Leonid Frost, April 7, 2025

  April sunlight tried and failed to cut through the heavy velvet curtains. The room sat in half-darkness, thick with smoke, alcohol and sweat. Leonid lay propped against pillows, his body lit only by the occasional golden sliver that slipped through gaps in the drapes. His fingers slid through the silky strands of the woman beside him. He played with them—looping the hair around his fingers and letting it fall—while a half-smile lingered on his lips.

  Her mouth searched for him. It moved along his neck, his cheek, paused on his lips. Sometimes she pinched him, or bit lightly, and he would answer with a quiet, effortless, almost wicked smile—setting his glass of whiskey aside to give her attention.

  The door opened without a knock.

  Another woman walked in, phone in hand. As she crossed the room, she typed something quickly, then set the device down on a low table cluttered with glasses, an ashtray, and a half-empty bottle. Without a word, she bounced onto the bed, her body sinking into the warmth and weight of theirs.

  She wrapped her fingers around the glass Leonid had been holding, took it from him, and placed it on the table. Then her hand caught his wrist and guided it—slowly, deliberately—down her own body, lowering it exactly where she wanted.

  Leonid’s green eyes lit in the dimness, cutting through smoke and liquor-scented air. For a moment, as the women’s laughter mixed with the soft rustle of sheets, it felt like the whole world had been left outside those curtains—while inside, only this small, dark oasis of vice existed.

  Then the door flew open again—this time with heavy, decisive footsteps.

  Hannah’s silhouette filled the frame, her black hair blending into the shadowed room. Without a word, she strode inside, went straight to the window, and yanked the curtains apart.

  Sunlight flooded the space like fire—slicing through smoke and shadow. The women beside Leonid shrieked and grabbed for blankets, scrambling off the bed, stumbling into each other as they tried to cover themselves.

  Leonid, meanwhile, only lifted a hand, half-shielding his eyes from the light. The smile never left his mouth.

  Hannah didn’t hesitate. She started gathering his clothes from the floor and throwing them at him.

  A shirt slapped his face. Strands of hair broke across his forehead.

  He only laughed wider, not bothering to move.

  “Get dressed. We’re working today, in case you forgot,” she said loudly, her tone flat and cold, leaving no space for play.

  The women dressed fast—yanking on dresses and underwear, collecting their things, slipping out. The room was left with nothing but smoke and the stale smell of alcohol.

  Hannah opened the window and leaned on the sill, letting a rush of fresh air pour in.

  “You could, at least sometimes, air this place out,” she muttered, breathing in deeply as if she were trying to wash the night’s smell out of her lungs.

  Leonid tipped his head back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling. Slowly, he rubbed at his eyes.

  “Is it morning already?” he asked, drenched in irony.

  Hannah was already collecting the empty glasses from the table. She dumped cigarette butts from the ashtray into a nearby bin and continued in a tone that was purely practical.

  “The rookie’s is coming today. We should welcome him properly.”

  Leonid turned his head toward her and patted the empty spot beside him on the bed.

  “You could’ve joined us,” he said with a wide grin, teasing.

  Hannah’s gaze—dark and cold—met his for a beat. No smile. No humor. She opened the wardrobe, picked out what she considered appropriate, and dropped his clothes onto the bed.

  “Take a shower. Then we’re leaving,” she said shortly, and walked out.

  Leonid exhaled once—deeply—stared at the clothes for a moment, then got up and headed for the bathroom.

  Water slammed down in hard streams, hitting the crown of his head, spilling over his face, neck, shoulders. He planted both hands on the cold tiles and leaned forward, eyes shut.

  Droplets tapped against his lashes and slid down his cheeks, but sleep never caught him—only that permanent exhaustion, piled somewhere deep in his bones.

  When he stepped out, he dried himself with short, impatient movements and dressed in what Hannah had laid out. The shirt rasped under his fingers. The vest settled precisely across his shoulders. The belt pulled tight in one decisive motion.

  One word stayed in his mind: rookie.

  The boy Kai had spared—out of some unknown whim.

  Leonid fastened his cufflinks while thinking there was nothing more dangerous than a demon deciding to show mercy.

  Finally, he pulled his pocket watch from a drawer—old gold, decorated with runes worn pale with time. He slipped it into his trouser pocket and gave a slow shake of his head.

  “Who knows what’s crawling around in those heads,” he muttered under his breath, before grabbing his coat from the hook and stepping outside.

  The Amber Directorate building didn’t rival corporate skyscrapers in height, but the sheer width of its rectangular frame was just as intimidating. The glass panels on its fa?ade didn’t shine like mirrors—they were matte, gray, as if swallowing every reflection.

  The hallways led toward a central courtyard: a park of bare trees and cold concrete benches. Everything was designed to be minimalistic. Inside, it hummed with activity. Phones rang and sliced conversations into fragments, papers rustled in the hands of people walking the halls, the tapping of keyboards mingled with the crisp rhythm of heels striking ceramic tiles. The sterile smell of freshly cleaned floors was sharp, almost unpleasant.

  People in suits and shirts wore ID badges around their necks with names and photographs. They passed by Hannah and Leonid, offering brief greetings without slowing.

  “Miss Adler.”

  “Mr. Frost.”

  They nodded back, not changing their stride.

  They passed through a long hallway, and the doors at the end opened into a wide room. The walls were lined with large screens displaying rotating footage, reports, and maps. Below them stood tall shelves arranged in strict rows, each filled with boxes and folders. Everything was alphabetized, orderly, precise—not a single paper out of place. The sound of ventilation and the soft humming of monitors filled the room.

  Hannah typed without pause, her fingers striking the keys in a mechanical rhythm as the dossier of the young man scrolled down the screens. The digital blue glow lit her face and its sharp lines in the dim room. The picture of a blue-eyed young man remained at the top of the screen, unmoving, while the data streamed beneath it:

  Name: Anton Smederev

  Date of Birth: March 5, 2005

  Sex: M

  Height: 177 cm

  Address: …

  At the same time, Leonid was digging through folders, the rustling of paper the only counterpoint to the hum of the monitors. He found the one he needed, sat beside Hannah, and began to flip through it, his eyes scanning handwritten notes.

  “Finished police academy… worked at a pizzeria after that…” he murmured.

  Hannah closed her eyes for a second, leaned her head against the back of the chair, arms crossed over her chest. She exhaled deeply, as if the information itself spoke loudly enough.

  “Even his grades weren’t anything special. Average at best.”

  Leonid set the folder on the table, crossed one leg over the other, and fixed his gaze on Hannah.

  “Lives with his mother, father, and younger sister. Tried different sports, stuck with none… never excelled.”

  Hannah returned his look over her shoulder, then waved a hand as if wrapping up the summary.

  “He won a few chess medals.”

  Leonid nodded, his lower lip jutting out in an expression he often wore when he wasn’t sure whether something amused him or bored him.

  “A regular kid.”

