It was five years ago.

I found myself beside a man I only knew in front of the camera. Undressed like I was. Underneath messy sheets of torn suits and sheets. He had the face of an innocent lamb, unknowingly being held as an offering’s blood sacrifice. Something stung my heart, and as I glazed the back of my hand to his sun-kissed face, I looked away, my gaze focused on the broken bottle of vodka near the broken lampshade. I knew it was mine. There’s nothing to explain when my head is drowned with alcohol, lungs burning, beating like I’m being chased by a wild animal. There was a bit left in my head, and it caused my vision spinning unnaturally. The bottle. The lamp. Shattered. My head pounding, spinning like the room itself had grown legs. I held on. To what—I don’t know. Him? No. The sheets. The vodka. Myself. I held on my head as I kept my balance. Images slowly formed to my head. It was a blur, but I could see clearly. My hands. His shoulder. Our lips. Our tongues. The heat. The feeling inside him. It was as if there was never such a word as tomorrow.

No, I could see far back. Back to where it started.

It was midnight’s while ago. I was at a bar. A party. A celebratory party. For me. For the success of that latest film we just finished. All of my co-actors were down with another drink on hand, disturbing the sanctity of the bar with their merry-yet-tone-deaf voices. One even shouted “To the success of the film!” that he almost got himself kicked out by the bouncers nearby. Our director was seemingly happy with the bottle of vodka already empty. The night was younger than ever; we’re just getting started.

There was dancing, lights flickering, and for a moment I found my hands on some stranger’s waist. His slim build fit too perfectly with the palm of my hands, dangerously so. His white half-buttoned dress sharply contrasted my black polo shirt, and I could see his chest bare, inviting me in to taste. As our bodies touched, I felt something burning in my body. It was oddly fuzzy, but his green, emerald eyes were starkly clear. It wanted my body. It wanted my warmth. Lord, tell me how to say no to this, for no man can say no. I should’ve said no. Why can’t I say no? Is there no way to say no?

Music drowned reason into the bottomless ocean of sin. The end of one blurred into the start of another, and somewhere between the dancing strobe light and falling musky sweat mixing, I forgot whose laughter echoed in my ear. It was then my mind flashed an image of Kaizer smiling in front of me, slowly fading to black. I found myself back to reality. His fingers pressed into my shirt as if trying to claim me. Mine trailed down his back before I could even think. Step after step, spin after spin, I was no longer leading. Our bodies had other plans; when our minds wanted to stop, they were moving on their own.

Still, some part of me searched the crowd. Old instinct. Kay should’ve been there, arms folded, eyes sharp as knives, ready to pounce and drag me out by the collar. I half-expected to see him through the haze, disapproving glare cutting through the smoke. But no. Not only was he not around, but only the stranger’s gaze met mine, pulling me deeper, telling me I wouldn’t escape.

And I didn’t.

Before I could process everything, I found my lips aiming for his. It was the vodka. My hands explored his body. His body called me deeper down his belt. I fondled with his behind as I reached for his hole. His gasp cut through the haze as I slowly brushed my cold hands deeper inside him, but it wasn’t his voice I heard. It was the silence where Kay’s should’ve been. My fingers dug deeper, but my mind was already elsewhere, replaying the shadow of the man I should’ve been holding. The more I touched him, the farther I slipped from Kay.

I knew I was too late to be saved. Lord knows there’s no going back.

“You want to take this inside?”

I stopped and looked at him in the eye. It was enough of an answer.

Once at the hotel, we broke our kiss a lot of times. My back smashed to the wall as I am heavily tasting the sin I fell for. It was sweet like chocolate. He loosened my buttons as I did his. As I removed my clothing, he kneeled and heard a click from below me. Then I saw my belt flying to the couch beside us. Only the light from the lamp in the nightstand served as our light. Slowly, he opened his gift, undressed to see my weapon unsheathed and hard. His fingers sliding gently to the length of my shaft was the last nail to the coffin. Just like that, I have laid down my coffin six feet under. Cemented.

“Oh, God.” My head throbbed as it silently accepts the lust my body craved greatly a while ago. As I looked up, I saw the lights were open. I closed my eyes and cupped my face in shame. I breathed heavily as I went back to look at the door.

But from the far end of the room, I saw him.

Kaizer.

He was sitting in a white couch, his eyes swollen and red, glare of a killer aiming at my presence. He fumed and breathed heavily. I knew right then. I’m doomed. There’s no coming back from this.

“And Gale Windsor has done it again,” I muttered, the words sour in my mouth. Guilt seeped through my chest like a slow poison, forcing my eyes away from his and onto the window. The sun greeted me with the brightest alleyway of the grandiose Las Vegas, mocking me with all its shine.

“Tell me, Kay,” I whispered, “how fucked up was I?”

There was ringing in my head, yet the sound of heavy footsteps came closer. Darker. Stronger. The moment I turned my head, I wish I didn’t.

The world tilted again, yet I found myself crashing to the ground, the cotton rag crying crimson as fist came flying in my face. The sting should’ve burned. Yet this same sting instead it settled me, steadied me. Pain was honest in a way I hadn’t been. Yet in these times I found myself liking it more.

As if his fists weren’t enough to drain the vodka from my system, his shoe slammed into my abdomen, folding me in half and sending me rolling to God knows where. All I can remember was the grey ceiling with the golden fan spinning above me. All I could think of is when it will unscrew and land straight in my face. Darkness gradually consumed me . . . along with the wail of someone I used to know.

