're here, — he said with contempt, slamming the table so hard that a pie bounced off the plate and nearly fell to the floor. What’s with all this rage, or are you angry at yourself?

— You know, you don’t call every day claiming you saw a ghost, — the son retorted just as harshly. There was neither irony nor mockery in his tone — only genuine incomprehension, and deep down, a hint of worry lingered. It was evident that the guy truly believed what he was saying.

— It wasn't a ghost! — shouted the sheriff, almost out of control. He believed in what he was saying as well. And that’s exactly what turned everything into a comedy of the absurd.

[Who’s at fault if they’re both right?]

— You're at it again! — the son couldn't take it. He looked at his father with pity, as if he were mentally searching for the nearest psychiatric hospital.

— Don't you dare yell at your elders! — and in that moment, his dignity and sense of self-importance clashed. Now the sheriff wasn’t arguing about whether he had seen Sylvester. He was arguing about himself.

— I'm sorry... — the son hesitated and sighed. He knew: only Sylvester could be more stubborn than his father in this world. Ironically, he had vanished.

— What do you know about Sylvester? — the sheriff’s voice sounded no longer like a father’s, but like a cop ready to tear a throat for the truth.

— Just like that? No 'how are you,' no 'what have you been up to, son,' no 'I'm so glad to see you'? — the son could hardly believe that this conversation was really happening. Deep down, he still hoped that maybe somewhere inside this iron cop lay the love of a real father.

— Is this the first time you’re seeing me? — the sheriff said coldly, not even blinking. No, it hasn’t been hiding.

— Really. What a foolish son, — the guy muttered ironically, not taking his eyes off his ancestor. Pain was visible in his eyes, and his pupils seemed ready to fill with the purest water.

— The sheriff didn't soften his tone, didn’t make any concessions, didn’t even flinch. He was like a stone, but with the skin of a man.

— He disappeared eight years ago, then he was declared dead, — the son reported in a calm, emotionless voice, like a TV news reporter.

The sheriff waited, persistently looking for the slightest mistake in his words.

— And where was I? — he finally asked, as if trying to find hidden pitfalls.

— As always, on the road, — the son replied.

— And how do you know? — Moor persisted, digging deeper and deeper, as if trying to break his interlocutor. It didn’t matter who he was to him. But for what?

— I get my information from thin air, — the son said irritably. Of course, when your help is treated as a bargaining chip.

— Don’t be rude, — the sheriff raised his voice.

— Don’t give me an interrogation, — the son turned away, about to leave. These battles had worn him out.

— Then speak to the point, — the sheriff placed his hand on his shoulder so firmly that he could have broken the bones in one motion.

— Only when you stop seeing me as a criminal, — the son replied, every word soaked with pity and bitterness.

Silence. Nothing more is needed here.

Or maybe the shadow cast by the sheriff’s awards? Or the scent of lavender, which now felt like suffocation? Or perhaps we should talk about the son, ready to break free if only you loosen your grip.

— You know what I’m like, — the sheriff broke the silence. He didn’t even give it a choice — only on his terms.

— Of course, that’s your favorite manipulation, — the son said, now so loudly that even the deafest walls could hear. He no longer wanted to remain a shadow in his father’s eyes. He didn’t want to be the lapdog in his affairs.

— But I saw him, Frank, — the sheriff said with a hint of guilt; it could even seem as if he were starting to doubt himself. But he had never doubted himself. Now doubt flickered in his gaze, directed at his son.

— No. You just want to call yourself a cop again, — the son said harshly, not thinking of the consequences. He had inherited such stubbornness from his father — no wonder.

But Frank didn’t rejoice for long — he noticed sadness and despair on his father’s face. His gaze darted about, and he unclenched his arms, which had been crossed over his chest.

— I'm sorry... — he said with a military gesture and a slight smile, though the corners of his lips trembled. — Father, you really could see him, — he said encouragingly, though inside he doubted the adequacy of his words. He just wanted to pretend to believe, so that his father's next tricks wouldn't make him feel vulnerable under the police officer's aim.

— Of course! He was still with Ostin! — the sheriff blurted out involuntarily, then abruptly fell silent and wiped his mouth.

— Ostin? — the son squinted. The name felt painfully familiar, but he couldn’t understand why.

— Uhu... Let's have some tea, — the sheriff said, pointing at the kettle. No, he didn't bother to make the tea himself — instead, he nodded and motioned for his son to do so.

The sheriff watched his son fiddling with the kettle — at the same age as he himself was — and didn’t recognize his child in him. Over these three years, he had changed a lot. He looked far younger than his years.