  Hannah nodded, picked up the folder from the desk, and stood to return it to its place. Her footsteps echoed softly between the shelves as she added, her voice calm and decisive—like a seal on the matter:

  “Let’s go meet him.”

  Leonid stretched his legs under the table, leaned back in his chair, raised his arms over his head, yawned, and with absolutely no sense of urgency added:

  “But first, coffee.”

  Hannah paused, glanced at him over her shoulder, and a small smile tugged at her lips—a rare warmth slipping through her usual cold composure.

  “Fine. First coffee.”

  The cafeteria smelled of freshly brewed—too strong—coffee and cleaning chemicals. Leonid grabbed a paper cup first, added milk and three teaspoons of sugar, stirring lazily until it dissolved. He took a sip and dramatically shook his head.

  “This is the most dangerous part of today’s mission. If we survive the coffee from this machine, everything else will be easy.”

  Hannah poured her own, added a little milk, then paused. Without a word, he handed her the sugar. She poured it in and stirred, not giving him a glance, but the faint twitch at the corner of her lips revealed she’d noticed the gesture.

  “You’ll survive,” she said simply, lifting the cup and taking a sip. “You always do.”

  Silence settled for a moment, broken only by the hum of the machine behind them. Leonid set down his cup and glanced her way, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  “All right. Now we can go meet our little chess player.”

  Hannah nodded, and together they headed toward the doors.

  Anton Smederev, April 7th, 2025

  Anton sat on a bench in the park, his backpack resting by his feet, a doughnut in his hands that he nibbled at nervously. Rings of powdered sugar clung to his fingers, and he kept wiping them on his jeans as crumbs tumbled down his knees. He tossed the remains to the pigeons crowding around his sneakers, pecking at anything that hit the pavement.

  He tried to steady his thoughts, but his heart was racing.

  First day.

  His new job.

  A part of something he had only dreamed about until yesterday—now he had an ID card in his pocket to prove it. Excitement and nerves clashed in his stomach, forming a heavy knot.

  He looked up at the sky—the clouds were thinning, making room for the morning sun. It felt like a good sign.

  He glanced at his watch.

  The hands made his breath hitch—he was already late.

  He exhaled sharply, jumped to his feet, tossed the last bite of doughnut to the pigeons, grabbed his backpack, and sprinted toward the bus stop, feeling the doughnut rise in his throat from nerves and the sudden pace.

  He leapt into the bus at the last moment, but the doors closed too quickly. The rubber edges slapped against his back, and the metal mechanism caught the strap of his backpack. Panic sliced through him as he yanked it, feeling himself being pulled backward. When it finally tore free, he stumbled and crashed into the shoulders and bags of other passengers.

  “Sorry, sorry…” he repeated, lowering his head, smoothing the back of his hair as if that could soften how clumsy he’d looked.

  He found a spot by the window and stood straight, gripping the strap of his backpack. The bus rolled down the morning street, and storefronts, passersby, and cars flowed past the glass. Anton stared, but didn’t actually see any of it—his thoughts were on the unknown ahead.

  Which sector would he be assigned to? Would they stick him in an office buried under paperwork, or throw him into the fire on day one? When did actual missions start? And most importantly—would he see those two terrifying faces again? Hannah and Leonid.

  Their cold, powerful eyes were still etched into his memory like scars.

  He tightened his grip on the backpack strap. He couldn’t tell if the feeling in his stomach was a lump or a void.

  Anton stood stiff at the entrance, his backpack hanging from one shoulder, and the noise of the Amber Directorate washed over him like a wave—striking, pulling, nearly smothering him. He heard clinking glasses, furious typing, the squeak of chair wheels, and the relentless ringing of phones. It all blended into one massive machine. People strode with sharp, decisive steps, each seeming to know exactly where they fit in the chaos and what their purpose was.

  Anton, meanwhile, was frozen in place, unsure whether he was even supposed to move.

  Then a shadow fell over him.

  It appeared suddenly, silently—like it grew out of the wall.

  A woman.

  She was taller than him, slender yet strong. Golden strands of hair slid over her shoulders, falling in waves that seemed to nudge and play with one another. In the light streaming from the tall windows, her hair glowed like heated metal. Her eyes—two blue oceans—looked calm on the surface, but behind them he sensed depth and silence. Long lashes enhanced the impression that he was looking at something both human and beyond human.

  On her cheeks, just below those icy eyes, were tiny black runes. Small enough to be mistaken for beauty marks—yet too precise, too deliberate. Her lips were rosy, perfectly shaped, and her nose was small and delicate. Her skin seemed almost translucent, ethereal.

  For a moment, Anton wondered—am I looking at a spirit from a relic… or a person?

  She wore a purple blouse tucked into wide trousers. The lines of the clothing emphasized her waist but hid the movement of her legs, giving her an almost gliding step. Her collar couldn’t hide everything—around her neck, old black symbols wound around her skin, as though telling a forgotten story.

  The woman extended her hand.

  Her lips curved into a smile—but not the kind people give each other. A smile of discipline. Of order. Devoid of warmth or playfulness.

  “Welcome, Anton.”

  Hearing his name from her mouth cut straight through him.

  He jolted, ran a hand over his backpack, and quickly extended his own hand.

  But as soon as he felt the sticky sugar from the doughnut and the sweat on his palm, he yanked it back, wiped it on his pants, and only then shook hers.

  “T–thank you. I’m glad to be here.”

  Then it hit him.

  That wasn’t human warmth.

  His fingers touched cold, inhuman metal.

  He looked down and realized: her hand wasn’t flesh and blood—it was a prosthetic of black steel. The chill traveled through him, stabbing into his fingers and bones, as if death itself brushed against him. The metal hand closed around his with firm strength, and he barely hid the way his stomach dropped.

  “Vivian Thorn,” she introduced herself calmly, releasing him.

  Anton swallowed hard, wondering if this woman was even human.

  He nodded too quickly, still ashamed of his clumsy gesture and the doughnut sugar clinging to his fingers.

  “Nice to meet you,” he murmured, the words barely escaping his throat.

  Vivian gave a slight smile—a brief, practiced expression that vanished before he could return it.

  “Follow me,” she said, wasting no breath.

  She turned, her hair sweeping to the side, the golden strands catching the morning light and glowing like the surface of a calm river under the sun. Anton remained rooted for a heartbeat, then scrambled to catch up.

  Her footsteps had a perfect, measured rhythm—like she kept time for the entire building. His, however, sounded too loud. Each strike of his heel against the tiles echoed in his own head like a mistake, shattering the cold harmony around him. They walked through long corridors lit by white, sterile light. The smell of disinfectant and metal filled the space—everything felt polished, orderly, without a speck of chaos.

  And yet Anton couldn’t shake the feeling that behind every closed door lurked something dangerous.

  Every agent they passed gave him a look.

  Short. Sharp.

  Like a knife.

