Read Book of sins :: Chapter 4.2

Perhaps due to the combination of a neat appearance with a slight touch of rebellion: a youthful haircut dyed black and white, and chameleon eyes—one brown, the other blue. This puzzled the sheriff a little, since Frank had brown eyes....

He heaved a heavy sigh and continued to scrutinize his unexpected guest.

Thoughts gradually came over him: 《His body… so muscular… all his father! And his skin… so pale… clearly lacking vitamins! But his lips… such plump lips — he got them from his mother. A delight for the eyes, not a son… Strange, of course, in appearance as a whole! But times are not what they used to be… Let the youth stand out… Not a word about his appearance, or he’ll get shy and run away. Must as...》

— Listen, you didn’t believe me — I know it. Don’t pretend otherwise. Don’t fool an old man — I’ve seen hundreds like you, — said the sheriff, looking at the table. It hurt him that after a long separation, the first thing his son did was lie.

— Nothing can be hidden from you, huh? — Frank said calmly, looking his father in the eye. Then he added: — Sylvester… sigh… disappeared eight years ago. No magic happened, Father. His family ordered the coffin themselves, 'buried' him right after hearing the news, as if they knew he would never return, — Frank explained calmly, without taking his eyes off his despairing father.

But Johnny didn’t even think of backing down — he let all his son’s words go in one ear and out the other, only pretending to listen.

《How is this even possible?! I just saw Sylvester and Ostin with my own eyes not long ago! Yes, they responded to those names… So then who was it, if not them? Who would come up with the idea of fooling an innocent cop?! No, it was definitely them! And if not them, then I — Johnson Moor — will never drink again, so that I won’t start seeing all sorts of nonsense, like dead people…》

[It doesn’t matter what Frank says. What matters is only what you see with your own eyes, right, Johnson?]

— Sometimes the past knocks at the door. The question is whether you’ll open it, — the sheriff replied calmly, taking out a bottle of century-old cognac.

Johnson received the cognac from his grandfather. And his grandfather got it from his father, an old hunter, who in his youth had drunk himself under the table and gone into the forest for fun. He never returned, leaving only this cognac on the doorstep with a note: 'To the Hunter'.

None of his relatives followed the crooked path of the poor fellow — and so the alcohol lived to a hundred years, surviving more than one generation.

[Adastra, Luxomoris. Center. Morning of the Next Day]

Ostin waited for Mark that night on pins and needles. He was even ready to spend the night in the police station with him. But that didn’t happen — Mark was held under the law for only a short time. True, there is no morality in the realities of Adastra. And although Ostin was glad that everything turned out fine, his inner lawyer was already preparing to stage a real rally. After all, Mark had been released as if he were above the principle of the law.

With heavy, contradictory thoughts, Ostin headed for the courthouse, not paying attention to where his feet were leading him. Immersed in dark thoughts and inner doubts, he resembled a sullen ghost. Today he had a hearing, and that made him feel even more disgusted with himself. Today he was again the law — which only worked when wearing a suit.

Mark ran toward him — all joyful and so ridiculous, as if he were waiting for his friend to step out of his quiet little closet. To do what? To remind him where the world is with a life resembling tribunals. He had only made a fuss this night, and now he acted as if he had just bought coffee on sale. That's what made Ostin even more annoyed.

— Hey, what are your plans for today? — Mark asked optimistically, expecting an answer that would be to his liking.

— Work, — Ostin cut him off coldly, staring sternly at Evans.

— Come on, let's have some fun! Besides, we should take a break from the recent boom, — Mark suggested playfully, winking.

— Recent boom? — Ostin swore in bewilderment.

— You mean your jump onto the tow truck, the drunken fights, the police, and the free perks? Or Mr. Ray, who took your wallet?

— Is that what you call it? Recent boom?! — his voice rose so much that even passersby, resembling ghosts from a wake, glanced around nervously.

