46. Telesphore

In the conference room on the top floor of the Reyer Corporation headquarters, Sir Raulf Reyer hollered, "Telesphore, I'm speaking to you!" 

Snapping out of his trance, Telesphore straightened in one of the leather chairs that ringed the oval table of polished mahogany. "Yes, Father, I heard you."

"I don't need you to hear me! I need you to give me a bloody answer!" The old man looked like he could throw a shoe at him any second. 

Telesphore batted his eyes. Having spaced out, he had no idea what the question was. "What is there you want me to say, Father?" He composed himself, skirting around the question with a sullen look as if he could proclaim his undivided attention by appearing serious. "Everything is fine." If it was about the DEA raiding their Plant, hadn't he explained enough times that they had suffered no loss?

"Fine?" the old man brayed. "You handed our ledgers to an outsider like fucking coupons!" 

So, that's what it is about – thought Telesphore, his hands clutching the armrests. Since he had helped the family relocate half of their assets to the Republic—an act that earned him a seat at this conference table—he had felt growing hostility directed at him, not just from his siblings but also from the old man, who ground his teeth at Warshon for advising Telesphore to trademark with his first name in the Republic rather than using the Reyer.

"Well, what would you have me do?" Telesphore didn't budge. "You want my friend to help you relocate the money without giving him the details of our finances?"

"Friend?" Raulf chortled, disdain dripping in his voice. "Your friend did nothing when the piece of shit doctor hinted our vaccines being the problem! Is that what you call a friend?"

"What do you expect him to do?" Telesphore countered. "It's not like he planned for the sailors to all get sick!"

His father looked daggers. "You damn fool!" 

"What's done is done, Father," interrupted Marrok Reyer, Telesphore's half-brother. Turning forty-four this year, Marrok always commanded himself in impeccable composure. His cognac-colored eyes behind the rimless glasses never betrayed even a hint of thoughts. "Maybe we should focus on what's next."

"Indeed," seconded Adnet, Marrok's younger brother, a baby-faced man with black to blond hair in a stylish undercut quiff, whose soul was hard as his skin was soft, and whose deep blue eyes were as humble as his approaches were ruthless. "With the media barking at our doorstep, we should make sure nothing falls into the wrong hands. Marrok and I have double-checked all our financial reports, Father. Everything that might give away our involvement is gone." 

The Reyers' patriarch favored him with an impatient nod. 

"As for that friend of yours, Dr. Warshon Qusbecq," Adnet continued, shifting in the chair. He skewed his head to Telesphore, a meaningful half-smile tugging at his lips. "I'd wager on his silence. He never strikes me as the nosy type. Besides, given how he's a major shareholder now, and it's us, the Reyers, who sponsor his research, his interest is bound to ours. I don't think he'd be so foolish to scupper the same boat he's on," taking a loaded pause, he waited for his words to register. "With all due respect, Father," he resumed. "I wouldn't exactly call Dr. Qusbecq an outsider at this point, and he had proven his value to us. I think I'll enjoy working with this man." 

Telesphore stiffened, his eyes narrowing at Adnet, who returned a wink. 

"Then that settles it," Raulf grunted, thudding his cane at his side. The big leather chair squeaked as he rose to his feet. "Adnet, you'll accompany Telesphore to Konstinbul after the new year."

"But Father!" Telesphore shot from his seat. 

"What?" the old man bellowed. "What else do you have to say? That the Republican boy wouldn't like it? Well, you tell him to get used to it!" 

As he tried to block the old man's way, Adnet grabbed his wrist. "You're acting like a fool, big brother," he whispered. 

Telesphore's eyes snapped to the hand on his. Everyone in this house thought of him as a fool ever since he was a child, and he had learned to accept it. Never had he the flair with people, the games they played, the plots they whispered, or the pieces they set to move, he was always a step behind to catch on their meanings, and it tapped him out only trying to keep up. He missed the old days when he didn't have to come out of his study, and never had he needed the company of those who wouldn't understand. He pulled his hand away. "I should have known nothing good ever come out of you." 

