[Perispera, Luxomoris. Sheriff's Office, 6 p.m.]
— Yes, I'm dealing with these... — he snapped into the receiver irritably: — But you must be misunderstanding me. I'm the only cop in this entire town!
The man was clearly on edge, but he continued to defend his position, which did not seem to be shaken even by the end of the world:
— What kind of assistant? I don't even have a trainee!
— Ugh... got it, — he exhaled and disconnected the call. Then his gaze turned to the guests.
These guys were pretty tense, but no more so than the sheriff himself. For the first time in a long time, he had a chance to actually do some work. Now the thought of retirement was finally out of his mind. Who would keep an eye on the scoundrels if he retired?
Despite his age, which was clearly making itself felt, the sheriff continued to maintain his 'polished soldier' image. Not for show, but for himself. It's easier to live when you fulfill even an illusory role.
— Hey, you! — he called out to the two boys who were staring at him, eyes fluttering.
— Yes, sir, — said Ostin.
— You've made such a ruckus I don't know how to keep it down, — the sheriff muttered with annoyance, his jaw clenched slightly.
— Hey, but, Mr. Moor, this isn't your first day on the job, — Mark said wryly.
— I'd keep my mouth shut if I were you, Sylvester, — the sheriff said, stepping close to the boy.
Ostin raised an eyebrow, a look of bewilderment on his face. But the sheriff didn't plan on slowing down:
— Thank God your father ever checked in with me.
— I will. I'll even go to church when you let me go, — Evans smiled wryly. He clearly didn't give a damn about the rules.
— Make the diablo laugh, — the sheriff said harshly, and retreated to a dark corner of the office.
— He's already called you, hasn't he? — Mark said confidently. Now it was a two-man game.
The policeman stiffened, then quickly composed and changed the subject:
— Are you kidding? Funny to you...? How would you laugh if your pictures of you in your hotel robe, taken at the scene of the accident, were all over the newspapers? — the man threw out indignantly, coming in from the sidelines. It wasn't his styl — he'd always been a man of action. It was Evans, however, who was forcing him into other tricks.
— Come on, sheriff. You wouldn't let it happen, — Mark knew what he was talking about, and there was a confidence in his voice that couldn't be faked.
And so it was. Sheriff Johnson Moor was definitely not one to sow seeds of doubt. Just one look at him, and it all seemed obvious. His facial expression always remained cold and composed, and no stray word would escape his ears. Life had taught him to hear words even in the pitch black silence.
His high cheekbones emphasized the sharpness of his features, and his cheeks were slightly sunken, as if testifying to the constant tension with which he conducted his dance of life. His forehead was crisscrossed with wrinkles - the very marks left by heavy thoughts and years of burden. The thin line of his lips said that he weighed each word carefully before letting it fall from his mouth. But what stood out most were his eyes - black, tenacious, piercing.
His hair was always perfectly combed to the side, neatly parted, as if slicked back, as strict and practical as that of a soldier who, even under a peaceful sky, is ready to strike.
Everything about him spoke of a dull austerity. The austerity of a man who had seen too much.
In all that faded gaze lurked the heart of a man who was used to counting on himself, but who had not lost all faith in his own principles.
Yet even he remembered whose debt he owed.
— Sylvester, it's been eight years, and you haven't grown up, — said the sheriff wistfully: — Sometimes even gold doesn't solve a problem.
— Not in this case, — Mark said, a slight smirk lighting up his face. It was the smirk of a winner, full of confidence.
The sheriff merely remained silent, taking a drag of tobacco. And then there it was... a devastating silence that spoke more than any words.
— What do we have to do? — Ostin couldn't take it anymore.
— And you haven't changed... — the sheriff said with a soft smile, but even in that gesture there was rejection.
— Mr. Moor, but you too! — Mark clapped his hands and shouted defiantly: — But we're here for a slightly different reason!
— I'm surprised the accident didn't hit you, — the sheriff said dismissively, staring at the ceiling. —It sure roughed Ostin up, though.
Ostin looked down at his tattered clothes, scratched hands and scraped knees. And again... More scars. Scars that would take a long time to fade.
— Did you know he was drunk? — the sheriff suddenly asked harshly, looking hard at Ostin.
— No... Not right away, — he said, tucking his curls behind his ear. — We were late, and I was pissed... I didn't even look at him, and he was already pulling my arm. It wasn't till we got back that I could smell his breath... I tried to stop him, but, you know...