— What did my daddy do? — Mark asked coldly, with a barely perceptible edge of anger. His face seemed to turn to stone. He lowered his head and stared at the floor, his pupils flickering. The only thing he cared about was his father.

— Packed your identity, — Ostin grimaced.

— There it is! — Mark couldn't believe his ears. No wonder: his father had pulled all sorts of schemes to trap him, but he'd never stooped this low.

— Ostin asked naively, pretending not to know the answer. — It's a consequence of your behavior! — he added sharply, as if merely stating a fact, uninvolved in the situation.

— Why should I care about anything else? This old man is taking away the only thing he gives me! — Mark exploded. It was the first time he had ever been this angry, and in public.

— You're not an idiot, Mark... — Ostin whispered fearfully. Taking a deep breath, he continued, though his voice still trembled: — A case has almost been opened against you!

— I don't give a damn about those cases! — Mark said clumsily, waving his hand.

— I didn't spit. I didn't spit, Mark... — Ostin said with difficulty, desperately trying to get the voice of conscience out of his friend's mouth. — You're connected to me. Everything concerning you indirectly concerns me.

— What's it got to do with you? — Mark snapped, stubbornly refusing to admit the obvious. He had never admitted that he himself was the problem — and not only in his life. He simply didn't know how to live any other way.

— Right... — Ostin hissed, grimacing from tension. — I go into these holes with you, risking both my reputation and my career, and you ask — what does that have to do with me? What else do I have to risk for you to understand... my life? — his eyes held a mix of pleading and anger, as if someone had carelessly stirred the ingredients to create this storm of emotions.

— Stop it, cool it, — Mark lowered his head and nervously tapped his foot on the pavement.

— Well, yeah, I even got into an accident with you! And you still don't get what it has to do with me... — Ostin forced out detachedly. He couldn't hold it in anymore. If a friend couldn't understand words — he wouldn't understand silence either.

— Do not arrange on a flat place a brain-weaving, — Mark grimaced and looked down at his friend, which sent shivers down Braun’s spine. For the first time he saw what Evans looked like in the eyes of others.

— Uh... I'm sorry, I overreacted, — Ostin said sarcastically. He knew: if he showed weakness now, it would be the end. He would never again earn Mark’s respect.

— That's what I mean! — Mark said, as if deliberately ignoring the tone and picking out only what suited him. He always did that — he perceived only what was pleasant to him.

— Grow up, Mark! — Ostin snapped, getting ready to leave. — At least sometimes act like a human, not like a clown, — he knew: if he stayed any longer, he'd snap and surely beat him up.

But Mark grabbed him by the shoulder, not caring about the consequences. He was a king — unrecognized, but every gesture spoke of that.

— Why the hell did that old man take my wallet? And why the hell are you running away in the middle of your lawyer's deduction? — Mark spat out with fury. He hated either cowardice or evasion.

— Ask your diablo, daddy, father, old man, or whatever else you call your lacy-life sponsor, — Ostin shot back quickly, throwing his hand off his shoulder. — I'm going to a hearing. That's my job: to go to hearings, to defend the law.

— Mm-hmm... that's the kind of life the old one wished for me, — Mark replied lazily, as if belittling his friend's profession and way of life.

— You could only be a devil's advocate, — Ostin grimaced, biting his lip and cutting him off abruptly. No, he would no longer tolerate Mark's antics, especially such disdain.

Mark lit a cigar and watched Ostin walk away. He was running away from him, clumsy yet powerful, with a rumble. His coat fluttered from right to left ... Right- to-left... just like Mark's own nauseatingly contradictory thoughts.

He looked after him and gradually realized: their relationship would never be the same again. But it wasn't him who'd ruined it — it was Ostin who'd grown up.

— So that's how... — Mark coughed on the smoke. That cherry no longer calmed him. Was he ready to give it up? No way. It was like offering valerian to a cat, expecting restraint.

Meanwhile, Ostin had already gotten into his big white car parked nearby. He opened the cup of coffee he'd bought on sale at the store next door and began drinking it in big gulps without stopping. As if trying to drown out today’s scolding. Or not just today’s?