Adnet regarded him with a grin so innocent it belied all his cunning. "Listen to yourself! Did you hear him, Marrok? After everything I did to haul him out of his predicament? Gratefulness really is hard to come by these days!" Feigning hurt, he flicked a glance at his older brother, who only proceeded to stand with his back to them before the window. 

Telesphore wanted to yell back that he knew how to defend himself. But as he rehearsed the words in his head, he fell into silence. His defense sounded so weak, so childish, it'd only subject him to their scorn and ridicule. "What do you want, Adnet?" he asked instead, his eyes boring into the half-brother he grew up with. About the same age, Adnet had always been way ahead. A born leader, he always had a group of lackeys who willingly followed him around wherever he went, and he never took no for an answer while speaking in a breezy voice. Unlike Telesphore who had always been chubby, Adnet was athletic with a face that served as his invitation to any event he wished to attend. 

Adnet offered a dismissive shrug. "I'm bored here," He slumped into the chair, his eyes narrowing with disdain. "The Commonwealth is getting so dull and dogmatic it's insufferable thanks to the fucking Reds."

"Mind your tongue, Adnet," jested Anette, looking up from the files before her, her voice lazy. Being Adnet's twin, she was pretty much his reflection as a woman. "You wouldn't want trouble with the ghetto royals." 

Adnet threw back his head and laughed, his hands crossing upon his midriff, his deep blue eyes a glint as if glazed with ice. "Ghetto royals. Good one, Anette, I give you that." Then, slowly returning his cold eyes to Telesphore, he went on, "You couldn't be so naive and think Dad would allow you and your college buddy to control half of his asset aboard, could you? While I indeed admire Dr. Qusbecq for his decisiveness in making your name the trademark for our pharmaceutical, he's too hasty. He should have earned Father's trust first. After all, the old man still has a few years before kicking the bucket."

Anette giggled, cupping a hand over her bow lips painted red. 

 "And as for your question, it's never about what I want, dear Teddy, but timing what I want with the old man's needs." Adnet stretched out his words as he put his feet up, the heels of his black tie hard leather shoes thumping the table. He closed his eyes, slumping into the chair; his hands steepled. "It takes an hour and six minutes on average to climb the stairs to this floor, but only eight point eight seconds to jump off, and even an elephant can't touch the ground so easily without gravity despite its own weight. I might not have excelled at science at school, Teddy, but I'm very good at applying it in everyday use." He opened his eyes, his grin mocking.

"I'd rather take my sweet time to go up," Telesphore retorted and stormed out.

"That's why you always lose." Adnet's aloof voice trailed him. 

"Beg me pardon for having a different definition of winning!" He rasped over his shoulder and didn't care if the others heard him. 

Taking the elevator to the underground parking, he flung himself into the driver's seat and slammed the door shut. He only wanted to get away from the Reyers and focus on the research with Warshon. But with Adnet the ticking bomb coming with him, who knew what'd happen? He clicked off his watch screen from the wristband and texted Warshon. 

Of course your father will send a sitter. 

The other replied within a minute. 

It's his company, and we dared to trademark it with your name. But just because Adnet is coming doesn't change the fact that you're the sole legal representative of the Reyer Corporation here in the Republic. So, rest easy. 

Telephhore heaved a sigh. It went beyond his depth how men like Warshon could always remain poised even if the sky crumbled and the earth sundered neath their feet. When Warshon insisted that they used Telesphore other than Reyer, he admitted he hesitated. A fool he might be, he wasn't so cretinous he couldn't see the consequences. But Warshon didn't relent. He pressed him to seize the opportunity bound with risks, to take offense for a change and gain the upper hand. 

While Adnet reckoned with existing forces that gave him a lift, Warshon was gravity in and of himself. 

