The hour is late, and the quiet hum of the city seeps faintly through the tall glass windows of Jerry’s office. The lights from the skyline cast a dim, fractured reflection on the polished floor. Jerry sits behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, surrounded by open folders and half-empty coffee cups. He’s been working nonstop, mostly to distract himself from the gnawing feeling that something is about to happen.

A soft knock breaks the silence.

“Come in,” Jerry says without looking up.

His assistant steps in, her expression uneasy. “Sir, there’s… someone here to see you.”

Jerry frowns. “At this hour?”

She hesitates before stepping aside. “He insisted. Said you’d want to see him.”

And then the doorway darkens.

A tall figure stands there, the fluorescent light catching faintly on his sharp features. His smile is calm... almost too calm, and his violet eyes glimmer faintly under the office light.

“Good evening, Jerry,” the man greets, his voice smooth and low, carrying an unsettling warmth.

Jerry freezes for a split second before masking his reaction, straightening in his chair. “It’s been a while,” he says, his tone clipped. “Didn’t expect you to come all the way here. What do you want?”

The man chuckles softly, stepping inside and closing the door behind him with deliberate ease. “Nothing in particular,” he replies, taking the seat opposite Jerry’s desk without being invited. “Just thought I’d check in. See how things are going. It’s not every day I find you this busy.”

Jerry’s jaw tightens. “You don’t show yourself unless it’s important.”

“Maybe,” the man hums, crossing one leg over the other. “Or maybe I’m just curious. You’ve been quite… active lately. Getting involved with old acquaintances again. Cercis Aragon?”

Jerry’s expression doesn’t shift, but his hands curl faintly on the edge of his desk.

The man leans back, a teasing glint in his violet eyes. “You just couldn’t help yourself, could you? Always drawn to the same kind of chaos. Just like Cercis is drawn to Sean.” His tone carries a faint, mocking melody.

Jerry exhales a short, humorless laugh. “We both know I don’t give a damn about Cercis. She’s just convenient. That’s all.”

“Convenient?” the man echoes with an amused tilt of his head. “That’s one way to put it.”

Jerry looks away, the smirk fading. “I’m still looking for Iris.” His voice hardens. “If you have any leads, tell me now.”

The man’s smile widens, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You never asked for my help,” he says lightly. “So why would I have any?”

The edge in Jerry’s stare sharpens. “You always know more than you let on.”

“Perhaps,” the man replies, almost cheerfully. “But tonight, I’m not here for that.”

Jerry studies him, something about the way that smile lingers unsettles him. The man’s presence has always been like this: calm, polite, but dripping with the quiet menace of someone who doesn’t need to raise his voice to be dangerous.

Then, with an almost innocent air, the man places a hand on his chest. “You know, I have a reason to smile now,” he says softly. “It feels… different this time.”

Jerry frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The man only shrugs, as if the question doesn’t need answering.

He stands, smoothing out his coat. “Anyway, Jerry,” he says, his tone lilting with mock sympathy. “I truly hope you find her, the love of your life. Iris Aragon.”

Jerry’s glare darkens.

“Oh, and one more thing,” the man adds lightly, turning toward the door. “Try not to mess with Cercis too much. If Sean—oh, he goes by Shun now, right?—finds out you’re stirring up trouble again…” He pauses, glancing over his shoulder, the purple in his eyes glinting like shards of glass. “…well, let’s just say he’s not as gentle as he looks. You remember his temper, don’t you?”

The smile he gives next is too pleasant for the threat it carries. “I’d hate to have to clean up your body next.”

And just like that, he’s gone... his footsteps soft, his presence dissipating like smoke.

Jerry exhales slowly, running a hand down his face. His pulse pounds with irritation.

Seymour Kornblume.

The man who knows too much. The man who’s everywhere, unseen, unheard, but always watching.

Jerry stares at the door long after it closes, knowing one thing for certain: whatever game Seymour is playing, he’s already three moves ahead.

Jerry picks up his phone and dials his assistant’s number, his tone sharp and deliberate. “I want Cercis Aragon to look perfect for the upcoming event. Get her a dress. Gold. And make sure it’s shipped to her apartment immediately after we check it. No mistakes.”

“Gold?” the assistant asks, eyebrows raised. “Sir, do you have a particular designer in mind, or…?”

Jerry taps the desk impatiently. “It doesn’t matter who designs it. I just want it to match her eyes. It’ll make her stand out, good for appearances. She’s part of the entourage, whether she realizes it or not.”

“Yes, sir,” the assistant replies briskly. “I’ll have it ready for your approval.”

Minutes later, she returns, holding the folded gown delicately in a protective cover. Jerry takes it from her hands and lets the fabric slip through his fingers, the gold catching the dim light of his office. He sets it on the chair beside him, staring at it as though it were alive.

“Looks perfect,” he murmurs to himself. Then, almost involuntarily, he pulls a small photograph from his drawer, a photo of Iris, her golden eyes shining, her smile so vivid it nearly hurts to look at.

Jerry’s voice drops to a whisper. “I should’ve protected you… should’ve done more.” His fingers trace the photo’s edges, lingering on her face. “Your voice… your laugh… your eyes… everything about you I miss. And now, I have to settle for shadows.”

He leans back in his chair, holding the gown against his chest for a moment, imagining it on Iris instead of Cercis. “You would’ve looked perfect in this,” he says, almost bitterly. “Every line, every fold… it would’ve belonged to you. And I… I failed to keep you.”

There’s a soft knock at the door. “Sir, the dress is ready for delivery,” the assistant calls from outside. “Shall I have it sent now?”

Jerry shakes his head slightly, eyes never leaving the photo and the gown. “Not yet. Leave it here for now. I want to… examine it first.”

The assistant nods and retreats. Jerry is alone, the silence of the office pressing in. He rises and walks slowly to the chair, fingertips brushing the gown’s fabric. He holds it in front of him, imagining the curves of Iris wearing it, the way the golden hue would complement her hair, her eyes, her skin.

“God, Iris…” he mutters, voice tight. “I miss you. Every single thing about you.”

He lets out a slow, bitter laugh and sets the gown back down gently, as if afraid to break the illusion. “Cercis can wear it. She’ll do. But don’t think she’ll ever replace you.”

The phone buzzes again. Jerry glances at it, ignoring the call. He isn’t concerned with the world right now; his mind is consumed with her. He lifts the photo once more, staring at Iris’s face, memorizing every detail.

“Where are you, Iris?” he whispers. “Are you safe? Do you even think of me?”

His reflection in the window stares back at him, a man trapped between regret and obsession. His fingers linger on the gown again, and he swallows hard. “Cercis… she’s just a placeholder. Until I find you, Iris, nothing else matters. Nothing.”

He lets the gown rest on the chair, untouched, and sinks back into his seat. The city lights outside blur into streaks, but Jerry sees only one thing: the golden eyes of the girl he lost and the weight of his failures pressing down on him.