The weight settled on his shoulder.
“Ahh!”
Lloyd spun around.
His heart slammed against his ribcage so hard he thought his ribs would crack.
Behind him — Gary stood.
Dark suit, salt-and-pepper hair wet with drizzle, thick eyebrows lowered so far they swallowed the black of his eyes.
His breath turned to steam in the cold air.
His voice wasn’t loud.
It was firm.
“Mr. Lloyd. This is no joke.” His hand was still on Lloyd’s shoulder.
“You went out alone again? The color has drained from your face. What happened?”
Lloyd held his breath.
He glanced behind him.
Toward where the blue tent had been.
Where Sofia had sat.
But the tent — was gone.
The same alley, the same wet cobblestones, the same broken wooden crates that had been scattered beside the tent just minutes ago.
But the tent wasn’t there.
As if it had never been.
As if someone had erased it from the map.
The ground vanished beneath Lloyd’s feet.
The edges of his vision began to blur.
Not darkening — fading.
Like someone drawing a curtain from far away.
And then — he no longer knew what happened.
He only felt his knees hit the ground.
The cold of the cobblestones shot through his pants to his skin.
“Mr. Lloyd! Mr. Lloyd!”
Gary was kneeling beside him.
Both hands on Lloyd’s shoulders — warm, real.
“What’s wrong, sir? Are you alright? Look at me. Mr. Lloyd! Look into my eyes!”
Lloyd drew a deep breath.
He felt the cobblestones beneath his hands — rough, wet, cold.
The damp air gathered in his lungs.
One of the books had slipped from under his arm and fallen into a puddle.
“Gary…” His voice was hoarse.
Raw.
Like dry wood.
“Th-The tent… it’s not there.”
Gary lifted his gaze from Lloyd’s face.
He looked in the direction Lloyd was pointing.
A brick wall.
Wet empty boxes.
An old piece of cloth caught between two crates.
He turned back to Lloyd.
Frowned.
Not angry — confused.
“Sir… you just got dizzy. There’s never been any tent here.”
Lloyd opened his mouth.
The words were lined up in his throat — I saw it.
I went inside.
She held my hand.
She foretold my future.
She said my name without me introducing myself.
— but the words wouldn’t come out.
It was the stutter, or something else.
Fear.
Maybe that if he said it, it would mean accepting it was real.
He breathed.
Again.
Tried to speak firmly — failed.
“Nothing, Gary… L-Let’s just go home.”
“But sir…” Gary still hadn’t lifted his worried gaze.
Lloyd turned his face away.
This time his voice came out firmer.
Not loud, not angry — firm.
“Gary. Please don’t ask.”
Gary closed his mouth.
Sighed.
He helped Lloyd up.
His hand was under Lloyd’s arm.
Gary thought to himself: Lloyd’s mental disorder is getting worse.
He didn’t pick up the wet book from the puddle.
Gary said quietly: “I will always look after you.”
On the street, the shiny black car gleamed in the rain.
Its windows were coated with water droplets, and two other bodyguards stood in the rain.
Black suits, black ties, black umbrellas.
Their faces were expressionless — they had seen and heard so much that nothing could crease their faces anymore.
When Lloyd and Gary arrived, one of the guards opened the car door.
Without a word, without an extra glance.
Lloyd got in.
The car smelled of leather and expensive cologne — the smell of his father, the smell of money, the smell of a cage that was neither golden nor iron, just tight.
Gary sat beside him.
The guards sat in front.
The car moved.
Lloyd stared at the window.
At the raindrops being born, sliding, merging with another drop, and then vanishing.
As if they had never been.
Like the blue tent.
Like Sofia.
Like the hand that read the future without touching it.
Several Streets Away — The Abandoned Parking Lot
A large white van was parked in the corner of the lot.
From the outside, nothing special.
Faded paint, tinted windows, worn tires.
You could walk right past it and never look.
But inside, it was something else entirely.
The walls were covered with display screens — some on, some off, some showing surveillance footage from various streets.