A smile spread from his lips but wilted before reaching his eyes, his mind going back to the last call with Warshon. The raid. Telesphore scowled. While it came and went in a whirlwind, and the DEA had indeed issued an official apology to the Reyer Corporation for the misunderstanding, Warshon refused to explain what caused the misunderstanding in the first place, treating it as if it was a trivial piece of gossip, and his refusal was enough a telltale sign of the hidden truth. It didn't add up why the Republican drug lord should show up at the Plant that night. And if not even he could set aside the misgiving, let alone his father. Perhaps that was another reason the old man sent Adnet along. 

Huffing a long sigh, Telesphore started the car. It streaked through the crime-infested streets of Lizington in the stench of excrements, streets that had seen better days. He turned the AC to internal circulation. In the old financial district, he pulled up at Iréne Cǒté, a high-end bar that he and Adnet were tasked to frequent as they mingled with the Lizington elites back when he had just finished his master's degree in chemistry. 

He pushed through Iréne Cǒté's signature red door. The ominous neon pink light glowed dimly from the edges of the walls, flouting the diurnal rhythms of the world outside. 

"Mr. Telesphore," the bartender greeted him with a gesture of a bow. 

"Good afternoon, Simon," Telesphore said, forcing out a smile. "Sorry for the intrusion. I know you guys don't open until five. But, I just thought I'd drop by and see, erm," his voice trailed off to a gauche chuckle. 

"If you're here for the boy," Simon Perrin observed as if he could peer through Telephore's head with his narrowing gaze the color of tea that had been left to brew for too long. "Evan Ginsberg, is it? I'm sorry, Mr. Telesphore. Like I told you the last time, the boy never showed up again." 

Telesphore pursed his lips. "Well, mind if I take a drink before I go?"

"Brandy, neat?"

Telesphore raised his brows at the bartender with a headful of crisp gold hair. "Exceptional memory, Simon." 

"Thank you, Sir. Part of the job, I guess." The man smiled. Whirling to the bar counter, he took a tulip glass from the shelf. "Go take a seat, Sir. I'll bring it over."

Telesphore nodded. Heading to his usual booth, he flung himself down on the plush upholstery the color of an overripe plum and closed his eyes, an arm hanging on the backrest while all the memories flashed back. 

Four years ago, he and Adnet came here every Saturday, accompanying the scumbag sons of the higher-ups in the government. They came to ogle and cavort. Known for hiring only stunning waitresses, Iréne Cǒté had not a single face that didn't allure. Every pair of eyes whispered, licking awake the fantasies dormant under the clothes of civility. 

Having had too much to sniff and drink, Eduardo Castrillo grabbed the wrist of the one waiting on them. The poor girl fell on his lap while he groped up her thigh. He would have his way with her on the spot, and no one would stop the youngest son of Superintendent Castrillo, had it not been for a cohort of paparazzi sneaking in through the backdoor. 

Holding a grudge, Eduardo made them all wait until everyone else left. They heard the floor manager reprimanding a busboy for ruining the cash inflow that night. While the boy denied his involvement, the manager ducked his pay. 

But that was only a slap on the wrist compared to what was to come next.

After he finished cleaning the kitchen –- another punishment he received – he left Iréne Cǒté only to find a pack of wolves who hated having their fun spoiled. Cornering the boy into the back alley, Eduardo Castrillo clutched his thin neck and shoved him to a wall. 

"So you're the little buzzkill, eh?" Eduardo bared his teeth. "Has mommy never taught you to mind your own damn business?"

"Don't have one," the boy gasped, his hands groping at his sides, those big emerald green eyes defiant. 

About to muster up all his courage and stop the burly man before he could break the boy's neck, Telesphore felt a cold hand on his wrist. He snapped his eyes at Adnet who gave him the slightest shake of his head. 

"Lalo, my friend," Adnet drawled as he sauntered over to the man's side. Drawing a hand out of his pocket, he patted Eduardo on the shoulder. "The pipsqueak here spoiled the night for all of us. Don't kill him before we all get a turn to blow off some steam." 

"Exactly!" seconded Augustin Febela, son of the Finance Minister. "We didn't wait out here just for you to claim all the fun! We aren't your lackeys, Lalo!"

