Sunday has come to an end....
We walk under the tired streetlights of a neighborhood that smells of lived experience. Not the kind of inspiring lived experience, no. The kind where the walls bear stains of doubt and the sidewalks scars from poorly digested nights.
Jamila walks beside me, her bag pressed against her hip, as if hiding a secret or a nuclear bomb.
— You know you could have taken a taxi home, I say, chewing my words like stale chewing gum.
— I know. But you never offer to walk me home since we've been in Marlha, so I'm taking advantage.
She says that with a smile. And in her eyes, there's that little spark of challenge, as if she just scored a point against me in a game I never agreed to play.
I sigh.
— And I'm the one who's weird.
She laughs. Her laughter cuts through the night like a knife through warm butter. Not unpleasant. But still...
I stay alert. Not because I'm scared — I'm not stupid enough to imagine a bag thief could be a problem — but because I've learned that it's in these quiet moments that the world likes to deliver a surprise slap.
And with Krehaan on my mind... I don't like surprises.
— You find me annoying, huh? she asks.
— More than summer mosquitoes. But at least you don't sting. Well... I think.
— Very funny. You know you're funnier when you're tired?
She couldn't be more right. Fatigue is like alcohol for me. It makes me talkative, almost human. With one difference: I never sober up.
We pass a closed convenience store. The red neon flickers. Every other letter has died. I read "IN HELL," but that's probably not what it said. Coincidence or subliminal message? At this point, even neon signs talk to me.
— You know, she continues in a calmer voice, when I was little, I loved walking at night. I felt like the world was on pause, that the monsters were asleep.
I smirk.
— Bad news: monsters never sleep.
— Haha, you're not funny now.
I lower my eyes. Her shadow slides on the sidewalk next to mine. She's smaller. Lighter. She has no idea that mine isn't always alone.
— And you? What do you think about when you walk at night?
I smile slyly. About Krehaan, the NSDR, my powers that I have to pack away like broken old toys when she's around. The possibility that one day, she'll discover everything. And run away.
But I say:
— I think about how many cats live a double life, being secretly petted by several families.
— That's stupid.
— It's the truth. Cats are the greatest manipulators on this planet. Even Krehaan could take notes.
I freeze inside. Did I say that name out loud? No... no. Not this time. I just thought too loudly. And my brain sometimes echoes.
Luckily, she didn't catch anything.
We arrive in front of her building. She turns to me, a little surprised I walked her to the door.
— Well, mister is walking me all the way now?
— Someone has to make sure the cats haven't trapped you.
She rolls her eyes, amused. Then looks at me, a bit more seriously.
— Thanks, Natsa. Really. Even if you're weird.
I lower my eyes. I want to tell her she hasn't seen anything yet. That the world I hide under my skin is a thousand times weirder than me. But instead, I nod.
— Good night, Jamila. Watch out for the cushions. Some come to life.
She laughs softly, opens the door, and disappears into the stairwell.
I stay there a second, staring at the concrete. Then I look up. Something is watching me. No doubt.
What if Krehaan wasn't just alive?
What if he's watching me, right now?
I smile. That would be a fun game.
But this time, I won't let him escape in one piece.
I close the door behind me. Not the building's door. The door of the evening. The door of that strange moment when, for a few minutes, I almost believed I was... normal.
As I walk, I think about Jamila.
I hadn't really realized before, but... she's getting more and more comfortable with me. With every word, every laugh, she drops a mask. And when she's like that... she reminds me of Mi-Ghimi. That way of smiling as if nothing could touch her. As if she still believed the world could be healed.
A smile creeps onto my lips, almost despite myself.
— That's cute...
But reality is always there. Stuck to my soles. I enter an alley, one of those that smell of cold grease and dangerous silence. And there, I feel them.
Presences behind me.
Well, well.
I had already sensed them earlier, at the metro exit. I thought they had given up. Apparently not.
— Pffff... what do they want from me now?
One, two... three. Three muffled sounds, three echoes of pathetic intentions. Three amateurs. Or should I say... three idiots.
They appear suddenly, like poorly synchronized puppets.
One of them brandishes a trembling firearm. He wants me to believe he has power.
— Don't move!!!