Perhaps due to the combination of a neat appearance with a slight touch of rebellion: a youthful haircut dyed black and white, and chameleon eyes—one brown, the other blue. This puzzled the sheriff a little, since Frank had brown eyes....

He heaved a heavy sigh and continued to scrutinize his unexpected guest.

Thoughts gradually came over him: 《His body… so muscular… all his father! And his skin… so pale… clearly lacking vitamins! But his lips… such plump lips — he got them from his mother. A delight for the eyes, not a son… Strange, of course, in appearance as a whole! But times are not what they used to be… Let the youth stand out… Not a word about his appearance, or he’ll get shy and run away. Must as...》

— Listen, you didn’t believe me — I know it. Don’t pretend otherwise. Don’t fool an old man — I’ve seen hundreds like you, — said the sheriff, looking at the table. It hurt him that after a long separation, the first thing his son did was lie.

— Nothing can be hidden from you, huh? — Frank said calmly, looking his father in the eye. Then he added: — Sylvester… sigh… disappeared eight years ago. No magic happened, Father. His family ordered the coffin themselves, 'buried' him right after hearing the news, as if they knew he would never return, — Frank explained calmly, without taking his eyes off his despairing father.

But Johnny didn’t even think of backing down — he let all his son’s words go in one ear and out the other, only pretending to listen.

《How is this even possible?! I just saw Sylvester and Ostin with my own eyes not long ago! Yes, they responded to those names… So then who was it, if not them? Who would come up with the idea of fooling an innocent cop?! No, it was definitely them! And if not them, then I — Johnson Moor — will never drink again, so that I won’t start seeing all sorts of nonsense, like dead people…》

[It doesn’t matter what Frank says. What matters is only what you see with your own eyes, right, Johnson?]

— Sometimes the past knocks at the door. The question is whether you’ll open it, — the sheriff replied calmly, taking out a bottle of century-old cognac.

Johnson received the cognac from his grandfather. And his grandfather got it from his father, an old hunter, who in his youth had drunk himself under the table and gone into the forest for fun. He never returned, leaving only this cognac on the doorstep with a note: 'To the Hunter'.

None of his relatives followed the crooked path of the poor fellow — and so the alcohol lived to a hundred years, surviving more than one generation. Might as well put up a monument!

Our Johnson, by the way, our policeman, took the hunting path: he collected trophies, strengthened his will, learned how to handle a gun — and also received a cognac as a gift! How much joy it brought — words cannot express. But most importantly, after it, Johnson felt calm, and he wanted to live...

Johnson carefully polished his hundred-year-old cognac and glasses until they shone, then began to pour the drink. Suddenly he remembered that he had no one to drink with — Frank had steadfastly refused alcohol as far as Johnson could recall. This upset the sheriff even more. He sighed deeply, put the shot glass aside, and slowly raised the neck of the bottle to his lips...

《Not drinking is sinful, and taking a shot alone is improper. Well... let's go to extremes!》

— What are you doing?! — Frank shouted, rushing toward his father and trying to grab the bottle. He knew that the sheriff became completely uncontrollable when he drank.

— Take your hands off! Won't let me drink? You don’t drink yourself, and you won’t give me any! — the sheriff barked. He couldn’t stand it when someone took his alcohol.

— Not now, please... — Frank croaked, looking fearfully at his father.

— You may continue not to believe that I saw Sylvester! You may continue to stay away for years! You may not follow my path! But to intrude into my home, into my peace, and pretend that I’m crazy — that I will not allow, — the sheriff said indignantly. It seemed nothing could stop him.

— You're right, I really am not the son you raised. And not the one you wanted me to become. But if you never supported me, why would you think I’ll support you now? — Frank said with such coldness in his voice that it sent shivers down him.

— Your choice. I’ve already made mine, — the sheriff said calmly, lifting the bottle to his lips.

Frank couldn’t watch it. He recoiled at the mere movement of his father toward the alcohol, so he simply left. Silently. Without saying a word. And Johnson what? He didn’t even try to stop his son. Too accustomed to solitude, he perceived even his own child as a foreign puzzle in his life’s picture.

And so they remained each in their own world: the sheriff — convinced that not everything was so simple, and Frank — thinking that his father had completely lost his mind because of alcohol.

...ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ...

[Adastra, Luxomoris. Center. Morning of the Next Day]

Ostin waited for Mark that night on pins and needles. He was even ready to spend the night in the police station with him. But that didn’t happen — Mark was held under the law for only a short time. True, there is no morality in the realities of Adastra. And although Ostin was glad that everything turned out fine, his inner lawyer was already preparing to stage a real rally. After all, Mark had been released as if he were above the principle of the law.