Eduardo scoffed. Turning his head to Adnet, he threw the boy on the cement. "Fine," he grunted through his teeth. "You'd better put on quite a show then" 

Adnet chuckled, "I'll give it my best." Sitting on his heels, he squatted next to the boy gasping for air. "Look at you," he said, his voice ravenous. With a click at his hand, a small flame sputtered to life, wooshing in the dark while it cast a soft glow on the prey. "You have a face finer than the waitress'. Aren't you a little too pretty for a boy? How old are you?"

"Has mommy never taught you to mind your own damn business? Thought it was a common practice in your circle. Or are you just an outsider trying too hard to blend in? How pitiful!" He flashed at him an impish grin that sent a shudder down Telesphore's spine. 

Amidst the hooting laugh of drunkards, Adnet took an unusual moment of pause. "Feisty," he mused at length. Darkness resumed as he flicked off the flame. "But is courage smart here, I wonder?" Taking his prey under the arm, Adnet lifted him to his feet and pinned him to the wall with one hand around his neck. "Seve," he said without looking around. "Do you think we can win a lot of money by suing Iréne Cǒté for hiring minors?"

"Why the hell would you do that?" Seve Fontanez grumbled with a derisive hiss of laugh. "The younger the better! I'd defend Iréne Cǒté gratis! And even if you sue them and win, the money doesn't go to you!" 

"Touché," Adnet shrugged and ran his eyes down the boy's neck. "But isn't this one a bit too young? No Adam's apple, he hasn't even hit puberty. Or," Before everyone realized, he ripped the boy's shirt, revealing the chest bind. The buttons bounced and rolled by Telesphere's feet. 

The laughter that followed was wild and feral, amplified by the quietness of the night approaching its end. The boy, no, the girl, shoved at Adnet's chest with all her force only to be pinned by the wrists on the wall. Brushing his lips on her skin while she squirmed, Adnet bit her neck. "Delicious," he said, his face hidden from them all, as if his words were only intended for her. "I always find small-chested women adorable." Then, pulling a little distance, he lifted his chin, his deep blue eyes hazy like he was drunk on that which wasn't alcohol. "Look at me."

She only tucked her cheek to the shoulder. "Dared to put any body part in my mouth, I'll bite it off!"

"Aren't you all teeth?" Adnet shook with a silent laugh. 

"Time's up, Adnet!" Augustin Febela groused. "Didn't you say we take turns?" 

But Adnet didn't let her go. "Change of plan," he said, his voice easy. "You leave her to me, I'll buy you all a night with the best escorts Lizington can offer."

"Deal," one said. Was it Seve, Telesphore couldn't remember, for everything unfolded before his eyes too quickly to grasp. 

While others might yield to Adnet's bribe, Eduardo Castrillo wasn't as easy to deal with. Lighting a cigar, he drew a long draft and waggled a hand, beckoning his lackeys to flank him as he came forth. "I wouldn't mind a night, but I also wouldn't like to be cheated," he said, his voice ripe with menace. "Didn't you say we take turns to let off some steam? I feel cheated right now." 

"You can let off your steam with the hooker," Adnet countered, curling his lips to a mirthless smirk. 

"You have a glib tongue, Adnet, which is pleasant when you use it wisely," Eduardo croaked, tipping his head to the side. The lackeys took the cue and gripped Adnet by either shoulder. The second they pulled him away, Eduardo tugged down the girl's chest bind and put the ember to her breast. He didn't put it off but let it burn while she bent forward to the pain. 

Telesphore was sure he needed to do something before the situation spiraled completely out of control. But what could he do while the police were the houseguards of Castrillo?

"Does it hurt?" Eduardo snickered. "Well, good, cuz we're only getting started." 

The girl lifted her emerald eyes brimming with spunk. "Can't hurt more than your ego," she spat. While the man was still stunned, she slipped a hand behind her and out with a signal gun. 

Blam! 

 The report sent a bloom of fireworks that set the night aglow. 