— You're good at stopping, — the sheriff said grimly. — You should have seen it coming. Responsibility doesn't go away. Especially if you're friends.
— "Especially if you're friends," — Mark mocked him, curving his fingers into brackets.
The sheriff responded with a silent fist and a sullen glare.
Mark raised his eyebrows theatrically and covered his face with his palms as if he were afraid. Then he slowly settled down on the couch, leaning on the armrest, and with a fake groan, stuck out his tongue.
— That's it... I'm not going to make it through the night, — he muttered to himself. — Tell my mom I've been good... a couple minutes of my life for sure.
The sheriff rolled his eyes, but Ostin, for the first time in ages, smiled weakly. Until the sheriff's attention returned to him.
Braun looked away and exhaled. He didn't like feeling guilty, but even less so admitting that the sheriff was right.
— Hmm... The statement's been taken.
What else do we need to do, sir, Sheriff...? — Ostin asked, confused. He tried to keep a straight face.
— Get out of my sight. And forget your way in here. Don't make my life any harder than it has to be, — the sheriff glared at Evans, and added pointedly, — I've got enough to do without you.
— What about the hospital inspection? — Mark asked mockingly. He liked to play on the nerves of even the toughest dogs of the law.
— One more word and I'll lock you up for 24 hours! — shouted the sheriff. Oh, how he hated it when a situation took on shades of meta-irony.
— No need. You can't fit another skeleton in the closet, — Mark grinned.
- Out! You'll drive me into retirement before it, you know, — the sheriff muttered, and turned and walked out into the street, slamming the door loudly behind him.
— Why does he call you Sylvester? — Ostin whispered, confused.
The mysteries were getting bigger and bigger.
— I'm a multi-sided person! — shouted Mark, without looking back, and followed the sheriff. No, he wouldn't show his cards even to his closest friend.
— Isn't he a fool...? — muttered Ostin, full of irritation.
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[Adastra, Luxomoris. Evans House. 22.00]
"For some, children are a source of joy and happiness. And for some, they are a cold iceberg of problems and anxiety. But, in truth, neither of these options is better than the other. When your life state depends on someone else, you are already trapped in someone else's will. One may need a person, but the soul will never find peace in someone else. Only within itself. In the depths of its honesty. In its pure mind."
The woman listened to the young monk's speech over and over again, nervously stirring the cooled chamomile tea with a spoon. An empty packet of sedatives lay on the floor, as if absorbing the oppressive atmosphere. Although... could it be so bad in such a luxurious house? Unless... if you're lonely. Was she lonely?
Two yellow eyes suddenly flashed in the darkness, and the woman flinched in surprise.
— Oh! Space dog, I'll never get used to her, — she said with a shudder in her voice, not even noticing the chamomile tea on the floor.
The woman reluctantly began to wipe up the liquid, mingled with the scent of herbs and shards of glass, when suddenly there was a sharp knock on the door. The knock was so hard it sounded like someone was trying to break the door down. But her heart didn't race a beat. She knew exactly who was behind that door. Only one person could barge into her life so shamelessly without leaving her a moment of peace.
The woman didn't even go to the door. She just turned on the same video of the young monk at full volume. She seemed to have listened to it over and over again, as if hypnotized by the sweet but harsh speech.
— Rebecca! I know you're in there! Open up! — shouted a voice from outside. But there was no answer. It was just such a familiar voice — the kind that grated on your nerves.
— Oh, for heaven's sake. I'm getting the keys, Rebecca! — there was another shout, and again silence.
[Had he expected a reply?]
The door opened and there he was. The one whose attention was coveted by many, and the one who needed only her. Rei Evans himself.
The man walked briskly into the room, his whole appearance showing how annoyed he was. It seemed he was ready to tear everything around him.... even this fragile woman. But he only put his hand on hers, stroking it gently.
— Darling... — and it looked like he was going to start his speech, but the woman didn't even look into his eyes. — I'm here for you, — was all he could squeeze out.
How could it be otherwise? It was as if she were looking through him with her brown eyes, in which the traces of sleepless nights lurked at the bottom. Her wheat hair was disheveled with a careless parting, falling loosely over her shoulders, with a few strands disheveled as if the wind had just swept through it. And her lips... Oh, her soft lips were so childishly tight, as if she were holding back words that should have come out long ago.