Cables hung from the ceiling, connected to equipment whose names couldn’t be known.
The air inside was warm.
A metal table sat in the center.
On the table, the same worn deck of cards, the same cloudy crystal ball.
Sofia sat behind the table.
She picked up the deck of cards.
Turned them over one by one and studied them, like someone reading statistics.
“Queen of Cups… no.” She set the card aside.
“Five of Swords… no.”
The van door opened.
A man entered.
Without sound.
Without warning.
He wore simple dark clothes, his face ordinary — so ordinary he would vanish in a crowd.
But he wore a mask: white, smooth, with the number 1501 engraved on the forehead.
His voice came from behind the mask.
Muffled.
Artificial.
As if speaking from the bottom of a well.
“Why did you let him go free?”
Without looking, Sofia turned over the next card.
“Fear is necessary for awakening.”
The masked man was silent for a few seconds.
“Explain.”
Sofia finally raised her head.
Her golden-brown eyes glowed in the blue light.
“I don’t believe I owe anyone an explanation for my work. But his power must awaken.”
The masked man asked: “Does he truly possess supernatural ability?”
Sofia smiled.
Under the blue light, her smile resembled a wound.
“His luck is greater than the rest.”
In the corner of the van, behind the monitors — a thin man with glasses sat.
James.
He wore a brown suit that didn’t fit him, the sleeves rolled up several times.
His bottle-cap glasses kept sliding down the bridge of his nose.
His hand was on the button of an old tape recorder whose reel was running out.
The moment Sofia’s last word ended, he lifted his finger.
Click.
The tape stopped.
James stood.
Silently.
Into the fog — James disappeared.
He didn’t run, didn’t walk, didn’t get into any car.
He just vanished.
As if someone had erased him.
The masked man: “Shall we eliminate him?”
Sofia turned over the next card.
Without looking.
“No. He is my toy.”
This time her smile was complete.
There was something in it — dark.
Inside the Car — A Few Minutes Later
Lloyd stared at the window.
The drops slid down one by one.
Gary was beside him.
He held the silence for a few minutes.
Then he couldn’t take it anymore.
“Sir, you can talk to me.”
Lloyd lifted his gaze.
His face was half-lit in the dim dashboard light — pale, eyes wet.
Not from the rain.
“I…”
“I’ve known you since you were five years old.” Gary said.
His voice softened.
That softness he only had for Lloyd, the softness he hid from everyone else.
“Trust me.”
Lloyd smiled.
A broken smile.
Tired.
“I always… do.”
Gary let out a sigh — a sigh not of impatience, but of worry.
The car passed through a red light.
The rain hammered against the windshield — tap, tap, tap — like the heartbeat of someone who doesn’t want to wake up.
Gary suddenly said: “What do you think about watching a movie tonight? All night.”
Lloyd kept looking out the window.
“Will my father allow it?”
Gary raised his thick eyebrow — an eyebrow that could carry an entire dialogue.
“Never. Although, since he left the mansion, I think you’ll be punished.”
Lloyd sighed and said, “Right.”
The Smith Mansion — North Chicago
When the car entered through the gate, the garden lights turned on one by one — a sensor that detected darkness and commanded light.
The car stopped.
Gary got out and opened the umbrella.
A large, black umbrella, like the wing of a bird that had settled.
He opened the door on Lloyd’s side.
“Sir, you may go inside.”
Lloyd put one foot out.
The rain dripped onto his shoe.
And suddenly —
“Gary!”
A cheerful voice.
Clear.
Loud.
Both Lloyd and Gary flinched.
The guard in front also turned back, but then turned away again — his job was to see, not interfere.
“It’s Camila!”
The sound of laughter came from the second-floor window.
And then she herself — Camila — blonde, curly hair, cheerful green eyes, round smiling face — stuck her head out the window.
The rain hit her face but she didn’t seem to care.
“Hello, everyone!”
Gary stepped back.