"Signal of the First Command." She let out a cold laugh devoid of mirth, her gasping voice unhurried. "The police are yours to command, Mr. Castrillo. What about the syndicates?"

Eduardo looked daggers and backed a step. "You…"

"Yes, me," the girl straightened, her eyes a glint. "And I suggest you all to run. Run fast."

 It didn't take more than a few seconds for them to turn on their heel – except Adnet, who was hauled away by Eduardo's lackeys. But even so, he couldn't stop looking back. All fled but Telesphore, the wallflower everyone forgot. He bounded up to her as she dropped to her knees. 

"You ok?" he grabbed her. "Sorry, I didn't do anything to stop them. Believe me, I wanted to." 

She didn't answer, her hand fumbling in the pocket of her jeans. Over their heads, the moon came out of hiding from behind the yarns of cloud and shrouded the world below in a diaphanous sense of beguiling peace. The nearby trees rustled in the rising wind, their branches a lattice of shadows susurrating the night's secrets. Tilting to the side, she panted, her face blanched of color. An inhaler dropped from her thin hand. She made a crawl for it. 

"Let me help you," Telesphore picked it up. "Into your mouth, right?"

She side-eyed him. 

"Silly question," he cracked an awkward grin and pumped it for her. 

As her breathing calmed, she leaned to the wall and scrambled to her feet. "Why didn't you run?"

"Because I was worried, I guess?" 

"Well, let's run now if you don't wanna run into the mob."

"Wait, aren't you, I mean…" Telesphore stumbled. 

"What kind of mafia bus tables?" She gave him another side-eye. 

"Then…"

"I played video games at tournaments for Tito Galiano once in exchange for the syndicate's signal gun. It was fun. But that was about it. I've only met Tito and a few members in person, and it's usually the lackeys I don't know who'll be dispatched here at this hour. When they arrive and realize they're pranked, we're done for." Towing him by the wrist, she clutched at her collar with the other hand and made a feeble run, her breath came in a wheeze. 

"You didn't just, I mean, you…" 

"What?" she shot a glance at him over her shoulder. "What kind of fool walks the street alone at this hour unprepared?"

"Why didn't you fire the signal sooner?"

"Because I kind of wanted to see what you all got." The same impish grin tinged with sarcasm frisked in her emerald eyes. "Quite disappointing, to be honest."

Couldn't find words to describe her or how he was feeling, Telesphore gaped at a loss. 

The pink glow of the neon lights pierced through his peripheral vision. 

Telesphore opened his eyes to the present, uncertain whether it was a flashback or a dream. The glass of brandy had already been placed before him on a coaster. He put it to his lips. 

The warm liquor narrowed his gaze, his vision growing hazy again. 

After they got back on the main street, the girl hailed a cab and left without giving him her name. Telesphore went back to Iréne Cǒté the next day only to find Eduardo Castrillo had his men surrounded the area. Clever as she was, the girl called in sick, and all Telesphore learned on the following day was that she went by the name Evan Ginsberg at Iréne Cǒté. For two weeks, she didn't show, and it went beyond his depth why she would disguise herself as a busboy when she didn't seem to need the money. Just when Telesphore thought he should let go of the night encounter, a whisper sent an earthquake within their circle: Superintendent Juan Castrillo had dispatched Eduardo to the army stationed on the southern borders. As if by a snap of magic fingers, the brute of Lizington was out of everyone's way. 

Telesphore knew it on a hunch that the girl had something to do with it. But how could he prove it when the only clue he had was a fake ass name? Days stretched into weeks, and weeks into months. Time elapsed. His longing to see her again, however, hadn't lessened a bit. 

About a month later, when New Year was just around the corner, Raulf Reyer sent Telesphore to visit Reynold Barca because it was no secret that the then Secretary of the State had a predilection for nerds. Telesphore rang the doorbell, and when the door went ajar from the inside, his jaw hung in disbelief, his brows shooting up so much as though they were fleeing his face. Under the lazy sunlight of the early winter afternoon, the girl stood before him barefoot in plush hooded pajamas, with a catheter buried in the back of her hand connected to an IV bag drooping from the pole. 

