"And you're still telling me you can't come?" Aris scolds in a question into his phone.

"I didn't plan to be busy—" Elise tries to explain herself, but is cut off.

"You invited me to a party I didn't want to go to, and now you are telling me to go anyway?" Aris reiterates with growing annoyance.

"I invited you to this party for your sake. There are a bunch of people there who would love to be your friend." Elise responds calmly.

Aris winces at the suggestion, recalling Mr White's declaration at orientation and the crowd's murmurs.

—I don't know about being my friend. But they sure would love to be with a Strider! Aris thought to himself.

Elise relents, If you want to be that way, fine! "I'll postpone a couple of things for tomorrow, but I'll be late."

Aris didn't say anything as the shame of making Elise procrastinate on what Phoebe depended on began to mount, and he wondered why he had said anything in the first place.

Silence lingers as embarrassment seals Aris's lips. "Alright, bye." Elise ended the call.

Aris sets his phone down on the kitchen counter, looking at the mess he made, as the oven hums behind him and the aroma of sweet macarons wafts from the exhaust. He wipes the flour-coated counter down and throws his mixing bowl and the beater into the sink. He washes his hands, takes out two bricks of butter and places them on the counter, and then heads into his room to change into his costume.

He undresses from his loungewear and switches into his redish pink shirt and grey pants. He looks into the mirror and examines his clear upper lip, then his smooth jaw.

—Theodore Twombly had a moustache, but I have... nothing.

He contemplates as he caresses his upper lip, but ultimately decides to stop his wondering there and return to the kitchen.

The bus departed from the station as Aris stood on the platform, a basket of macarons in hand. Elise's last words rang through his mind, her tone, impatient, exhausted, placating.

—Like she's actually coming.

He looks at the infoboard and sees the next bus to Meudon is in an hour. He walks out of the station, walking aimlessly, offering his macarons to anyone he passes by. With some curious about his intent, he told people he was an aspiring baker; usually, tourists bought his story, while others remained wary at best. With all his wandering, he found himself at the plaza outside the train station. Among the stalls and stands, he found a free bench. He sat, letting out a jaded breath, staring blankly at the brick pavement.

—What am I doing here, giving out macarons, outside, in Paris? Why the hell am I in Paris? Why am I in university? What's gonna change when I graduate? What's the point?

A hand reaches into the basket, taking one of the remaining pastries. Aris looks blankly at the person before taking in their appearance. His hair rose, back straightened, and eyes widened as he took in the black suit, black hair, and green eyes.

"I didn't think anyone would be waiting for me," Malcolm kids. "It's a good thing it's you because you are just the person I wanted to see."

Aris wanted to respond, but his nerves made his jaw tighten.

"Hope is an interesting thing. To have it is to expect things to get better, go your way. But it's easy to get blind sided by disappointment. I knew reforming education, a centuries-old institution, was monumental, impossible to do in a single generation. I was pragmatic, realistic, and..." Malcom's voice caught, looking at Aris with something close to desperation. "It always finds a way to blind side me."

White hunches over, still processing what happened in the Rhine Union. "I left the conference early because staying another minute meant wasting time I could spend on the one person who could make a difference. Someone who could carry this forward."

"..." Words fail him.

White straightens, "There's going to be a performance review next week. It'll be a review of whether or not you're on course to be able to contribute meaningfully to society, or..." White looks into his eyes, letting Aris deduce the rest. He gets up, no longer facing him, "All I ask is: don't prove my brother right."

He takes his leave.

Aris sat motionless, watching White's black suit disappear into the Halloween crowds. The basket of macarons sat untouched beside him. Around him, people laughed, shouted, and celebrated. None of it reached him.

The crowds became dull and overbearing, sounds bleeding together into white noise. His breaths came shallow and quick. Then the laughter started. Quiet at first, then building, until he was doubled over, gasping between hysterical laughs that turned heads.

—Of course, it's me, why isn't it me? It has to be me. Right, Mr White? It could only ever be me.

Elise walks down the decrepit street, where windows were boarded up and shattered, and bins were filled to the brim with waste decayed past the point of emitting an odour. Doors peeling chips of wood and paint, with leaves piling up past the ankle. Paper-thin curtains darkened by grime and rain gently flow against the punctured windows of the upper floors. Buildings were sporadic with their numbering, and some disregarded them entirely, accepting the obsolescence.