With heavy, contradictory thoughts, Ostin headed for the courthouse, not paying attention to where his feet were leading him. Immersed in dark thoughts and inner doubts, he resembled a sullen ghost. Today he had a hearing, and that made him feel even more disgusted with himself. Today he was again the law — which only worked when wearing a suit.

Mark ran toward him — all joyful and so ridiculous, as if he were waiting for his friend to step out of his quiet little closet. To do what? To remind him where the world is with a life resembling tribunals. He had only made a fuss this night, and now he acted as if he had just bought coffee on sale. That's what made Ostin even more annoyed.

— Hey, what are your plans for today? — Mark asked optimistically, expecting an answer that would be to his liking.

— Work, — Ostin cut him off coldly, staring sternly at Evans.

— Come on, let's have some fun! Besides, we should take a break from the recent boom, — Mark suggested playfully, winking.

— Recent boom? — Ostin swore in bewilderment.

— You mean your jump onto the tow truck, the drunken fights, the police, and the free perks? Or Mr. Ray, who took your wallet?

— Is that what you call it? Recent boom?! — his voice rose so much that even passersby, resembling ghosts from a wake, glanced around nervously.

— What did my daddy do? — Mark asked coldly, with a barely perceptible edge of anger. His face seemed to turn to stone. He lowered his head and stared at the floor, his pupils flickering. The only thing he cared about was his father.

— Packed your identity, — Ostin grimaced.

— There it is! — Mark couldn't believe his ears. No wonder: his father had pulled all sorts of schemes to trap him, but he'd never stooped this low.

— Ostin asked naively, pretending not to know the answer. — It's a consequence of your behavior! — he added sharply, as if merely stating a fact, uninvolved in the situation.

— Why should I care about anything else? This old man is taking away the only thing he gives me! — Mark exploded. It was the first time he had ever been this angry, and in public.

— You're not an idiot, Mark... — Ostin whispered fearfully. Taking a deep breath, he continued, though his voice still trembled: — A case has almost been opened against you!

— I don't give a damn about those cases! — Mark said clumsily, waving his hand.

— I didn't spit. I didn't spit, Mark... — Ostin said with difficulty, desperately trying to get the voice of conscience out of his friend's mouth. — You're connected to me. Everything concerning you indirectly concerns me.

— What's it got to do with you? — Mark snapped, stubbornly refusing to admit the obvious. He had never admitted that he himself was the problem — and not only in his life. He simply didn't know how to live any other way.

— Right... — Ostin hissed, grimacing from tension. — I go into these holes with you, risking both my reputation and my career, and you ask — what does that have to do with me? What else do I have to risk for you to understand... my life? — his eyes held a mix of pleading and anger, as if someone had carelessly stirred the ingredients to create this storm of emotions.

— Stop it, cool it, — Mark lowered his head and nervously tapped his foot on the pavement.

— Well, yeah, I even got into an accident with you! And you still don't get what it has to do with me... — Ostin forced out detachedly. He couldn't hold it in anymore. If a friend couldn't understand words — he wouldn't understand silence either.

— Do not arrange on a flat place a brain-weaving, — Mark grimaced and looked down at his friend, which sent shivers down Braun’s spine. For the first time he saw what Evans looked like in the eyes of others.

— Uh... I'm sorry, I overreacted, — Ostin said sarcastically. He knew: if he showed weakness now, it would be the end. He would never again earn Mark’s respect.

— That's what I mean! — Mark said, as if deliberately ignoring the tone and picking out only what suited him. He always did that — he perceived only what was pleasant to him.

— Grow up, Mark! — Ostin snapped, getting ready to leave. — At least sometimes act like a human, not like a clown, — he knew: if he stayed any longer, he'd snap and surely beat him up.

But Mark grabbed him by the shoulder, not caring about the consequences. He was a king — unrecognized, but every gesture spoke of that.

— Why the hell did that old man take my wallet? And why the hell are you running away in the middle of your lawyer's deduction? — Mark spat out with fury. He hated either cowardice or evasion.

— Ask your diablo, daddy, father, old man, or whatever else you call your lacy-life sponsor, — Ostin shot back quickly, throwing his hand off his shoulder. — I'm going to a hearing. That's my job: to go to hearings, to defend the law.

— Mm-hmm... that's the kind of life the old one wished for me, — Mark replied lazily, as if belittling his friend's profession and way of life.

— You could only be a devil's advocate, — Ostin grimaced, biting his lip and cutting him off abruptly. No, he would no longer tolerate Mark's antics, especially such disdain.