  A single-second glance that sliced through him, weighing, measuring, deciding whether he was worth anything at all.

  A familiar unease surged in his stomach.

  The same feeling he had when standing outside the test hall.

  But this time, he had no right to show weakness.

  I have to endure.

  He repeated it to himself like a mantra, trying to steady the drumbeat of his own heart. He lifted his head, squared his shoulders, and kept following Vivian.

  The office was spacious, yet packed with presence.

  Five desks arranged in two rows, each with quietly humming computers, the monitors reflecting the cold glow of the neon lights. In the corners stood tall plants in large pots—the only splash of green breaking the monotony of gray walls and white tiles. Along the wall, shelves were filled with folders and neatly stacked office supplies, and by the window sat a printer, almost eerily silent compared to the tapping of keyboards.

  Anton stepped inside, and his gaze immediately fell on Leonid’s silhouette.

  No one needed to introduce him—Anton would recognize that posture anywhere. Leaning back on a rolling chair, one leg crossed over the other, a cup of coffee dangling loosely from the hand resting over the armrest. His head was tilted back over the chair, but even from that lazy angle, his stare was sharp, piercing—measuring anyone bold enough to walk into the room.

  Across from him, at an immaculate desk, sat Hannah.

  Her back perfectly straight, her face illuminated by the pale light of the monitor. With her right hand she clicked occasionally on the keyboard, while her left sorted through neatly labeled documents. Nothing on her desk was without purpose. Her very presence imposed cold order and discipline.

  “Hannah Adler,” Vivian said, motioning toward Hannah.

  “And Leonid Frost,” she added, her hand indicating Leonid.

  Then she turned back to Anton, golden strands of hair swaying softly with the motion.

  “You’ve already met them at the exam,” she said, a tone hovering between mild teasing and seriousness.

  Anton swallowed a dry lump. His eyes flicked from Leonid—who sipped his coffee without a word—to Hannah, whose gaze remained glued to her screen.

  Hannah finally lifted her eyes toward Anton, but only for a moment. Then she shifted her gaze to Vivian.

  “Thank you, Vivi.”

  Vivian gave a short nod and left the room, closing the door carefully behind her. The faint click of the metal handle was the last trace of her presence.

  Hannah stood and pointed toward a desk by the wall—empty, clean, not a single sheet of paper on it. Only a monitor, turned off.

  “Sit down, Anton,” she said dryly. But there was the slightest hint of a smile—just enough to soften what otherwise sounded like a command.

  She returned to her seat; the rhythmic tapping of keys again filled the room.

  Anton inhaled deeply, gathered courage, and stepped toward the desk.

  That was when he felt it.

  Cold.

  Fingers—icy, but heavy as iron—closed around his shoulder.

  The clink of metal, the sound of chains colliding—gold against silver, like in the echoing emptiness of a church.

  And in the air, a faint scent of ash.

  “Well, what do we have here?”

  The voice brushed the shell of his ear.

  Anton froze. His heart skipped. His eyes darted sideways.

  Two dark pits greeted him.

  Two black voids in which he saw the images that still haunted him.

  His fallen comrades.

  Blood on the floor.

  Screams swallowed by the crushing silence of the exam hall.

  Kai.

  His grin stretched from ear to ear as his grip tightened on Anton’s shoulder, as if trying to drag him backward—into a past Anton desperately wanted to forget.

  Hannah lifted her gaze from the monitor, not raising her voice, yet speaking firmly enough to slice through the tension.

  “Kai, please stop terrorizing the rookie.”

  The demon chuckled, flashing his teeth, and slowly let go of Anton’s shoulder. Every movement came with the faint jingle of chains, echoing as he sauntered into the room. The jewelry on his neck and arms gleamed under the lights, as if mocking the sterile cold of the office.

  “I’m not terrorizing…” he said through a grin, “just saying hello.”

  With careless elegance, he dropped himself onto the desk Hannah had shown Anton moments before. His smile widened as he dragged the empty chair out, turned it toward Anton, and patted the backrest.

  “You heard the boss. Come on, sit,” he said with raised eyebrows, practically buzzing with excitement.

  His black eyes didn’t leave the young man for a second.

  Leonid, who had been lazily turning on his chair, now watched quietly, the corner of his mouth lifting at the scene.

  Hannah rolled her eyes, rose abruptly, and planted her palms on the edge of her desk.

  “Come on, Anton. We have work to do,” she said dryly, her tone clear, decisive.

  Her hands moved with practiced speed, gathering papers into folders with clinical precision.

  As she crossed the room, Kai perked up at her movement.

  He bounced and appeared behind her in a blink, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder.

  “Can I come too?” he whispered pleadingly, in the tone of someone begging for attention.

  Hannah stepped away without reacting to the weight of him on her, as if she didn’t feel his presence at all. When she reached the shelf, he slipped off her like a shadow. She stopped beside Anton, placed a hand on his shoulder, and gently nudged him forward.

  “Let’s go, Anton.”

  At the doorway, without looking back, she waved a hand behind her.

  “Either return to your relic or stay here with Leonid.”

  Kai shrugged dramatically and collapsed back into the chair.

  Leonid’s green eyes and Kai’s black ones met for a brief moment, then silence filled the room once more.

  Hannah Adler’s footsteps echoed in an even rhythm as they walked down the seemingly endless hallway. Anton kept half a step behind her, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed hers. Yet the distance between them felt enormous—her cold assurance set against the turmoil rattling inside him.

  “Tell me, Anton,” she said without slowing her pace, “how much do you know about relics?”

  “Only what they teach us in school,” he admitted, his voice uncertain, as if unsure whether that was the correct answer.

  Hannah dipped her chin by barely a millimeter.

  “To be precise,” she continued. “Do you know how relics are obtained?”

  Anton lowered his gaze to the floor, then back to her profile as they walked side by side. In those heels, she was nearly his height, but up close she looked more delicate—yet her presence radiated a firmness that slipped under his skin. His thoughts began to blur until her eyes suddenly cut toward him. He flinched, lifted a finger to his chin, and tried to recall the lessons.

  “There are licenses an organization or individual must get from the government in order to legally own a relic,” he began, reciting the memorized lines from his textbooks. “They’re divided into ranks—from F to S.”

  “Good,” she nodded, continuing forward as people stepped aside for her and greeted her with short, clipped: “Miss Adler.”

  “And do you know what distinguishes those ranks?”

  “Their energy signatures,” Anton answered after a brief pause.

  As they passed, one of the ceiling lamps flickered, casting a trembling arc of light. Hannah slowed for a moment, noting it, then resumed her pace.

  “Besides that?” she prompted—not harsher, but demanding more.

  “The… contracts people make with the spirits inside the relics,” he added, though his tone betrayed uncertainty.

  Hannah shook her head and stopped in front of large doors at the end of the hallway. Her eyes swept over him—shoulders to shoes—as if evaluating how much he truly understood.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “The difference,” she said, pressing the handle, “is the price you pay.”

