Day in the story: 20th September (Saturday)
The next few days passed in a blur.
The laptop hasn't been cracked yet and Thomas never reached out—neither to me nor to Mr. Penrose. Phillip said that might actually be a good sign. "He's a professional," he reminded me. "If he's laying low, it means he's doing it right—and he's not leading anyone back to Penrose's Finest."
I tried to believe that.
In the meantime, I returned to the university. Caught up on what I'd missed. I walked the halls like a ghost with a fresh skin—body still sore, but healing. The bruises faded, the cuts itched, and I let myself rest. I even let my guard down once or twice.
Mostly, I just listened. To lectures. To whispers in the corridors. And to Peter's ever-growing romance with Zoe, which had taken on a life of its own.
He was happier than I'd seen him in a while—eyes brighter, steps lighter. It felt like I was watching someone else's slice-of-life film unfold while mine remained on pause, waiting for the next act of violence to hit play again.
But for now, I let it play out. Let the days drift. Let normalcy try to wrap itself around me like a warm—but temporary—blanket.
It was Saturday morning, the 20th of September, and I decided to make it an art day. I had a project for Symbolism to finish, and there was no way I was going to pass off my billboard stunt as a final piece. I needed something less rebellious—and more portable.
The weather was playing nice: a little chilly now, but the forecast promised sun later. A jacket made sense. I reached for one—and the moment my fingers touched it, a chill ran down my spine.
This jacket. The one I wore the night Shiroi touched me. And yet… neither I nor the fabric had unraveled like everything else he laid his cursed hand on. I remembered the way frost bloomed along his skin as if my jacket had bitten back.
It was one of my latest denim painting experiments. I'd watched a dozen tutorials, bought the proper paints, and finally mastered something that held up—even through the washing machine's trials. The centerpiece was the iceberg on the back—huge, cold, jagged—like a monument frozen in time. I'd painted the shoulders and sleeves too, crafting a bird's-eye view that even featured a small polar bear making its way along a distant shelf of ice.
Shiroi had called me a mage when he touched it. A joke? A guess? Or something more? I didn't know. But I hadn't forgotten the way his hand recoiled, or the frost that clung to his fingers like the jacket had fought back. If I was a mage, even accidentally, I wish I'd frozen him solid—left him shattered like stained glass in a thunderstorm.
He deserved every bit of it.
Still, the jacket was cool—in at least two ways—and I loved it. So I wore it.
I packed my paints, brushes, and my portable easel, and headed out to catch the bus that would take me to the park near the university.
Time for something creative. Something symbolic.
--
I was nearly finished with the painting now.
I'd set myself up in the park—not wilderness, not chaos, but a curated slice of nature tucked between the arteries of the city. There were well-maintained paths flanked by evenly spaced trees, and beyond them, clusters more densely packed, as though trying to remember what freedom felt like. Patches of grass spread out in lively greens, and the air was full of the city's version of peace: joggers pounding pavement, couples strolling with coffee cups, children laughing as a stray ball bounced too close to my easel.
But my painting was something else entirely. It wasn't about what you saw when you looked at this postcard-perfect park. It was about what lurked beneath. What crept in through the cracks.
At the center of my canvas stood a cluster of twisted, weather-beaten trees—bent but not broken. Their bark split open like old scars, their gnarled branches reaching upward not in triumph, but in surrender. These trees were still alive, but just barely. Their leaves clung on in grays and ashen yellows, the green all but bled out.
They were ringed by concrete titans—cold skyscrapers with sterile faces. Windowed monoliths that mirrored nothing but each other, trapping their own reflections in an infinite loop. The buildings didn't just stand over the trees—they loomed, leaning inward slightly, like they were conspiring to crush the last breath of wildness from the scene.
Separating the trees from the towers was a moat of cracked pavement. Thin blades of grass clawed their way up through the fissures like survivors from some silent war. Litter clung to the edges—soda cans, faded plastic bags caught in roots, a child's lone sneaker lying on its side like a question no one wanted to answer.
The benches were tagged with graffiti—half warnings, half prayers. "NO EXIT." "GROWTH = DECAY." Voices in permanent marker trying to be heard before they too were washed away.