At that moment, a girl came out of the store and headed toward him. She was walking so fast and talking on the phone so loudly that it hurt Ostin’s ears, and he began gulping his coffee even harder.

But what was unexpected was that she got into Ostin's car without any ceremony, as if it were her own. Ostin almost choked on his coffee, rubbed his eyes, and looked in the rearview mirror. No, he hadn’t imagined it.

— Take it to Destinatio 7. Thank you, — the girl said in a commanding voice, as if Ostin were just driving a taxi for fun.

— What? — the guy asked in surprise. This day seemed determined to make him forget about normal life. As if normal life were just a children’s fairy tale.

— Destinatio 7, — the girl repeated irritably, without pausing her phone conversation.

— Miss, you must be confusing me with someone else! What a day… — Ostin said irritably and pressed the horn.

Ready to vent all his anger, he turned around — and froze.

[Adastra, Luxomoris. Rei’s Office. Night of the Same Day]

No moonlight fell into the room; there were no sounds of outsiders at all — only a couple of candles barely flickering, as if living out their last moments. Much like everything else here.

A dusty cabinet with a scattering of old photographs reflected a man staring at it. And if one had entered the room, one would have sensed a plume of confidence mixed with smoke in the air. But one glance at the reflection and everything changed. It whispered of loss and pain. Distorted reality?

[And what is reality — really?]

Rei grabbed a glass of well-aged cognac and drained it to the bottom as quickly as if it were water on an empty stomach. As if the drink were just a stencil of elitism, another layer of cheap pretension — just like the cigar Evans lit so greedily that he immediately choked on the smoke and started coughing. Maybe Rei had simply forgotten that, biologically, he was still human.

The man turned away from the computer screen and stared at the closet, as if trying to incinerate it with a single glance.

[Do you have something to hide, Emperor?]

He tried to escape from reality, but even on the old, dust-covered shelves, the past lay before him.

Meanwhile, messages flashed on the monitor screen — one after another. They flickered nonstop. It seemed you could feel them even with your back.

These messages contained only one thing—geolocation and the amount attached to it.

Rei didn't react to the irritating beep; moreover, he didn't even glance in its direction. However, Evans's body radiated such tension that even an electrician would have crossed himself. Even a slight, almost hysterical half-smile flickered across his stern face.

This was the taste of defeat, soaked in the most expensive and useless antidepressants. The ones in which people deny reality or corrode it.

Rei slowly took his wallet from his jacket pocket, grabbed a pair of scissors from the nightstand, and extinguished the candles with a single breath...as if every movement he made was part of a ritual of destruction. Even the 'witness' in the form of the closet — would have to look away.

The man took out bank cards one by one... and halved, with a dry crack, they fell to the floor. These unpleasant sound was reflected on his face: Rei pressed his lips together, restraining his irritation. The very cigar in his teeth became a conduit — now for physical pain.

Then he bent sharply, scooping everything into a heap — and as soon as he straightened up, his gaze fell on the reflection in the glass of the closet.

The man in it he would never have recognized ... and yet it was him. The one who had been dubbed the Emperor. The one whose back ran with goosebumps at the sight of his own silhouette in the semi-darkness. Evans hated that feeling. Evans despised himself for his own choice.

Perhaps that’s exactly why he immediately threw all his mystery into the small trash can — along with the extinguished cigar. Then, raising his eyebrows and letting his gaze slide over the closet, he dialed a number on his mobile.

— Antique, you say, — he muttered, bringing the phone to his ear. — Night, the password... — and Evans froze for a second, looking at the silhouette. — Ahem. Password: 1908. Do your job.

And Rei tossed the phone to the floor with a dull thud, as if getting rid of trash. He even shook his hand one last time, as if brushing off traces of himself. And then he simply walked away without looking back. Only the two screens knew where he was going.

This content is intended for mature audiences for the following reasons.