  The door opened with a soft, scraping sound, and they stepped into a half-empty room.

  In the center stood a table with two chairs facing each other. On the table, perfectly centered, lay a black box—silent, closed, and still, as though it contained something that should never be awakened.

  “You see,” she said, motioning to the chair, “when you form a contract with a relic, it can give you anywhere between one and three conditions.”

  Anton sat down, his hands uncertain on the table’s surface, while Hannah took the seat opposite him.

  “The conditions vary,” she continued. “Each relic asks for whatever it considers the proper price.”

  Her gaze was steady, sharp, reading him like an open page. In his eyes she saw it clearly—fear, confusion, and a flicker of curiosity.

  “For example…” her voice softened into an instructional calm. “You’ve met Vivi. One of her relic’s conditions was her right arm and both legs.”

  Anton’s breath halted.

  Vivian Thorn flashed through his mind—her gentle smile, hair shimmering under the hallway lights. The cold grip of her hand suddenly made sense. He remembered her perfectly even footsteps—too perfect.

  That wasn’t the ease of heels.

  That was the weight of metal.

  He swallowed a dry knot.

  “Leonid, for instance…” Hannah continued, and a faint shadow crossed her tone, as if she dipped briefly into some memory of him. “He got a curse of insomnia.”

  Anton didn’t blink. Those two green eyes appeared in his mind again—sharp, cold, always awake. He realized now: they weren’t eyes full of strength.

  They were eyes that could never truly rest—eyes with no escape.

  Silence settled between them, until Anton spoke, hesitant:

  “And you?”

  The question hit her, though she tried not to show it. Her face froze for a moment, as if she’d brushed against memories she disliked pulling from the dark. Slowly, she shook her head.

  “For me…” she said quietly, though her voice sounded like it was hiding something. “One of the easier things to pay. It was millions of euros and three yachts.”

  She lifted her hand and covered half her face, as if hiding behind the gesture, muttering under her breath—just loud enough for Anton to hear:

  “Tyrion was furious…”

  Anton stared at her, but couldn’t decipher what stirred in her eyes—wistful irony or regret.

  Hannah rose suddenly, as if done with her own words, or perhaps because the memories of her old contract grew too heavy on her shoulders. The chair scraped as she pushed it back.

  She approached the black box on the table. Rested her hand on its velvet lid and slid her fingers across it. Under the light, the symmetrical tattoos on her fingers glimmered, as though reacting to the box’s presence.

  “Vivi is usually the one who selects relics for our rookies,” she explained, her tone calm but distant, her fingers still brushing the box as if measuring its pulse.

  She looked at Anton, then at the box.

  “She chose this one for you.”

  Anton lifted his hands, ready to open the lid—but her voice cut through the air.

  “Remember…” she said.

  She paused long enough to capture his full attention. Her gaze locked onto his—childish, tender eyes filled with fear and anticipation.

  “It’s not shameful to refuse a contract with a spirit. Especially if the price is too high.”

  The words felt as though she was convincing herself rather than him.

  Her hand slipped from the box—her movement calm but heavy—and she turned toward the door. She paused for just a heartbeat, tilting her head so the cold hallway light outlined her profile.

  “Good luck,” she added, and then she disappeared.

  The door closed behind her.

  He was alone.

  Alone with the black box before him.

  The room was so silent that his own breathing echoed in his ears. His hands trembled as he lifted them again, bringing them closer to the lid before opening the box. Inside, resting on black silk, lay a small golden bell etched with ancient runes. Anton stared at it for several moments before gathering the courage to touch it.

  The moment his fingers brushed the surface, the relic seemed to sense his thoughts—and began to shine with a blinding light.

  Anton’s pupils widened, his heart pounding as if trying to break out of his chest. The light pouring from the bell sliced across the room, casting warped shadows onto the walls. And when it finally took the shape of a human figure, Anton thought his mind was mocking him.

  A spirit sat before him—a court jester straight from a nightmare.

  The red-and-white outfit was far too colorful for the somber room, yet the colors didn’t breathe life. They carried a sickly unease. Hearts, spades, diamonds, and clubs drawn on the sleeves and trousers shifted as if alive. The shoes, long and curled at the tips, flicked mockingly like they defied the rules of reality. Anton’s eyes froze on the face. A long, grotesquely pointed nose jutted over two black pits instead of eyes. There was no warmth in them, no playfulness—only a quiet hunger.

  The spirit flipped backward with effortless ease, landing on the chair as if he’d always belonged there. Cards slid from his sleeves, moving of their own accord between his fingers, clinking to the rhythm of the tiny bell on his hat. The bell rang softly, but each chime cut into Anton’s nerves.

  “Humans are always so ill-mannered,” the spirit spoke, his voice warped, as if echoing through a broken mirror, each syllable followed by a small giggle that twisted like smoke. “Introduce yourself, boy.”

  Anton swallowed a dry knot. His throat tightened and his hands froze on the chair’s armrests. His heart pounded so violently he could swear the spirit would hear every beat.

  “Anton Smederev,” he managed at last.

  The words hung in the air—thin, uncertain, but spoken.

  The demon’s face stretched into a distorted grin, so wide it looked as if his skin might tear along the edges. His black eyes gleamed, and he bowed sharply.

  “Flock,” he declared proudly, as though Anton ought to know the name already, as though it belonged to some dark fairy tale whispered to children before sleep.

  When he saw Anton sitting stiff and silent, Flock dropped back into the chair and smiled crookedly.

  “You’re new to this, I see.”

  Anton nodded, another knot forming in his throat, but the sentence slipped out on its own.

  “I would like to make a contract.”

  The bell on Flock’s cap jingled once—almost cheerfully. His face tightened, his neck tilting to the side at such an angle Anton briefly believed it had snapped. The cards that had danced between the spirit’s fingers vanished back into his sleeves as if they had never existed.

  “Let’s!” he shouted, his voice both playful and threatening—as if thrilled at a game where someone must lose.

  Light burst between them.

  Slowly, from the glowing haze, a parchment formed—long, with edges burnt as if pulled from a fire. Alongside it, a quill of black swan feather floated in the same light, droplets of ink already forming at the tip. Both hovered in the air, suspended between them.

  Anton didn’t dare look away.

  The parchment breathed, expanding and contracting like lungs. Blank spaces formed beneath his gaze, waiting to be filled.

  The quill glided on its own across the parchment as Flock spoke—thin black strokes blooming into words.

  “All right, Anton,” Flock began, his voice flickering between playful giggles and the creak of ice under boots. “Here’s what I want.”

  The quill was already writing the first clause as he continued, ink following each of his syllables.

  “I take an unspecified number of years from your life,” it wrote in dark letters that almost gleamed.

  Flock tilted his head, his black eyes glittering.

  “I won’t tell you how many. Not because I’m stingy—because that wouldn’t be fun.