The sky above was a smear of industrial gray, thick and heavy. But even here, I gave the canvas one defiant ray of hope—a narrow beam of golden sunlight breaking through the gloom, landing on the central tree like a quiet benediction. A dying saint in its cathedral of glass and steel.
Perched on a branch, almost hidden among the lines, was a single bird. A crow, maybe. Or a pigeon. Its feathers dull, its posture slouched, its beak turned away from the viewer. No song. No flight. Just presence.
In the background—almost like a cruel joke—a massive billboard promoted a luxury condo complex. The ad showcased a digitally rendered "green space," all perfectly symmetrical trees and surgically placed picnic tables. It looked clean, vibrant, fake. Next to the withered grove I painted, it might as well have been a crime scene.
I called it Sanctuary Under Siege.
I noticed the light gathering on my skin as I painted.
It had appeared almost as soon as I began—subtle at first, like a shimmer at the edge of sight. But it stayed with me, silent and constant, a strange companion that never asked for attention yet refused to be ignored. Even when I paused, refocused, or blinked it away, it didn't vanish.
At first, it was a calm mist—soft and luminescent, drifting from my pores like breath on a cold morning. When I was at peace, when my brush moved with quiet certainty, the light mirrored that serenity.
But as the passion of creation took over, the glow transformed. The mist sharpened into motion, crackling across my skin like miniature lightning—flickers of energy arcing from elbow to fingertip, responding to the rhythm of my thoughts. It was alive. It felt me.
It responded not just to my mood, but to my will.
And now—the final stroke.
I pulled my brush away from the canvas, the painting complete. I exhaled, half expecting the light to vanish then and there, like a dream at waking.
But it lingered.
Rainbow-colored streaks of brilliance shimmered over my arm, like ribbons dancing in the wind—alive, weightless, free. They fluttered and twirled, as if reluctant to leave, caught in that strange liminal moment between creation and quiet.
I sat still, watching them. For a long time, I just watched.
The air around me felt thin, but not empty. The kind of silence that follows music.
I wondered then if there was more to me than Lex. More than Jess. More than Usagi or the myriad disposable masks I'd worn over the years like second skins. Maybe, buried beneath them all, there was someone real. An Alexandra—a girl and a woman I was meant to be, but never fully became.
Maybe that was the light.
Maybe I, too, was under siege. Not by skyscrapers or concrete—but by identities I had built to survive. Just like the weary trees I had painted, still standing in defiance, I was fighting to grow through the cracks. Fighting for a sliver of sky. Fighting to breathe.
Or maybe I was just overthinking things. Wouldn't be the first time.
I reached for the necklace resting against my collarbone. Cool steel met my fingers, grounding me. I had made it myself during the metallurgy sub-course I'd enrolled in just last week. It felt fitting—if all of this began with a necklace, maybe it should continue with one of my own.
It wasn't decorative. It was functional. A heart-shaped locket, forged from stainless steel, large enough to hold a folded slip of paper—the same kind I used to anchor memories. I could remember everything as long as I kept it close to my skin.
I had tested it yesterday. Took it off for a few hours. Just a little experiment.
And slowly, like fog rolling in, the memories began to blur. The wrecked car. Shiroi's twisted powers. Whether we even shot him or not—it all became hazy, like a dream fraying at the edges. Like it had never happened.
Then I put the necklace back on—thanks to a reminder I had cleverly set on my phone. And just like that, the truth snapped back into place. Clear. Solid. Undeniable.
I asked Penrose last night—carefully—about Shiroi's "magic."
He looked at me blankly. Said he didn't know what I was talking about.
I didn't push.
There's a force at work here. Something that wants this hidden. That wants people to forget. To smooth over the unnatural with mundane silence. To rewrite reality when it doesn't behave.
And somehow, through my art, I could establish a little control over it. Over whatever this was. I just hoped it would be enough to help me survive the shitstorm I wandered into last week.
I waited nearly two hours for my painting to dry enough to transport safely. If needed, I could touch it up at home—any areas that didn't survive the ride could be rescued. I was just about to start packing when I heard a voice behind me.
