New Year's Eve lit up the city of Azaw like a jeweled crown. Fireworks blossomed in the night sky, painting streaks of gold, crimson, and silver across the skyline. The noise from each explosion rolled through the city, echoing through glass and steel until the whole city seemed to tremble as though in the midst of war.
At the heart of it all stood the tallest building in Azaw—Blue-Springs Tower, the pride of the corporation and the symbol of its reach and control. It was quite a sight to behold as the fireworks reflected on the mirrored surface of the skyscraper; that was an awe-inspiring sight. And at its very top, in the office where power resides, sat the only man in Azaw who appeared unflustered by the shocks of the horrible events of the past weeks.
Mr. Kinsley leaned back in the Aresline Xten, the most expensive C.E.O. chair the corporation could acquire on the short notice of his appointment. The leather creaked softly beneath him as he shifted his frame to view the city. From this height, the city was his to behold: buildings glowing in celebration, streets crowded with life, that was really the life."The best view in the city," he exclaimed with a grin. "Guess the rumors weren't lies after all."It was common knowledge in the city that Azaw's true beauty could only be seen from the top floor of the tower.
The sharp click of the door broke the moment.His secretary entered—Mr. Classic, tall, sharp-featured, his suit pressed clean, one could only guess what type of celebration awaited him later. For a second, Classic stood there, his gaze flicking across the office: the polished wood, the gleaming desk, the chair that had once seated a man Azaw had rev..., wait, did they get a new chair?"You look like you've seen a ghost," Kinsley said lightly, turning his grin toward him. "Or perhaps you don't care for the view? You'd rather be at the celebrations, no?"Classic's lips tugged into a faint, bitter smile. He stepped further inside, his shoes silent against the thick carpet. "The celebrations? They are nothing but noise; distraction. People drink, they shout, they throw sparks into the sky, but all of it is to cover grief. To erase memory, yet" His voice grew softer, his eyes shadowed. "But some memories do not leave, no matter how many fireworks burn the night away."Kinsley arched a brow, waiting."I was there," Classic said at last. His words were slow, heavy, each one filled with much emotion. "I heard things behind closed doors at the beginning of it all—things not meant for my ears. I thought they would fade, but the nightmares haven't left me since."Kinsley tilted his head but was simply uninterested. His grin softened, as if he had decided his secretary had just had too much to drink, or perhaps too much time to think. He wasn't about to spoil the night with questions he didn't need the answers to.
Classic stepped forward, laying a thick stack of files on the desk. "These are budget reports. For the first quarter."As he turned to leave, he lingered a moment longer, his eyes drifting slowly across the walls, as though there were things he saw in them, but that was all in his head. Then, with his hand already on the door, he paused.
His voice was barely a whisper, almost respectful, yet it felt really unnerving. This office, Mr. Kinsley, holds more secrets than a thousand graves. Have a good evening. The last words came out in a more jovial tone.The door shut with a clean click.
Silence settled again.
Kinsley sat unmoving for a while. Not because he wanted to chase after the meaning, not because he was curious. But because Classic's words had re-ignited a spark in his heart, something did feel off.He thought he was well learned, but that didn't explain why a front desk clerk like him should be promoted to this position in such a large corporation, nonetheless. His wife, Azaw's most skilled forensic pathologist, was dismissed from the city hospital the very night she conducted an autopsy on the founder. The generous compensation shoved into their hands afterward—money far beyond anything a class D family like his could ever think of earning honestly. And the death of the founder himself, hailed as a sacrifice in the face of a managerial crisis that almost took the whole city, was that really it?
Kinsley drew in a slow breath and pushed the thoughts back down. He had no use for them now, at least till he enjoyed the new appointment.
Beyond the glass walls, the sound of the fireworks had called him from his thoughts. The cheers of thousands carried up even this high, faint but unyielding. The city glowed with fragile hope as the celebrations poured into the lane.He glanced at the clock. It was getting really late, even for him. A pang of guilt pulled at him—he had promised his wife and daughter a gift for the new year. Rising from the chair, he straightened his jacket, smoothed the cuffs, and cast one last look out the window."A new year," he whispered. "Perhaps, a new beginning."He descended the tower into the streets below, where the noise was quite intolerable. At that moment, he wondered how the people could keep up with the noise and everything. Who wouldn't prefer peace?Mr. Kinsley moved nimbly among them, part of the festival but apart from it, his expression unreadable. He let the cheers wash over him, let the hope in the air cling to him like morning dew.
Yet some thoughts never just left; now it was really starting to bug him.Still, for just a moment, he allowed himself to believe in the noise around him. That maybe Azaw truly could be reborn. That most likely, his family, too, could begin again. Perhaps the fresh start was what everybody needed.