  It’ll be a number only I know.”

  Anton felt his hands shaking.

  “H-how many years?” he whispered, his voice barely holding together.

  Flock laughed, his long nose twitching in cartoonish mischief.

  “Oh, boy—where’s the magic in that? The amount doesn’t matter… What matters is what you get with those years.”

  The quill continued drawing the next clause. Flock’s voice grew more serious—yet disturbingly indifferent.

  “Until a very specific moment—one I will never reveal—your life will be extended by however much time is needed to repay those stolen years. Until that moment, nothing will be able to kill you. Even if you try to end your life yourself, you will return. The return will be complete: wounds healed, heart beating, as if nothing happened.”

  The parchment soaked up each sentence, etching them in perfect, unerasable script.

  Flock paused, his gaze lingering on Anton’s face.

  “And then,” he added quietly, “when that moment comes—and you will never see it coming—your body will stop. Without warning. Without chance.

  You will die, and that will be final.”

  Anton felt the air warp in his lungs.

  “But… isn’t that… too much? How am I supposed to live with that?” he managed, his voice trembling.

  Flock smiled with no warmth whatsoever.

  “You’ll live freely until that moment,” he said. “No fear of bullets. No fear of blades. Courage becomes your nature. And the price is uncertainty. That’s all.”

  The quill finished its motion. The final lines of the contract shimmered on the parchment, and the empty signature space gleamed like an open maw waiting to swallow a decision.

  Flock extended a hand, touching the signature line with a finger, smiling broadly.

  “Sign, and all will be yours. Refuse, and live in peace with what you have now.”

  Silence fell heavy and sharp as paper.

  Anton stared at the empty space, knowing a single line of ink would reshape the course of his entire life. Sweat glued his palms together, as though his skin itself rejected the ink awaiting him. His gaze ran over the written lines, every letter seeming to burn.

  An unspecified number of years…

  Immortality until an unknown death…

  His heart pounded in the rhythm of memory—faces of his comrades disappearing one by one during the test, blood spilling over concrete, the silence after the final shot. They were gone.

  Only he remained.

  Would they have signed?

  He knew the answer, though he hated it: every one of them would have seized such a chance. Being part of Amber meant power. Meant purpose. And he couldn’t allow everything they endured, everything he lost, to be for nothing.

  He lifted his gaze to Flock.

  The spirit still lounged casually, shuffling cards as though time meant nothing. His black gaze was patient—but filled with mischievous hunger. The bell on his hat jingled softly, a reminder that his choice couldn’t wait forever.

  Anton swallowed hard.

  Then he lowered his hand to the quill.

  His fingers trembled, but they closed around the cold handle. The ink pooled the moment he dragged the first stroke.

  His name slid across the parchment, stroke by stroke, until he finished the final letter.

  Flock burst into laughter—a stretched cackle that echoed like a chorus of bells. The parchment flashed bright, then crumbled into glowing dust and vanished, leaving only the weight in Anton’s chest.

  “That’s right, boy,” Flock purred, tilting his head at an impossible angle, “now you are mine, and I am yours. Until the very end.”

  Anton released the quill and felt breath return to his lungs. His hands still trembled, but now they trembled with something else—strength, or perhaps madness.

  One thing was certain: there was no going back.

  Hannah Adler

  The door closed behind her, and Hannah remained still for a moment, her back pressed against the cold surface. She felt the metal through the fabric of her shirt, grounding her with its firmness. She tilted her head back, shut her eyes for a brief second, and let the noise of the hallway swallow the thoughts rising inside her.

  Will he sign?

  She never liked giving in to speculation, yet every time someone new sat before the black box, the same unease stirred in her stomach. This time, the unease was stronger — because she knew Kai had spared him.

  And Kai never did anything without a reason.

  A reminder that she was still only human rumbled from her stomach — faint, stubbornly clear. Hannah exhaled slowly, pushed herself away from the door, and started down the hallway. Her footsteps echoed evenly, like a metronome keeping pace with her decision not to think further.

  The cafeteria was already buzzing: metal trays clattering, paper rustling, voices overlapping in half-whispers. The smell of fresh coffee and fried eggs seeped through the air — cold and sterile like the rest of the building, yet irresistibly inviting after a morning spent in offices.

  Her eyes found a familiar look in the crowd. Leonid waved the moment he saw her, despite resting his chin on his hand as if his head might fall off his shoulders if he let go. Hannah approached, and he immediately pushed a cup of coffee and a foil-wrapped sandwich toward her. She raised an eyebrow.

  “Ham and eggs?”

  He nodded, gesturing with his eyes for her to sit. She sat across from him, set the coffee on the table, and began unwrapping the sandwich carefully, as if she didn’t want to make a mess.

  “Which relic did Vivi pick?” Leonid asked, his tone indifferent, though a clear thread of curiosity glimmered in his stare.

  “Flock,” she answered calmly, taking a small bite.

  Leonid straightened up at that. His eyes brightened with surprise, and the edge of his lips pulled into a thin, cynical smile.

  “Flock?” he repeated, as if testing the sound of the name. “Didn’t exactly expect the court jester for him…”

  Hannah didn’t react; she lowered her gaze back to the sandwich and kept eating. Leonid exhaled through his nose, leaning back in his chair again, his voice softening a shade as he poured sugar into his coffee.

  “Vivi and her secret methods.”

  Hannah was unwrapping the last bite when the phone on the table buzzed. Her eyes slid across the screen. A small smile flickered at the corner of her mouth — only to disappear a moment later, replaced by a tightening of her brows and a stare that hardened by a degree. Leonid noticed, lifting his eyebrows as he took a sip of coffee.

  “What’s going on?” His voice was lazy, but his eyes were sharp.

  Hannah closed the phone with her palm, flipped it face-down, then shook her head.

  “Nothing you need to worry about.”

  She rose from her seat, tossed the crumpled sandwich foil into a nearby bin, and smoothed a loose strand of hair back behind her ear.

  “Come on, we have a lot of work.”

  She didn’t look at him as she spoke — she simply walked toward the exit, and Leonid watched her go, slowly rocking in his chair. Curiosity flickered in his eyes, but he smothered it with another long sip of coffee.

  Dusk wrapped around the city as Hannah turned off the engine and eased the car into her parking spot. Tired, but still standing straight, she pulled the key from the ignition and draped her coat over her arm. She slung her bag over her shoulder, her footsteps echoing across the cold concrete as she made her way to the entrance.

  The keys jingled softly as she unlocked the door; the metal sounded quiet, yet unbearably heavy after a full day. The hinges creaked, the door swung open, and the first thing she saw was the coat rack. Hanging among her own neatly arranged coats was a dark leather jacket, sleeves relaxed as if its owner had stepped inside just moments ago. It smelled of dust, wind, and blood.