"Beautiful piece."
I knew that voice.
I turned. I knew that face, too.
Eveline de Marco—my target. The original owner of the fated necklace. She looked different now, younger in the natural light. Dressed casually but with elegance: a long skirt, a white blouse with delicate floral embroidery, a soft pullover, and a light scarf over her neck. At first, I had pegged her for her thirties. Now, I wasn't so sure. She might have been just a touch older than me.
"Thank you," I said, heart skipping—but thankfully, there was no flicker of recognition in her eyes or posture. No hint she knew my voice from when I was Claudia. Still, two men hovered twenty feet behind her, dressed in sharp Italian suits, standing too still to be anything but her protection detail.
"It really captures how nature can survive through the hardest conditions—even those of the concrete jungle."
"I was going more for the city's oppression angle." I replied.
She laughed, light and genuine.
"May I ask—are you against such oppression?"
Her smile had that familiar grace, the same one she wore when I sold her a sob story about my fake life. I still wondered how a woman like her ended up married to a mob boss.
"I'm against the blindness of people," I said. "I want them to see both the oppression and the perseverance—then decide for themselves."
"Well said. I like that approach." She tilted her head slightly, squinting at me. "Excuse my boldness, but… have we met before? I feel like I know you from somewhere."
Oh good god.
"Maybe. I've had a few of my pieces in galleries around the city. I also study at the university over there." I pointed vaguely across the trees.
She seemed to relax. "Could be—we just crossed paths. I, unfortunately, never attended university myself, even though I wanted to."
"Money wasn't the issue, I guess?" I looked her up and down with a playful smile so she'd catch the teasing in my tone.
She laughed. A real laugh. She was… surprisingly cool.
"No. That wasn't the problem."
She lowered her voice slightly, leaning in like she was letting me in on a secret. "Do you mind talking with me for a bit? To be honest, I don't get many opportunities."
"Not at all," I said. And I meant it. It was nice, in a strange way.
"What's the problem, then?"
"You probably didn't notice, but there are two men following me."
She said it like she was talking about the weather. Then added, chuckling, "Go ahead and look. This isn't a movie."
I glanced. Polite, casual. But yes—they were impossible to miss. Two buffed-up suits trying to act casual while pretending to discuss a bush. Subtle as bricks.
"Wow, I hadn't noticed," I said with a grin. "Are you a fugitive on the run?"
"Almost." She smiled, then gestured toward a nearby bench. "Take another guess."
We walked toward it together. I left my easel, painting, and bag nearby. Her security shifted position subtly, now stationed just close enough to intervene—if needed.
"You're an heiress, right? Some kind of fortune, and your parents didn't want you exposed to too many people too fast."
"You do have a keen eye." She smiled. "I'm Eveline. Eveline de Marco."
A real name. Should I use mine? Hell with it—it's just another mask.
"I'm Alexandra May. People call me Lex. Or Alexa."
"Which do you prefer?"
"Whatever you fancy."
"You were close, Lex. It's not my family, though—it's my husband's. He has enemies who might target me to get to him."
"Politician? Businessman?"
"Both, unfortunately."
"You don't seem oppressed," I said. "You seem… radiant."
"Keen eye again." She turned to me, a little wistful. "Yes, I am happy. I'm in love with him. But I get lonely sometimes."
"No friends to talk to?"
"I could call some of them friends. I could talk to them, but they're mostly dull. Not an artist painting truth into the world. That's cool."
That one hit unexpectedly warm. I think I might've even blushed.
"Thank you," I said, recovering. "You're an interesting piece yourself, lady."
She laughed again—open, unguarded. Then, suddenly:
"Would you mind if I called you from time to time? Just to talk about life?"
Wow. She makes friends fast.
"Would it paint a target on my back too?"
"Fortunately, my husband doesn't read my private messages." Her voice had a teasing lilt. "Nor does he listen to all my conversations."
You think so, lady. I bet he does. Or someone on his payroll does.
"Let's do it differently, then," I said. "If we meet again—by happenstance or fate—then I'll give you my number. What do you say to that, Eveline?"