"You…" he huffed a nervous laugh that sounded much out of sync with his wide-eyed stare. 

It took her aback seeing him too. She blinked a little helplessly while a shaft of sunlight glanced off those big, almond eyes. But she soon regained her composure. "Yes, me," she offered a shrug and a polite smile. "Reyer Corporation? You'll have to wait. Reynold is old and slow. He hasn't finished the last meeting yet." 

Telesphore scoured his brain for an explanation. Besides his predilection for nerds, Reynold Barca also had a bad reputation with women. The only female who had lived in his house was the girl he adopted a few years back, the daughter of Professor Alec de Armas. 

"You're Mira de Armas?" he managed at length. 

"Guess you aren't a complete idiot," the girl coughed and trembled as a gust of chill wind swept by them. "Are you coming in or not? It's cold."

"Sorry!" He strode inside and helped close the door for her.

"You can wait in the foyer, or you can have a game with me," she said, heading to the other side of the hall without stopping, the wheels of the IV pool clanking along the floor. 

"Which game?" He went after her, smiling like an idiot despite himself. "I doubt I can compete with the one who plays for the syndicate's boss at tournaments." 

She glanced over her shoulder. "Slayer's Mantra." 

"I've heard of it."

"Everyone has," She pushed open a door to what seemed like a game room with curtain lights and bookshelves lining the walls. Plopping on a bean bag, she tossed a magic cube at him. "See if you're good enough to compete with me, let's run a test."

Telesphore barely managed to catch it with both hands, color rising to his cheeks. "You don't mean catch, do you?" 

She scowled, flicking her eyes at the IV bag. "Do I look like I can play catch?" 

"Sorry…"

"See if you can beat me at solving the cube. If you're too slow, then forget it. Wait in the foyer. I'm allergic to slowness." She grabbed another from the desk next to her. "Ready?"

Telesphore laughed, shaking his head. Finally, someone invited him to a game he had never lost before. At the sound of her signal, he unfolded the cube in his head as if they were many elements waltzing together in search of equilibrium. Almost there, he thought. It wasn't a breeze but –

"Done," she said, holding the perfect cube in her hand. 

Telesphore batted his eyes at a loss, trying to defend himself, "Well, I'm almost there." 

"Then, get on with it. Don't just gawk at me."

He rubbed his brow, his palms bristle with sweat. The victory that seemed so close strayed further and further away. It took him at least another five minutes while she ran out of patience and resumed her mission on the screen. 

Deflated, Telesphore put the cube on the floor next to her and turned to the door. 

"Where are you going?" she asked, without taking her eyes off the screen, her thumb twirling the joystick. 

"Foyer," he muttered. "Aren't you allergic to slowness?"

"Yeah, but I also said that Reynold is old and slow," she giggled. "You take people's words far, far too seriously, man. Let's start a new round after I – Bullseye!" Tilting back, she sagged into the bean bag. The screen returned to the game's main interface. "So, wanna play?"

Telesphore did as bid. "I wasn't that slow, was I? I mean with the cube?"

"So long as you know what you're doing, does it matter what I say?" Rolling her eyes, the girl grunted, "You were doing great before I finished. Then, everything seemed to fall apart just because I finished seconds before you. Why was that? These are my cubes, and I could easily have cheated. Why not? Your mental fortitude is contemptible." 

"Perhaps." Telesphore grinned wryly at himself and shrugged. All the years running away from bullies had made him a craven who always opted for flight when he should have stood up for himself. "How did you train your mental fortitude?" 

"Secretary of State is my adopted father, so what do I care?" she jested, flashing an impish grin that turned wry as she chewed the seams of her lips. "Feel the touch of death and escape by the skin of your teeth, then you realize nothing matters in life." 

Glancing at the IV bag, Telesphore remembered the asthma attack. "Did something happen after we parted ways the last time?"