  She set her coat aside, and her gaze dropped lower. On the stand next to the wall rested a matte black helmet. Its dim surface caught the last traces of twilight leaking through the hallway window. Hannah froze for a moment, eyes bouncing between the objects. She set her bag down beside the helmet, breathing in the scent of leather and metal, smeared with a note of smoke and dust.

  The silence of the apartment was broken only by the faint hum of a television in the living room. Hannah walked down the hallway, leaned against the doorframe, folded her arms, and said — almost in a gentle, domestic tone:

  “Hey.”

  Isaac was sprawled across a coffee-colored leather sectional. The TV’s flickering lights danced along the walls, but he wasn’t watching — his head rested against the cushions, fingers holding a cigarette that slowly burned down, ash trembling with each inhale. Smoke filled the room, smelling of heavy tobacco, with a trace of metal and blood clinging to his things.

  When Hannah stepped inside, their eyes — black and deep — met in the half-light. Isaac immediately straightened, crushed the cigarette into the ashtray, and stood. His steps were quiet but steady as he approached her. His hands slid around her, slowly trailing up her back, as if confirming she was real. His nose brushed her neck, and she felt his warm breath, tinged with smoke and alcohol, as he inhaled her scent.

  In a whisper softer than her own greeting, he murmured:

  “Hey.”

  His lips found her neck — a kiss, then another, like the ticking of a slow clock, unhurried. Hannah placed a hand on his chest and gently pushed him back. Her fingers lingered for a moment on the fabric of his shirt, as if searching for an excuse in the touch.

  “I need to shower,” she said quietly, more a breath than a sentence.

  Isaac smiled, ran his hand through her hair, the strands slipping between his fingers. He leaned closer.

  “I can join you.”

  His smile walked the thin line between a joke and a desire. Hannah shook her head, walked past him, and let herself sink into the couch. Her head dropped into the cushions, her body softened, and she closed her eyes as if surrendering for a moment to the comfort beneath her.

  Isaac joined her shortly after. He sat beside her, close enough that their knees touched. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, placed one between his lips, and lit it. The flame briefly illuminated his face, giving his eyes a coppery glow before smoke filled the room again.

  “So, tell me — how was your day?” he asked, exhaling a plume of smoke, then pressed the cigarette gently to her lips.

  A faint smile played at the corner of her mouth as she inhaled. She lowered the cigarette between her fingers, the air swirling around them in gray curls that blurred the room and muted its colors. She let her head fall back.

  “Tiring,” she answered shortly, exhaled another cloud, and passed the cigarette back to him.

  He took it; their fingers brushed. He inhaled.

  “I heard someone passed the test,” he added, flicking ash as if punctuating the sentence.

  Hannah stared up at the ceiling, her thoughts painting out the scenes: the moment she first saw Anton, how Kai spared him, and then the sight of him sitting before the black box, signing a deal. She reached out, and without a word, Isaac placed the cigarette back into her fingers.

  “He received his relic today,” she explained calmly, taking another drag before handing it back.

  Isaac straightened, leaned his elbows on his knees, and crushed the cigarette in the ashtray.

  “Kai’s gone soft,” he muttered, the last spark dying under his thumb.

  His words lingered in the dim room, suspended in the dusty coils of smoke. Hannah lowered her gaze to his hands — strong but tired — resting on his knees. In that moment, it seemed like she searched for the right answer in the lines of his fingers rather than in her own thoughts.

  “I don’t know if he’s softened, but…” she began — then her voice dissolved into unfinished silence. The emptiness stretched taut between them.

  Isaac simply watched her, eyebrows lifted slightly, smoke still slipping from his nostrils. He nodded slowly, as if understanding the things she couldn’t quite say. She leaned against his shoulder. Her dark, lacquered fingers drew small circles on his shirt, the TV light scattering across her nails like obsidian.

  “So… did you bring a copy of the USB?” she whispered — more to herself than to him.

  He looked at her from beneath his brow, then lifted her chin with a fingertip, guiding her eyes to his.

  “I did.”

  A thin, seductive smile touched her lips. She began to lean closer, her hair gliding over his shoulder, her mouth a breath away from his.

  “Where is it?” she whispered, voice caught between play and challenge.

  He leaned back into the couch. She followed, pressing him down with her shoulder, her hands sliding beneath the hem of his shirt, tracing paths across his skin only she knew.

  “It’s definitely not there,” he laughed, his voice deep, dipped in satisfaction.

  Her face hovered just above his, eyes burning.

  “Where is it?” she repeated, softer now, almost brushing her lips against his.

  He nodded toward the entryway.

  “In my jacket.”

  Hannah straightened, slipped off him, her hair spilling down her shoulders as she headed toward the door. But his hand closed around her wrist, pulling her firmly back.

  “Where are you rushing?” he murmured, half-laugh, half-warning.

  She looked at him, her black eyes glinting in the light, and answered with a soft laugh:

  “Well, let's go shower together.”

  Killian Phoenix, April 7th, 2025

  The restaurant on the ground floor of the Cube Hotel was the kind of place where even silence had a price. Every note from the piano in the corner felt like part of the flavor on the plate; every candle was timed to burn at the same pace. Heavy white damask tablecloths draped over the tables, and crystal glasses reflected the soft, muted glow of the chandeliers. The scent of roasted duck with orange, truffles, and a twenty-year-aged wine lingered in the air like a thick cloud.

  At a table near a window overlooking the city’s evening lights, three men sat waiting. Their attention was split between their dishes and the empty chair meant for one man.

  The first — fat, bald, with a neck swallowing the collar of his shirt — stabbed at the duck like he was punishing it. Grease glistened down his chin; wine vanished down his throat in large gulps. He wiped his mouth with a napkin now and then, though the gesture did more to insult hygiene than uphold it.

  The second — thin, sharp-jawed, cheeks stretched like parchment — sat rigidly. The watch on his wrist glimmered every time he raised his arm to look at it. Every minute of waiting echoed in his twitchy glances toward the door. His plate was almost untouched save for a single knife mark, as if he’d only measured the food, never tasted it.

  The third — polished to a shine, wearing a silk designer shirt with a discreet logo, gold chain under the collar, and a casually flaunted Rolex — ate slowly, as if letting everyone admire the rings on his fingers mattered more than the meal. He paired each remark with a laugh and a sip of wine, though his gaze kept flicking between the others, gauging who was most on edge.

  “This is disrespectful,” said the thin man, setting down his utensils with surgical precision. “When he says eight, it means eight.”

  The fat one chuckled, mouth half-full.

  “For Mr. Phoenix, time is like dessert. He always arrives when everyone’s already wondering where he is. And he always shows up as the main course.”

  The golden, well-branded third man raised his glass; the wine gleamed red under the chandeliers.

  “He’ll be here. If nothing else, he knows none of us are ordering another round without him.”

  For a moment, only the clink of cutlery, the hush of the restaurant, and the soft piano notes filled the air. Waiters moved silently, carrying plates that looked like small art installations. Yet all attention at the table belonged to the empty chair awaiting Killian Phoenix.