She smiled, amused. "I could have one of my men follow you. Organize fate myself."
"Will you do that?" I asked, already certain I could shake them off in a heartbeat.
"No." Her smile softened. "I like your proposition. Second meeting to seal the deal."
Third, actually. But let her believe what she wants.
"I accept, Lex." She extended her hand toward me. Her detail immediately tensed. I took it anyway.
"Fantastic, Eveline. To the next meeting, then!" I said brightly, standing and moving toward her security to collect my things.
They parted like the Red Sea before Moses as she turned and walked away, her silent storm of suits trailing behind.
If fate really intends for us to meet again... how will I play my role then?
--
I had barely started unpacking when my phone rang—Penrose.
Good news or bad? Only one way to find out.
"Hello, Mr. Penrose."
"Alexandra. Honey's log has been deciphered. I went through it."
Oh damn. Please let it be good news.
"Bad news," he added without waiting.
No shit.
"Shiroi was a representative of Robert de Marco."
I stopped mid-step. "Robert? Don't tell me it's the Robert de Marco—from the gala. The auction house."
"The very same."
"I met his wife today."
A pause.
"Coincidence?" he asked.
"Seems like it... but it's a little too convenient, don't you think? I don't know what to make of it, sir. Why would Robert want his wife's necklace stolen?"
"I don't know," Penrose said, the weight in his voice unmistakable. "We may never know. But one thing is clear—Mr. de Marco wants this buried. Badly."
"It seems so. But why go through all that trouble?" I asked.
"Why not just take the necklace privately?" Penrose finished my thought.
"Exactly. Why orchestrate a public theft? Why make it messy?"
"I don't know, Alexandra. Maybe he needed the FBI distracted during the gala?"
I shook my head, even though he couldn't see it. "No, sir. That's a terrible plan. If he was certain the FBI would be there, he could've just not shown up. Or staged something he could control better. I could've backed out. I nearly didn't make the grab. It's too risky. It doesn't make sense for it to be about the FBI."
Penrose sighed. "True. Then maybe... maybe the dynamics inside the de Marco household aren't what the world thinks they are. Maybe Mrs. de Marco holds more power than she shows."
"She'd have to be one hell of an actress."
"She could be just that."
There was a pause—tight and heavy.
"I'll need to deal with him," Penrose said quietly. "And his assassin. I don't like loose ends any more than he seems to."
I felt the tension creep up my spine. "Do you think he can trace this back to us? Even with us having the logs?"
"He might not need the logs."
A beat.
"He might have Thomas. And if they torture him… he might spill."
"No way, sir. Thomas would never—"
"Everyone breaks, Alexandra." Penrose's voice was calm, but heavy. "It's just a question of how long, and what it costs."
I went silent. He was right. And it scared me how right he was.
There is no one invulnerable to pain.
"What will you do, sir?"
"I will think," he said. "And then act. I'm not someone guided by haste or emotion."
That was true. Even when Penrose tore people apart—figuratively or literally—it was never rage. It was math. A means to an end. Even fear and respect were tools in his arsenal.
"Will I have a role to play?" I asked.
"Probably not. You're my best thief, Alexandra, not my assassin. I called to inform you. And, as you young people say—brainstorm."
"Was the search for Thomas a total bust? No trace on CCTV?"
"I checked. All footage in the relevant areas was corrupted—unreadable."
Of course it was. Nothing involving Shiroi ever left a clean trail.
"Mr. Penrose… I still want to help. Somehow."
"As long as it doesn't jeopardize me or the operation, do as you will. But inform me before you act."
"Yes, sir."
"Good day."
"Good day, sir."
I ended the call and slumped onto my bed, my eyes glued to the ceiling. The plaster up there looked cracked—like a spiderweb spreading from some old impact. It mirrored my thoughts too well.
Going into de Marco's house was a terrible idea. I'd be walking into a gilded cage, lined with velvet and rifles. I didn't want the entire Mafia on my heels. That left only one option—the man who hunted me.
Shiroi.
It was time to turn the tables. But how do you hunt a ghost?