Mark lit a cigar and watched Ostin walk away. He was running away from him, clumsy yet powerful, with a rumble. His coat fluttered from right to left ... Right- to-left... just like Mark's own nauseatingly contradictory thoughts.

He looked after him and gradually realized: their relationship would never be the same again. But it wasn't him who'd ruined it — it was Ostin who'd grown up.

— So that's how... — Mark coughed on the smoke. That cherry no longer calmed him. Was he ready to give it up? No way. It was like offering valerian to a cat, expecting restraint.

Meanwhile, Ostin had already gotten into his big white car parked nearby. He opened the cup of coffee he'd bought on sale at the store next door and began drinking it in big gulps without stopping. As if trying to drown out today’s scolding. Or not just today’s?

At that moment, a girl came out of the store and headed toward him. She was walking so fast and talking on the phone so loudly that it hurt Ostin’s ears, and he began gulping his coffee even harder.

But what was unexpected was that she got into Ostin's car without any ceremony, as if it were her own. Ostin almost choked on his coffee, rubbed his eyes, and looked in the rearview mirror. No, he hadn’t imagined it.

— Take it to Destinatio 7. Thank you, — the girl said in a commanding voice, as if Ostin were just driving a taxi for fun.

— What? — the guy asked in surprise. This day seemed determined to make him forget about normal life. As if normal life were just a children’s fairy tale.

— Destinatio 7, — the girl repeated irritably, without pausing her phone conversation.

— Miss, you must be confusing me with someone else! What a day… — Ostin said irritably and pressed the horn.

Ready to vent all his anger, he turned around — and froze.

...ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ...

[Adastra, Luxomoris. Rei’s Office. Night of the Same Day]

No moonlight fell into the room; there were no sounds of outsiders at all — only a couple of candles barely flickering, as if living out their last moments. Much like everything else here.

A dusty cabinet with a scattering of old photographs reflected a man staring at it. And if one had entered the room, one would have sensed a plume of confidence mixed with smoke in the air. But one glance at the reflection and everything changed. It whispered of loss and pain. Distorted reality?

[And what is reality — really?]

Rei grabbed a glass of well-aged cognac and drained it to the bottom as quickly as if it were water on an empty stomach. As if the drink were just a stencil of elitism, another layer of cheap pretension — just like the cigar Evans lit so greedily that he immediately choked on the smoke and started coughing. Maybe Rei had simply forgotten that, biologically, he was still human.

The man turned away from the computer screen and stared at the closet, as if trying to incinerate it with a single glance.

[Do you have something to hide, Emperor?]

He tried to escape from reality, but even on the old, dust-covered shelves, the past lay before him.

Meanwhile, messages flashed on the monitor screen — one after another. They flickered nonstop. It seemed you could feel them even with your back.

These messages contained only one thing—geolocation and the amount attached to it.

Rei didn't react to the irritating beep; moreover, he didn't even glance in its direction. However, Evans's body radiated such tension that even an electrician would have crossed himself. Even a slight, almost hysterical half-smile flickered across his stern face.

This was the taste of defeat, soaked in the most expensive and useless antidepressants. The ones in which people deny reality or corrode it.

Rei slowly took his wallet from his jacket pocket, grabbed a pair of scissors from the nightstand, and extinguished the candles with a single breath...as if every movement he made was part of a ritual of destruction. Even the 'witness' in the form of the closet — would have to look away.

The man took out bank cards one by one... and halved, with a dry crack, they fell to the floor. These unpleasant sound was reflected on his face: Rei pressed his lips together, restraining his irritation. The very cigar in his teeth became a conduit — now for physical pain.

Then he bent sharply, scooping everything into a heap — and as soon as he straightened up, his gaze fell on the reflection in the glass of the closet.

The man in it he would never have recognized ... and yet it was him. The one who had been dubbed the Emperor. The one whose back ran with goosebumps at the sight of his own silhouette in the semi-darkness. Evans hated that feeling. Evans despised himself for his own choice.

Perhaps that’s exactly why he immediately threw all his mystery into the small trash can — along with the extinguished cigar. Then, raising his eyebrows and letting his gaze slide over the closet, he dialed a number on his mobile.

— Antique, you say, — he muttered, bringing the phone to his ear. — Night, the password... — and Evans froze for a second, looking at the silhouette. — Ahem. Password: 1908. Do your job.

And Rei tossed the phone to the floor with a dull thud, as if getting rid of trash. He even shook his hand one last time, as if brushing off traces of himself. And then he simply walked away without looking back. Only the two screens knew where he was going.

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