But does a woman like that need extra words? And now she was already covering herself with a blanket, as if hiding from the one who was supposed to be closest to her. As if she hadn't the one who said "yes" to him in the darkest corner of the planet.
And he stares at her, as if he doesn't understand why she's frowning so sharply, her thin eyebrows pressed together, staring at the table. As if he hadn't been the one who wanted to see her reflection there, too
— Why aren't you with Mark? — Rebecca whispered, a lion's share of judgment in her voice as she stared at her soulmate across the mirrored surface of the table.
— I asked Lyutsy to handle it, — Rei replied confidently, not questioning his actions. But he was looking at his wife through the mirrored surface, too.
— You're his father, not Lyutsy, — Rebecca snapped, lifting her gaze sharply to meet her husband's.
— You know why, — he replied, stepping back and turning away.
— Why didn't you answer the phone?
— I was waiting for Mark's call, — the woman said firmly.
— Do you need your son more than your husband? — resentment lurked in the depths of his chest.
— I'm responsible for him, — she said, a stern, serious expression settling over a face that had once been sweet and naive. It was clear she was more mother than wife.
— He's twenty-eight! — Rei snapped, and his softness was gone, along with his role as father.
— And you're fifty-four. And you're still afraid of your house, — Rebecca didn't like to hit people's weaknesses, but today she had to.
— This is my house! — Evans shouted, but he didn't seem to believe his own words.
—This is your empire... — Rebecca clarified softly, but her words were not a weak dagger.
— He wouldn't answer the phone! — the man began to justify himself. But to whom?
— Then why are you here and not there?! — shouted the woman, but she knew the answer to that question.
— Because I was thinking about you, — for the first time he admitted his weakness.
— Is that why the guards wouldn't let me out of the house? — shouted the woman desperately.
— That's why I'm here! — Rei knocked on her door as hard as he could.
— You're incorrigible, — Rebecca sighed.
— I can't be different with you, — Rei turned back to his wife, the pupils of his gaze trembling with inexhaustible deep. But even his wife, his soul mate, didn't accept such excuses. She was simply caged. A golden, diamond cage, but a cage.
Suddenly, a guard came up to Rei and whispered something in his ear.
— WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN, 'CLUB'?! — shouted Evans and immediately rushed to the door. The door slammed shut as if it had been hit with a hammer. Good thing it didn't have a sickle.
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[Adastra, Luxomoris. Club 'veravitae'. 22.00]
Mark was not one to waste time. As soon as the guys left the sheriff's office, and before Austin could even sink into his foggy thoughts, Mark immediately dragged him to the club. Of course, he'd grabbed his phone from the hotel first, ignoring the endless call notifications. It was so routine that he just knew what was waiting for him there. The club across the street was much more interesting. The one place where he could breathe easy. After all, 'decent people don't spend their time that way,' his father used to say. Which meant Mark wouldn't meet him there, and neither would his 'decent connections'.
The younger Evans loved clubs — he interpreted them as freedom. A place where people tear off their masks. He looked at them and realized that there were no 'false saints' here. Here are those who are not afraid to appear wrong. Let everyone have their own goals, but a drink will reveal any motive. Mark, on the other hand, had no motive. A one-night stand? He could do it anywhere. And those who went to clubs to do it, he considered losers in life. They found courage in alcohol and mixed it with lust. It was like heavenly pleasure with a taste of the diablo.
Mark didn't come here for that, he came here for the music, the dancing and the bonding that only here could be candid. People didn't see his jewelry or status, just his face in the shadows, his wild passion for dancing, and the frenzied freedom that burst out of him.
— There's a reason your father disapproves of places like this, — Ostin muttered, ordering his wine absentmindedly.
— I love sabotage.... And one absinthe, please, — Mark said cheerfully, glowing as if he hadn't been the cause of the accident almost twenty-four hours ago.
— Biting the hand that feeds you? — Braun tilted his head to the side, looking at his friend with an incredulous squint.
— Up to elbow! Woohoo! — Mark waved his hand. No, he didn't care about anything else.
— Aren't you afraid of the consequences? — Ostin couldn't find reason in Mark's actions.
— I'm afraid of denying myself, — Evans grinned and glanced down at his friend's glass. — And I'm afraid of people who order semi-dry red in clubs, — he added with feigned seriousness.
— I'm afraid of mixing crap with crap, — Ostin said dryly, his fingers tightening around the glass.
— It doesn't change the flavor, — Braun cut him off coldly, not even blinking.