  The restaurant doors opened without a sound, but the ripple of attention spread like waves on water. Hostesses straightened like soldiers; waiters paused mid-step, lifting their eyes toward the entrance.

  Killian stood on the threshold.

  A black turtleneck clung to his sculpted torso, straight-cut trousers fell without a wrinkle, and over his shoulder hung his familiar black coat — a shadow that followed him everywhere. In his hand he held his helmet, tucked against his body as if guarding something priceless. As he walked, the golden candlelight caught his blue eyes and turned them into two frozen flames. Strands of hair fell across his forehead, and with one lazy sweep of his fingers, he pushed them back.

  “Good evening, Clara,” he greeted the hostess, his tone sounding like a blessing.

  Waiters stepped aside, opening a path to the table that had been waiting far too long. The three men stood at the same instant. The fat one swallowed quickly and wiped his mouth. The thin one dropped his hand from his watch as if caught. The polished one stretched a smile too wide.

  “Finally…” one of them muttered under his breath — but none was foolish enough to say it aloud.

  Killian approached with calm, effortless steps. Yet each strike of his shoes against the marble echoed with strength and discipline — a rhythm no one dared disturb. The air around him felt thicker, as if he’d brought a shadow that lay itself across the table. He set the helmet down. The metal struck hard and short, but enough to make the wine in their glasses tremble.

  “Gentlemen,” he said at last, head slightly lowered, but his gaze slicing through his lashes as he sized them up one by one.

  They greeted him — each in their own way. The fat one with a hurried nod, the thin one with a stiff tilt of his head, the branded one with a broad, practiced smile.

  Before the conversation could begin, a waiter appeared at Killian’s side.

  “What may I bring you, Mr. Phoenix?”

  Killian’s eyes glinted in the candlelight. He ordered one of the most expensive wines on the menu and a nearly-bloody rib-eye. The waiter nodded and vanished as swiftly as he came, leaving behind only the faint scent of perfume and a tension sharp enough to cut.

  The silence that followed was thicker than the cigarette smoke swirling around the chandeliers.

  “We’ve waited a long time for you, Mr. Phoenix. The wine is already warm,” the fat man said, voice gravelly — too cowardly to voice a real complaint, hiding it behind polite phrasing.

  The thin man raised his hand at once, cutting off unnecessary drama. His wrist trembled as he pointed to the folder before him.

  “Let’s get to business. We don’t have time to waste. We’re interested in the series of relics rumored to have crossed the border recently.”

  The flashy third man leaned forward.

  “Not just interested — we’re ready to pay. We want exclusivity, Mr. Phoenix. Relics Amber and the government will never sniff out.”

  Killian didn’t respond immediately. His gaze swept over them, weighing the worth of their words as if evaluating gold at a street market. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, cold — the edge of a blade.

  “Of course, gentlemen. All in its time. First, I’ll have my steak.”

  The silence that followed rang like a piano key held for too long. Only the scrape of cutlery and distant murmurs broke it.

  The wine arrived — dark red, thick as drying blood. Killian lifted his glass, looking through the garnet liquid, letting the candlelight catch on the rim while the three men across from him grew increasingly nervous.

  The thin man was the first to speak. He shifted his chair closer to the table, his hands rigid, his voice slicing through the air.

  “We’ve waited two hours for you, Mr. Phoenix. Shall we wait for your steak as well?”

  Killian slowly set his glass down, tilted his head, and a shadowed smile appeared in the corner of his mouth. His crystalline eyes gleamed as he leaned forward just slightly, his gaze sharp enough to cut glass.

  “I don’t walk into your house, Mr. Lak, to tell you where your curtains should hang. Yet you are sitting in my hotel.”

  The thin man froze. His lips pressed together as if he were about to reply, but he swallowed it, dropping his gaze instead. The fat man — who had been wiping his greasy fingers on a napkin — shook his head, trying to soften the tension. His voice was rough, but carried weight.

  “Be that as it may, Mr. Phoenix… it’s not exactly courteous to be this late. These relics mean a great deal to us.”

  Killian didn’t reward him with a swift answer. He turned his wineglass gently, watching the red waves cling to the crystal, and only then spoke — calm, unhurried.

  “Relics mean a great deal to everyone, gentlemen. The difference is… you have to pay to obtain them.”

  As if on cue, the waiter arrived with the steak. Before Killian, he set down a piece of meat seared to a dark crust on the outside and blood-red within — so fresh its aroma overwhelmed both perfume and cigarette smoke lingering at the table. The meat rested in its own juices, accompanied by carefully arranged roasted vegetables and shimmering salt crystals.

  Killian began cutting into the steak. Every movement was slow, controlled — as if the entire world could wait while he took his first bite.

  The Rolex on the wrist of the flashy man flickered in the candlelight, though nowhere near as brightly as the runic tattoos glowing along Killian’s fingers as he handled the knife and fork. The flashy man, draped in white silk and gold accents, watched his hand with hypnotic attention, unable to look away.

  Killian raised his fork to his lips, biting down slowly. The juices stained his mouth a deep red — as if he were drinking blood rather than wine.

  “Please, go ahead and eat, Mr. Phoenix,” the flashy man said, his tone attempting to sound casual, though it rang like a hidden challenge. “I’ll talk.”

  He pulled a folder close, slid out a document with care, and placed it on the table. He tapped the page twice with his index finger before rotating it toward Killian.

  “This relic interests me,” he said, his voice taut between confidence and desperation.

  On the page was a golden pendant, etched with runes, labeled: Spirit Ari. Rank A.

  He flicked his gaze briefly at Killian’s eyes — only to have it dragged back down to the glowing runes on Killian’s fingers.

  “I’m prepared to pay…” He smiled, thin and anxious, while the other two turned to him sharply, as if trying to warn him off. “…fifty million euros.”

  The words hit the table like lead.

  The thin man’s eyebrows shot up; the fat man stopped chewing. But the flashy man never looked away from Killian. His smile trembled, his eyes stretched wide with adrenaline — as if this moment were a poker game he had to win.

  Meanwhile, Killian calmly finished his bite, wiped his mouth with a linen napkin, and only then lifted his eyes. His gaze sliced through the candle smoke and scent of roasted meat — yet he said nothing.

  Time passed — minutes, maybe hours; the three men could no longer tell. Killian seemed to hold time under his fingertips, and they sat trapped within it while he calmly finished his steak. The scrape of his knife on porcelain, the dripping meat juices, his steady chewing — these were the only rhythms in their mounting impatience.

  The moment Killian set down his cutlery, the waiter appeared. He leaned forward, but Killian raised a hand — one finger enough to freeze him. Killian gestured for him to come closer. The young man complied instantly, and Killian drew a dark leather wallet from his coat.