I keep walking. Without even turning my head. They don't get it. They shouldn't come closer. Really shouldn't.
— Hey! We're talking to you, are you deaf?!
I stop. A little tired. A little amused.
— I don't have money.
— You don't have money? How can we be sure—
I don't wait for the end of the sentence.
Crack.
The sound of a wrist breaking instantly.
Bam.
A knee into a rib cage.
Splash.
A nose turned into a fountain of flesh.
Screams erupt.
Bodies fall.
Bones give way.
They don't even have time to understand they've ceased to exist as threats. They're just detours. Human mistakes.
I keep walking. Without a glance.
They stay behind me. A pile of pain and regrets. Three clowns who thought the alley belonged to their jungle. Bad bet.
I finally arrive home. I take off my jacket. I sit down.
Tomorrow, I go back to work.
I wonder if Claremont managed to crack the moles. Whether they talked or not, everything will be known very soon.
And Krehaan...
He wouldn't have let his name appear without a reason.
We'll see tomorrow if the world decides to play fair... or dig its own grave.
The next morning.
I go out, dressed in my bodyguard outfit. Simple, efficient, black like my thoughts at this hour. The air is fresh, the sun indifferent, and I haven't yet digested last night's fight.
As I pass through the complex doors, two figures are already waiting for me in the hall, looking too triumphant for it to be a coincidence. Trathen and Léya.
They smile. Bad sign.
Léya (arms crossed, amused):
— You're right on time for the meeting.
A meeting?
I narrow my eyes.
I wasn't told anything. But given the context, it's very likely they're talking about Sunday's report. The one about the moles.
Natsa (calmly):
— Oh yeah?
Trathen (clapping his hands):
— Of course! We have to hurry!
We walk through the corridors, heading to Claremont's office. Tension shows on some faces, but the atmosphere is light. Too light.
Claremont is already waiting for us. Sitting. Smiling. Too smiling.
I have to admit I prefer him like this.
When he smiles, it almost looks like he still believes in peace.
Claremont (calm, almost cheerful):
— My dear guards. The report from this Sunday: we managed to make the moles talk. And they were definitely... in cahoots with the Roskarov.
Predictable. The Roskarov had already clearly threatened Claremont. Peace only pleases them when it gives them the advantage.
Claremont (continuing, more slowly):
— They told me everything. And to be honest... I'm a little fed up.
He takes a deep breath.
— So I've decided to go to Mexico. With some of you. Not for vacation... but for a meeting. A meeting of the world's mafia bosses, in two weeks.
He pauses.
— The Roskarov will be there too. Maybe not all of them, but surely their boss. The one above the others.
Silence in the room.
And then, he drops the bomb.
Claremont:
— I'm going to make peace.
The effect is immediate.
Whispers. Stifled protests. Exchanged incredulous looks.
— But why? They'll think you've been intimidated, boss!
— And what if they ask you again for those damn deals?
— Their last deal was 89% for them and crumbs for us! They're arrogant, they think they're on top of the world!
I stay silent.
Why so much agitation?
Claremont isn't stupid. The Roskarov are powerful. Too powerful to be confronted head-on, not without huge losses.
Temporarily allying with them is a good idea.
...But the deals will have to be renegotiated. Because it's clear no other family can beat them at their own game. And Claremont, as strong as he is, is only getting closer.
Claremont (raising his hands):
— Calm down...
Silence returns, tense.
Claremont (more serious):
— I know it's extreme. But I have no other choice. Their current goal isn't to kill me. It's to make me suffer. So I understand. So I submit. So they have control.
He pauses. His gaze drifts for a moment, elsewhere. Then he comes back.
Claremont:
— Anyway. Actually... I have another plan. But it's strictly secret. I'll tell you about it once in Mexico.
All (in unison, disciplined):
— Yes, boss!!!
The meeting is adjourned.
The guards stand, exchange still troubled looks, then leave one by one.
But just as I'm about to step through the door...
Claremont (firm tone):
— Natsa, I'd like to talk to you.
I stop. He stands and steps forward.
Natsa:
— Talk to me about what?
He waits until everyone is out. He closes the door.
Then gestures to a chair, without beating around the bush.
Claremont (more serious than ever):
— I want to talk to you about my plan, you first...