He angled the umbrella to cover both himself and Lloyd.
“Nothing… just…” His voice was cracked.
Cold sweat ran down the back of his neck.
Camila leaned further out.
The rain settled on her blonde hair and sparkled.
“Are we going out for dinner tonight? We promise it’ll be fun!”
Gary fixed his gaze on the ground.
On the shiny black shoes with raindrops beaded on them.
On the water stain spreading onto the car’s carpet.
Anywhere but Amelia’s face.
“But I’m responsible for Mr. Lloyd…”
The laughter stopped.
Camila’s face fell.
For a moment, that ever-present cheerfulness of hers cracked.
“Alright. Another night.”
She pulled her head back in.
The window closed.
Gary stood there.
The umbrella trembled in his hand.
Lloyd looked at him.
“Gary can go. I don’t mind.”
Gary spun around.
His face was white.
“What?!”
Camila stuck her head out again.
Happier than before.
“Thank you so much, Lloyd!”
“Gary. Come out.”
Gary looked at Lloyd.
A look that said, “You’re insane, you know that?” “But sir —”
“Out.”
Lloyd’s voice was firm.
Not loud, not angry —
Gary handed the umbrella to Lloyd.
He straightened his suit — a nervous habit, a habit for when you don’t know what to do.
And he walked toward the window.
Lloyd stood alone under the umbrella.
The rain struck the umbrella with a soft tap-tap sound.
He said to himself — so quietly Gary wouldn’t hear, so clearly he could hear it himself: “I’m sorry, Gary… but this is the result of your drunkenness and your simultaneous marriage proposals.”
And for the first time that day, he truly laughed.
Not bitter.
Not broken.
Short.
From the truth.
Like that embrace that was warm in the dark.
Flashback — One Month Ago — Lloyd’s Game Room
The game console was off.
The TV screen a dead blue.
Lloyd lay on the couch reading an old comic — an issue he’d read many times, but one he could always read again.
The door burst open with a harsh sound.
Gary entered.
His walk wasn’t normal — slack, lifeless, his shoulders slumped.
His hair disheveled, his eyes red.
He hadn’t slept — or had slept too much.
Lloyd took off his headset.
Didn’t fold the comic.
Fixed his eyes on Gary.
“Gary, why are you so distraught? What happened?”
Gary went behind the couch.
Sat down.
Didn’t collapse — sat, carefully, as if his body ached.
“Sir… I need to run away. From this city, from this continent!”
Lloyd closed the comic.
Sat up on the couch.
“Continent?”
“Anywhere. Even Alaska.” He dragged his hands over his face.
“Anywhere that woman isn’t.”
Lloyd put his feet on the floor.
His gaze grew serious.
“Tell me. From the beginning.”
Gary ran both hands through his hair.
Took a deep breath that he didn’t let out.
“Last night… at the bar… I proposed… to someone.”
Popcorn flew out of Lloyd’s mouth.
A few pieces landed on the carpet.
“Really? You? You, who runs from commitment like a cat from water?”
“I was drunk, sir!”
“To whom?”
Gary turned his gaze away.
To the bookshelf, to the window, to the door — anywhere but Lloyd’s face.
“…There were two people.”
Lloyd swallowed the popcorn.
“Who was the second?”
Gary stared at the floor.
“The second… is Firan Mire.”
Lloyd went pale.
The whiteness of his face in the room’s dim light was like fog.
“The same Firan Mire who… is a serial killer? Eight husbands? Eight mysterious accidents?”
Gary nodded.
Silence.
Heavy.
The weight of knowing you don’t want to hear the answer to the next question.
Gary’s voice was shattered.
“In your opinion, if I go to her and say ‘I was joking’… will I survive?”
Lloyd stood up.
Walked around the couch.
Placed his hand on Gary’s shoulder.
The very spot where later, his own shoulder would feel Gary’s hand.
“I’ll arrange your funeral.”
“Sir!”
“You messed up yourself, Gary. And now you come to me — I’m sixteen — to find a solution?”