— That's why you stopped with that cigarette... — Mark reminded him, shaking the absinthe glass carelessly so that the green liquid in it flashed in the light of the lamps.
— Good lawyers don't go on smoke breaks, — Ostin straightened up and folded his lips into a thin line, as if he were pronouncing a sentence.
— They make connections there, — Evans retorted. He was well aware that he'd hit a sore spot.
And it was a low blow. Ostin held his breath for a moment, catching the emptiness inside. He understood every subtle jab from his friend. Mark read him all too well, mercilessly picking at old scars and exposing the boy's new weaknesses.
And it wasn't about that cigarette at all – it was about total isolation in a place where Ostin held onto every shana (a penny unit in Luxomoris). Now he just worked there. Like so many others, though – not for himself, but for the money. For the bank account. For false freedom. The price for this was higher than anything else — Ostin was paying with himself. It wasn't his business, it wasn't his story. It was his bread. And in that bread he was not Ostin, but just another lawyer whose name is remembered until the first trial is completed.
Ostin disliked Mark for the fact that he invariably reminded him of who he had once been. Evans silently judged him for who Ostin never became. And there was something tragic in that — you couldn't hide from the truth, no matter how much you hid.
It's scary, but it's in you until death... and maybe even beyond... in the words of others, on the coffin lid, and in the hollow speeches of the church minister.
— Don't reproach me for not get your chances, — Ostin said sharply, and took a nervous sip of wine. And that sip was so minuscule, as if someone else was footing the bill.
— Even if they're from the diablo himself? — Mark drawled, smirking at the corner of his mouth.
— Even if they're from your father, — Braun muttered darkly, frowning as if he didn't even know where the nickname came from. Maybe he really didn't — because he'd never looked at Evans any other way. Not at any of them.
— Father... — Mark drawled, leaning back in his chair and lazily rocking it with his left foot.
He exhaled a thin stream of ashy smoke towards the ceiling, as if he himself dissolved into the space along with it. And everything seemed to disappear in an instant: the roaring crowd with music, Ostin with his empty sermons, and even the sharp scent of cigarettes with the flavor of cherry and absinthe lingering on his lips. It was as if in an instant the boy lost all five senses. It was as if he himself had become this space. And somehow, it felt insanely good to him.
— Hello, kitten, — a soft female voice came from behind him, and soft hands settled on Evans's shoulders.
The boy leaned his head back and smiled broadly, baring all thirty-two teeth
— You know where to find me, Stephanie.
— Was there ever any doubt? — the girl laughed.
— Yeeah... — Mark drawled, as if playing game.
— What? — Stephanie feigned surprise, pouting her lips.
— Laughing, — the guy said offhandedly.
— Oh! I was glad to see you, but I have my own plans! — said the girl and, spinning lightly as she turned toward the door.
— Did she call you? — Ostin asked, keeping his eyes on the girl.
— She doesn't bother me over nonsense, that's why she's with me, — Mark said sharply.
— Nothing?! Mark, you were in an accident! — Ostin snapped, raising his voice and drawing unwanted attention to them. And now he slumped into in his chair, his eyes darting nervously from glass to glass.
— You know how much I hate that purring, — Mark cut him off with an unaccustomed seriousness. He watched curiously as Ostin tried to drink the wine down to the bottom — but for some reason straight from the bottle.
Unable to hold back, Mark jumped to his feet and strode toward the center, shouting to catch everyone's attention:
— Mark Evans on stage! — he yelled, and now he was in the center of the crowd, where all the focus immediately shifted to him.
Ostin pulled himself together a bit and started to search the crowd for his friend. But suddenly... Near the entrance, he noticed her — Stephanie. The girl was laughing loudly, while some unfamiliar man was standing next to her, twirling her snow-white hair with his fingers. Was Ostin surprised by this? Not particularly. He generally didn't understand Stephanie and Mark's relationship, so he stayed out of it. But what Braun didn't understand even more was why Mark never seemed to notice the guys who kept their predatory eyes on her. Ostin had never really liked Steffany.
But he couldn't deny her beauty. Her slim, curvy figure always turned heads. Especially such a blue-eyed blonde with curly hair and bold makeup. With a model-like gait, long legs that made a slight 'click-clack' sound.... And bright scarlet lipstick on her plump lips, which made her slightly childish face look stern. She's a gorgeous woman, of course. But what made Mark so sure she belonged only to him?
