[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.

[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.