Gary buried his head in his hands.
His hair poked out between his fingers.
“Then I’ll die.”
“You won’t die.” Lloyd took his hand off Gary’s shoulder.
His voice softened — that softness he only had for Gary, the softness he hid from everyone else.
“Just… drink less next time.”
Gary looked up.
Tears were in his eyes.
He didn’t laugh.
But he took a deep breath that he finally let out.
Present — The Smith Mansion Dining Hall
The dining hall was large.
Very large.
A long walnut table, fourteen leather chairs around it.
A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, breaking the light and casting shadows on the cream-colored walls.
Two of the fourteen chairs were occupied.
The rest were empty.
Always empty.
Thomas Smith sat at the table.
Neat blonde hair, sharp blue eyes that, if you looked closely, held something tired behind them.
A white shirt, a gray tie.
His hand rested on the table, still, motionless.
“Lloyd.”
His father’s voice dropped onto the table like a weight.
It wasn’t loud, it wasn’t angry — it was heavy.
Like a stone placed on your chest to remind you that breathing is a privilege, not a right.
Lloyd held his breath.
“F-Father —”
“Silence!”
Lloyd felt his hands tremble.
He hid them under the table.
Placed them on his knees —
But then — Thomas let out a sigh.
A sigh not of exhaustion, but of defeat.
He rose from his chair.
The chair beneath him made no sound — the chairs in this hall didn’t make sounds.
He walked around the table.
His steps were calm, heavy, measured.
He came to Lloyd’s side.
And then — he knelt.
Thomas Smith.
The man who had been on the covers of economic magazines, whose factories spanned three continents, whose name was spoken with caution.
Thomas Smith, the iron man — was kneeling on the handwoven rug of the dining hall, beside his sixteen-year-old son’s chair.
He took Lloyd’s hands.
They were warm.
Too warm.
Father’s hands were always warm — Lloyd remembered, ever since he was a child.
Hands that rarely hugged, but when they did, they were firm.
Lloyd’s eyes opened wide.
He was stunned.
He couldn’t understand what he was seeing.
Thomas looked into his eyes.
Directly.
Without veils.
“I’m afraid, my son.”
His voice broke — not shattered, cracked.
Like something that had been under pressure for years and could no longer hold itself together.
“I’m afraid of losing you again.”
Lloyd’s trembling stopped.
Under the table, under his father’s hands, his fingers grew still.
Thomas breathed.
A breath it seemed he’d been holding in his chest for years.
“After your mother… I swore to protect you. Perhaps… I held on too tightly. Perhaps this thing I’ve done… made you lonely.”
Tears gathered in Lloyd’s eyes.
They didn’t fall — not from weakness, from habit.
He’d held them back for years.
But he felt their weight beneath his eyelids.
This time, Lloyd didn’t stop them.
Thomas squeezed Lloyd’s hands.
Not enough to hurt, enough to be felt.
“If I’m cold sometimes, my son… forgive me. I only know how to protect. I only know how to build walls.”
And then he hugged him.
A warm and firm embrace.
An embrace Lloyd had forgotten for years — not forgotten, denied.
Perhaps so it would hurt less.
Perhaps so he could think he didn’t need it.
Lloyd buried his face in his father’s shoulder.
The fabric of the white shirt was soft beneath his cheek.
The scent of cologne, the scent of coffee, the scent of something that resembled home — if you could call it that.
And right there, for the first time that day — perhaps that year — Lloyd felt safe.
Not the safety of high walls and armed guards, the safety of a caress.
The safety of saying “I’m afraid” without shame.
Thomas raised his head.
He smiled.
A wounded smile — cracked — but real.
“Tomorrow, just you and me. Bicycling in the park. Agreed?”
Lloyd nodded.
Not fast, not firm — calm.
The same calm of an embrace he had only just left.
“Yeah.”
Thomas took his hand.
Lifted him from the chair.
“Let’s finish dinner.”
To be continued…