"I got pneumonia," she said, her voice easy, as if she was saying she had a nap. Upon seeing him flinch, she rolled her eyes again. "Relax, it isn't the kind that's infectious." 

"So, guess you weren't lying when you called in sick, huh?" he laughed nervously. 

Mira shrugged. 

"By the way," Telesphore gulped a mouthful of air, his brow furrowing. "Did you, I mean, were you, Eduardo Castrillo…"

The wonted, impish smile flitted across her eyes. "I'm sorry I don't understand the question." She lowered her head. 

"Did Reynold –"

"Don't mention the incident that night to Reynold at all when you see him," she cut him short, her smile dissipated without a trace. "Not a word." 

"Wait, you never told him?" Telesphore shook his head at a loss. "Why?"

"Why should I? What will I achieve by telling other than urging him to make more enemies than he already has?" Mira fiddled with the controller as she claimed her rewards. 

"But Eduardo, how come?"

Seized by a feeble fit of cough, she sank into the bean bag and rested her eyes. "If you're really curious, the rumor I heard is that old Castrillo saw his buff son with his mistress," she said matter-of-factly, her voice husky from the cough. "Now, are you playing or not?"

Telesphore pursed his lips as he picked up the other controller. 

Too swift and deft, she spared him not a splinter of a second for his mind to wander and never had he thought that playing a video game could consume his full attention. 

"That was intense," Telesphore remarked, slumping against the wall next to her while sweat rolled off his back. 

Mira handed him a box of chocolate. "Pick one."

"Nah, I try to stay off sugar," he said, clapping his midriff, an anxious laugh rattling in his throat. 

It earned him a side-eye and a sigh raw with impatience. "Those who stay off sugar don't use their heads half as much as they should," she grumbled. "The brain is fueled by sugar, you know? But suit yourself. I've done my part with hospitality." 

"In that case," he chuckled and picked one out of the box, the first chocolate he had in three years tasted like everything he liked about the world. 

It wasn't until after he left the Barca's residence that night, when his feet took him for a stroll on a whim and brought him to a halt on the street before Iréne Côté, when he saw Adnet's flashy sports car pulling up by the curb, did he stumble upon the consequence the rumor she spoke of so casually in its full magnitude. 

Adnet offended Eduardo that night. When Mira fired the signal, Adnet wanted to stay for her. It was all in his eyes. But he couldn't. He had to leave with Eduardo and mend whatever that he might have broken without any promise of success. Should Eduardo stay in Lizington, the Reyer Corporation could run into trouble with the police. 

The driver's seat window rolled down, and Telesphore saw Adent looking out. Through the raucous crowds of stylish men and women in the roaring steam of winter, he was looking at the alley that wound behind Iréne Côté's signature red door. In his deep blue eyes, something flickered, a snarl on the brink of a yearning unbeknownst to perhaps even himself. He rolled up the window, and his car zipped away. 

The vibration from his watch summoned Telesphore's attention to his here and now. 

He put in an earpiece. "Speaking."

"Good news, Sir," said his assistant in a crisp voice. "Someone using the name Evan Ginsberg left Lizington weeks ago on a ship operated by Sealion Cargo. There's no official documentation, only the information he provided to Customs, which could be entirely fake. It matches what you're looking for." 

Telesphore shot up straight in his seat, spilling the brandy all over his hand. Since Reynold was thrown out of power, Telesphore had tried to convince Raulf to let him marry Mira but earned only scorn. While the world believed she died in the fire, Telesphore refused to acknowledge it, knowing that she was too feisty, too stubborn, and too defiant to die this easily. While no traces of Mira de Armas could be found, he tried his luck with Evan Ginsberg. 

"Where?" he asked, his voice shaky. 

"Konstinbul, the Republic."

"Remigio," He threw the dregs down his throat and sprang to his feet. "Be so kind and book me the next flight to Konstinbul." 

"But sir, isn't the plan for you to leave after the New Year?" 

"The plan has changed."