[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.

[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...