She walks up to one of the unnumbered doors and gives it a knock, two knocks... no answer. She gives it time, and there is not a sound inside, but the door feels warm to the touch. She gives another knock, two more... no answer, the shifting movements upstairs, inaudible. She tries peeking through the lounge window and sees it's completely unfurnished, with pieces of litter scattered, giving it the signature abandoned look. She moves back to look into the second storey and sees a silhouette peeping through. They look at each other, assessing each other, but the silhouette's white dots dart to the side before vanishing entirely. Elise snapped to what the eyes last saw and found only an empty road with encroaching shadows. Prefering to follow suit, she made herself in the alley around the corner.

She peeps over the wall, watching the shadow grow and split into two. And as the persons emerges, turning right towards Elise, she pulls back before even catching a glimpse of them; hopefully, they didn't catch one of her head peaking out. She steadies her breathing to keep her heart from bursting out as the voices grow; she surveys the alley for another hiding place.

Elise missed the silent third, just on their heels. While the two talk, the third notices flattened leaves, footsteps ahead, but she remains silent, keeping watch from the back. Eyes watched each of the buildings, darkened by grime and grit, and the gently drifting leaves. The two walk in the alley, which Elise expected but hoped against.

"Cross?" Both call out.

Lost in her observation, Cross walked past the alley where Elise hid.

Having been forced out of her trance, she had to refocus on the task at hand, forgetting the reason for the search, but Cross couldn't stand forgetting why she was so invested. She continued to look around for anything off, now in the alley where she hid, hoping to remember what she was searching for.

The duet focuses on opening the wheel bins lined in rows against the wall, searching for something, but each bin they open is empty. Concern grew on the other's face with each empty bin, while the woman named Cross seemed to stare blankly, her eyes unfocused, seeing nothing and everything at once.

All Elise could see from the cramped underside of the dumpster were the group's feet and white cloaks. One wore a hanger-like frame, their cloak barely above the ground; Cross had a wider stance, pulling her cloak above the ankles, and the final member bridged the disparity. Elise tried to minimise her presence, taking shallow breaths and paying little heed to their conversation. All she could make out were mentions of the armistice celebrations, like the parade and speeches. However, one thing that caught her attention in the murmur was 'Bosson particle sensor', contraband equipment in non-governmental hands.

The middle-sized one ended up kicking Elise's hiding spot in frustration, causing it to rebound off the wall and leaving an indent.

In the moment of the dumpster moving, Cross caught something flinching on the ground. A rodent, someone typical would think, but she was looking for something; a rodent wouldn't satisfy as an answer. She focuses on that spot.

"You think some skank beat us to it?" the twig-like figure asks.

Heavy footsteps approach Elise; Cross's shadow fell across the gap where she hid. For a moment, heavy boots stood inches from her face.

"If someone else did beat us to it, I would've seen them running," she said, opening the dumpster lid with one arm's ease and searching for something she knew nothing would be found, the contraband included. "But even a cerf knows when it's caught," Cross adds, shutting the lid, then leaning her back against the dumpster.

"Then what do we do about the fixer ripping us off then?"

The dumpster shuffles slightly from the force of Cross's shrug.

"Tsk. Let's fix that skanky ass fixer." The pun lands flat with the other two as they walk out of the alley, but Elise notices Cross drop something.

—On purpose. But why? To test me?

Cross didn't immediately come back for it; instead, the white cloak disappeared around the corner toward the house. Shouting erupts inside. A chance to get out, most would assume, but Elise didn't hear the heavy footsteps that would've accompanied Cross into the building. The floorboards should've groaned under her weight.

—Cross never went in... she's watching.

What should've been a quick exchange ended with Elise waiting under a dumpster, coming to terms that Cross knew exactly where she was. Had known from the start.

The shouting continued inside. The dropped item glinted in the dirt, close enough to reach.

—Grab it and admit I'm here, she spares me, and I owe her or the syndicate. Leave it, and she picks it up herself, seeing me, putting me right in the hands of the syndicate. Either way, she wins.

Checkmate.