Mark wasn't sure. It just didn't bother him. He gathered a crowd around him and, without a second thought, climbed onto one of the free tables near the dance floor — ignoring the spilled drinks and leftover snacks. The protests of someone nearby dissolved on their own into the music and commotion. He ripped off his shirt and started dancing with his glass in his hand, as if the entire room existed only for him. He was having fun. Nothing else bothered him. He was just showing off his abs and singing another song. People jokingly tossed money at him, as if he were a stripper. Mark just laughed. No, Evans wasn't drunk - he was just in his own boat.
[ At that moment, his father was frantically staring at the digital clock. Ray folded his arms across his chest and just stared at the digits, at the seconds on the display... in a room with no light. In a silence that felt more like mourning... hoping to catch familiar footsteps.]
Ostin approached the guard, who hadn't taken his eyes off Mark.
— I beg your pardon, I'm going to, — he began, but then noticed the smile on the man's face.
The guard had no intention of doing anything to Evans, on the contrary — he watched his tricks with a certain admiration.
— Did you want something? — the man asked sharply as he saw Ostin standing there, pale and with his head bowed.
— No. Nothing. Thank you.
— Strange kid, — the guard muttered to himself, watching Ostin leave the club. As if it were not a place of fun, but a slaughterhouse.
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[Perispera, Luxomoris. Sheriff's Office. 8:00 p.m.]
The sheriff stared out the window, leaning against the doorjamb. His mind was in chaos — one thought eclipsing the next. It may not have been visible under the outward calm, but something inside was eating away at his soul.
Outside, a cold downpour whipped by, while he clutched a hot metal mug of bitter tea. The man cast a glance at his office. It was spotless - painfully elegant.
The room was scrubbed to a shine, the walls were freshly painted, and the air held a faint lavender scent from a diffuser. A massive oak table dominated the middle of the room. Next to it stood an armchair with beech legs and backrest upholstered in thick black leather.
To the left of the door stood a brown leather sofa of impressive size. Seemed to beckon invitingly, and beside it stood a glass table. And even there, awards were neatly arranged — in a row, and next to them, a vase with flowers — daisies and a plate of freshly baked pies.
But it was not the table or the sofa, not the atmosphere, not even the pies that drew the most attention. All of it was nothing compared to... Compared to the stunning trophy corner to the right side of the door.
Mounted on the beige walls were the heads of various animals that usually adorned hunters' lodges. These trophies were symbolic rewards for deeds, for a life once lived. They warmed the soul of a man no longer young, but still very much alive. As he looked at them with tired old eyes, memories of his youth's exploits came rushing back.
The policeman felt stifled.
He abruptly grabbed the home phone with it's five-meter cord and, straining, dragged it toward the exit. The sheriff didn't care about the downpour or the wind that could have blown him away along with the green phone. He simply decided to call his son from outside, gazing into the depths of the forest, feeling as through he were at its very heart.
— Hi, son! — he said, his voice full of excitement.
— Good evening, father, — came the son's guarded reply.
— You won't believe it! What happened, who I met! — the sheriff exclaimed joyfully. Then added, a little more calmly: — Rei's son, can you imagine?
— Sylvester? — the boy asked, astonished, his intonation expressing shock.
— Yes, I was surprised at first, too! — the policeman went on with excitement: — After all, they had moved to Adastra, got all city-field...
— I thought I'd never see Rei again, but then I met his descendant! The boy's grown up, turned out real fine. And I still remember him - that 16-year-old rascal who used to steal apples from trees and pelt people with them... Ugh! He was a lot of trouble! Folks even called him the local attraction… — the man said, his voice tinged with both joy and sadness.
Then he fell silent for a moment, sighed heavily and added, as if living through it all over again:
— Good times were ... - his voice quivered a little, and a tear slipped down his cheek.
— Father, aren't you confusing things? — the son asked sharply. His voice was filled with doubt and even a kind of worry.
— You think your old man's lost his marbles?! — the sheriff barked.
— I can still recognize that garden wonder evenl 20 years from now, if I live to see it, — the Sheriff said indignantly, and the words burned with rage.
— Never no, sir. I don't even doubt you, — the boy replied hastily and with conviction.
— That's more like it!
— But... — the boy hesitated. His voice dropped, uncertain.
— But what?! — exclaimed the sheriff, not realizing what could follow.
— That Sylvester of whom you speak has been missing for 8 years...