  His fingers glided across the bills, counting them one by one — the crisp sound of paper unmistakable and bold. He slid the thick bundle into the waiter’s pocket and gave him a single firm, yet gentle pat on the chest. The waiter nearly blushed, said nothing, and retreated into the shadows.

  Killian then drew a cigar — massive, dark-brown — and the gold rune-engraved lighter. The symbols glimmered in the chandelier’s glow, catching all three men’s attention at once. They recognized the relic but remained silent.

  A blue flame illuminated Killian’s face as he lit the cigar. Smoke rose, thick and gray, curling around him like a crown. He leaned back in his chair, perfectly composed, fingers elegantly holding the cigar as he fixed his gaze on the flashy man.

  His smile was thin, barely there, and his words dripped from his tongue slowly, securely, like oil sliding down cold glass.

  “One hundred and twenty million euros.”

  The smoke spread between them, and the silence that followed weighed heavier than the numbers.

  The fat man was first to break it. He wiped oil from his chin with a napkin and grumbled in his deep voice:

  “For that kind of money, I could buy an entire chain of seaside hotels…”

  The thin man, stiff as ever, raised an eyebrow and peered at Killian through the narrow slit of his glasses.

  “Mr. Phoenix, I don’t question the value of the relic, but one hundred twenty million… that exceeds the boundaries of any reasonable market.”

  Killian did not look at him. Smoke coiled toward the ceiling as he remained perfectly relaxed. Only when the flashy man raised his voice did Killian’s gaze shift.

  “One hundred twenty?” The Rolex flashed as he tapped the folder. “That’s too much. I’ll offer seventy. Cash.”

  Their eyes collided across the table. In that moment, everything else in the restaurant fell silent. Killian set the cigar in the crystal ashtray, leaned his elbow on the table, and rested his chin on his fist. His eyes — sharp as glass — didn’t blink.

  “Seventy?” he repeated calmly, splitting each syllable as though slicing the air into ribbons. “Seventy is an insult, not an offer. If you care about price, you’re in the wrong business.”

  The flashy man did not back down. He leaned forward, pressing the folder to the table with fingers glittering in rings.

  “Ninety. Done deal. Don’t ask again.”

  Killian smiled — but without warmth. A thin smile with too much shadow. He lifted the cigar back to his lips, inhaled, then exhaled the smoke directly into the man’s face.

  “One hundred and twenty million.”

  The flashy man’s eyebrows twitched; his jaw tightened. But he did not dare look away. The fat and thin men exchanged panicked glances — one sweating, the other clutching his watch.

  Killian crossed one leg over the other and continued smoking as if the deal were already sealed.

  The flashy man inhaled deeply, leaned back, and exhaled through his nose like a bull bracing for a charge. Then he leaned forward again, placing his hand on the folder and tapping it — the Rolex scattering candlelight in golden shards.

  “One hundred million, Mr. Phoenix,” he said, trying for a conciliatory tone. “A clean, rounded number. Good for long-term friendship between us.”

  The fat one nodded eagerly; the thin one swallowed a gulp of wine, watching Killian as if tracking every flicker of expression.

  Killian didn’t move. His gaze remained fixed on the flashy man. Smoke drifted between them like a curtain. Finally, he lifted a hand, pointing to the folder.

  “One hundred and twenty million,” he repeated, louder this time — like hammering a nail into the table.

  “No less, no more. I don’t sell numbers — I sell power. And power doesn’t go on sale.”

  The fat man wiped sweat from his brow; the thin man stopped adjusting his watch. The flashy man clenched his jaw, tension tightening every muscle in his face. His gaze locked with Killian’s — and only after several long seconds did he nod.

  “One hundred twenty million.”

  Killian’s smile deepened slightly. He extended his hand across the table, and the flashy man gripped it tightly, fingers encased in gold and diamonds. They shook for a long moment while the other two watched in silence.

  A waiter passed by carrying more wine, and the rich scent of steak and cigar smoke lingered in the air — the unmistakable seal of Killian’s victory.

  The penthouse at the top of the old building greeted Killian with a scent as unmistakable as his own cologne — lacquered wood, leather, wine, and a thin metallic note, as if the space itself breathed with him. The door closed soundlessly behind his back. The floors were laid with dark polished planks that gleamed under dim, yellowish light. He hung his black coat on a bronze hook by the door, and beside it — carefully, as if setting down a weapon — placed his helmet. He slipped out of his shoes with ease, leaving them on a thick burgundy wool rug that swallowed the last echoes of his steps.

  A bar of dark oak dominated the room, massive and glossy, sanded to perfection — as if it had been installed not only for function, but as a display of power. Above it, wine glasses hung upside down, ready. Behind glass doors, gridded shelves held bottles — every one expensive, lined up like trophies, their labels flashing in the yellow light.

  Killian crossed the space as deep burgundy and brown tones spread around him. The walls held paintings of motorcycles in oil and graphite strokes, each frame a frozen moment of speed. Along the walls, shelves rose all the way to the ceiling, packed with books of different thicknesses and ages — arranged at random, yet orderly in their disorder, like the mind of the man who owned them.

  Beneath the living room window stood a black concert grand piano. Its lacquered body caught the light like water shifting. The lid was closed, untouched. Killian walked past it, letting his fingertips glide along the edge — a brief whisper of skin against cold varnish crossing the room. He didn’t stop. His steps carried him toward the bathroom. The hallway smelled of old wine and the cool, metallic steam of pipes disappearing into the walls. Under weak light, his reflection flashed briefly in the mirror — eyes wrapped in shadow — as his hand on the handle disrupted the penthouse’s quiet rhythm.

  He undressed, tossed the clothes into a laundry basket, and turned on the shower. Water struck the crown of his head, ran over shoulders and back, rinsing the day off him — like the seal of a job done well. When he stepped out, steam still hung in the bathroom like smoke. The mirror gave him back his own face — wet hair stuck to his forehead, pale eyes dulled with exhaustion. He stared for a few seconds, then got bored. He opened the cabinet behind the mirror, took a toothbrush, and continued his routine without a trace of vanity toward his own image.

  He slipped into a robe and headed for the bedroom, the heat and steam trailing him out of the bathroom. The room was simple, but imposing: a heavy bed with white sheets, a wardrobe in the corner, and on the open wall — weapons laid out with clean precision. Pistols, rifles, knives; metal glinted in the half-dark, cold and ready, reminding him that his life was never completely quiet. He held his gaze on the arsenal for a few seconds, then turned to the wardrobe.

  He changed into a thin cotton T-shirt and pajama bottoms, then sat on the edge of the bed. He picked up his phone from the nightstand — the screen lit his face, showing it was long past midnight. He locked it and set it down. Two photographs stood on the nightstand. Killian ran a finger over both, slow, as if his skin wanted to memorize every detail. His face softened for a moment — then the shadow returned to his eyes.

  He lowered his hand, switched off the light, and laid his head on the pillow. Darkness met him without questions — quiet, thick.