That was the story from the grapevine. The forbidden fruit of Eden, I should call it. The op-ed of choice by Le Heraût, among other things. The Heir’s Fall from Grace, they call it. Oh, believe me when all the paparazzi was dominating the visitor logbook at our compound from that day. Even the guards could not contain the excitement of these journalists whose soul are the ground-shattering letters they craft into stories, turning every glyph into a puzzle piece, theories becoming reality and reality becoming fiction. In the end, I was but a consumption to satisfy the hunger of the people’s inquisitive minds. At the cost of my railings to hold on after the storm.

Kay knew. He knew the media was too cruel for the three of us. He knew when to talk less. All he could do was to smile more, albeit broken. They never knew what he was against or what he was for. Between the two of us, he found solace, I took the bait.

Between the two of us, Kay survived by silence. I survived by bleeding out in public by the stabs behind my back with pens of different sizes. But you know what? I would gladly take it. If my fall would keep him standing, then so be it.

After all, everything that happened was meant to be the story from the grapevine.

“Woodsworth.” He paused. His gaze slowly ambled to the workspace. Those eyes glanced back at me again. “Do you know someone named Kaizer Licht Woodsworth?”

Again. That name. Was this a joke? A sick joke? I stared back, forcing myself to treat his question at face value.

“The boss ain’t here,” I said, a faint smile that could pierce no heart. “He usually swings by to nag at us. But go figure.”

“Fair enough.” He slid a card across the counter, his eyes cutting briefly to the tag on my chest. “Gale Windsor, right? Call me when he comes by. Stat.”

“Not something I could pass on to him? I could tell him when—”

“–no.” His voice was clear-cut surgical. “That’s between me and him. Au revoir.”

As the bell rang again, he was gone. All that remained was a red calling card, white ink engraved like a scar across its surface.

“Crimson del Pilar. +1 (780) 274-6766.”

I dug my phone out of my bag, fingers fumbling against the buttons as I dialed. One ring. Two. Three. By the fourth, the line clicked.

“Crimson del Pilar. Who’s this?” His voice was sharp, precise.

“Gale. Just confirming if this number is—”

A flat beep cut me off. Dead air. Damn, Crimson.

From afar, I heard a loud engine gradually destroying my eardrums. The moment I open my mouth to curse, it stopped. The back door creaked open, and a man in a blue long sleeve appeared from the outside. He was dressed up like a darn businessman, much like his father from head to toe. Even the shoes were his own mirror because of how shiny it was. The silken grey trousers matched the vibe yet did not follow the very uniform he laid down to us. Yet his face was as if he had been woken up from a deep slumber in the woods where Snow White slept. Now I mean that literally. Go figure; you’re old enough to do so.

“Welcome back to the land of living, Kay,” I muttered, though I’m uncertain whether that was actually the case.

“Right, Gale. Status?” He laid his things at his own locker, fixing his tie that got slanted on the way here from God knows where.

“Meh. Same old, same old. Except there’s this . . . Crimson del Pilar who wanted to speak to you. A fan, I suppose.” Kay’s gaze pierced at me like I’m being held for murder. “Maybe not a fan. Was a tad investigator from the sound of his questions. Might be related to, you know,” I paused. There’s no need to bring that up.

“Art?” There was a moment of silence.

“Why Art?” I grabbed a candle from the bag. I lighted a matchstick before placing it at the empty locker beside me. It flickered gently as it moved with the direction of the A/C.

“Amadeo’s dead. Sean and Julius, also dead. Luke’s rotting in prison. That leaves Art.” There was yet again silence. It should’ve been its own wall. “Or maybe another Petrovitch scheme from the media.”

I snorted. “Zhenya would easily swat them away.”

“But I can’t rely on her all the time.”

“Fair point. She’s a host unto herself.” Again, that silence became louder than ever. The novices were going away from our direction as much as possible. “I’m sorry I brought up Arthur here.”

Kay’s eyes stayed on the candle flame. “It’s fine.” I knew it was as insincere as fuck, but I’ll take it at face value than going with another debate with him.

And of course, there’s no need for us to talk more. Either it’s about Art, the Espresso, or there exists no me to him. I shrugged. “Wanna call this guy? He said I should when you show up.”

Kaizer went to the receipts section to check what orders were yet to be made. He took one slip and went straight to the espresso machine a minute distance away, turning the machine on. “Do what your guts tell you.” He looked at me in the eye, smug evident on his lips. “They’ve never failed you. Except once.”

I rolled my eyes. “Roger that.” The word bitch slipped out just loud enough to risk being caught. I pulled out my phone, hitting that number again.

One. Two. Then there was a line turned up alive. “What is it—?”

“Kaizer’s here. You said you need him, yes?” I extended my now-on-loudspeaker-phone-full hand to Kaizer’s busy silhouette. Instinctively, his voice changed. The cold demon was gone, exorcised and replaced by something else. Polished. Businesslike.

The man knew when to drop the blade and don the mask.

“Kaizer Licht Woodsworth, Jr. Is this Crimson, I presume?”

“Finally.” I could hear this man fix himself before clearing his throat. “Because, Mr. Woodsworth, there is something you have that is supposed to be mine.” I quickly looked at Kaizer, only to find him just as confused as I was. “Someone by the name of Arthur. Where is he?”

No-common sense was needed to quickly snatched my hand back to me and place it in my ear. If someone would know how to easily get Kaizer back to his destructive side, talk about Art.

“He’s not here.” I dared a gaze at Kaizer, only to see his face readable as pen on paper. He’s going to kill someone. He clenched his fist, threatening.

“What do you mean he’s n—” Crimson’s voice clipped. There was obvious disbelief. Then, a hiss: “And why are you crashing in the middle of a conversation?”

I dug the edge of my thumb with my nails. No, Kay; you don’t get to lash out at some random stranger today.

And so I dropped the bomb. Flat. Final. “He’s dead.”