Chapter Three-Hundred Five: Shadow Play

Chapter 305

Shadow Play

Tristan turned off the shower taps and stepped onto the bath mat as the last of the steam rolled off his shoulders. Reaching for a thick, charcoal-colored Egyptian cotton towel, Tristan dried off methodically. His long white hair cascaded damply past his shoulders and down his back, catching the soft glow of the vanity sconces. With steady ease, he combed through the pale lengths, gathered them smoothly, and bound them into a neat, characteristic low tail before slipping his glasses back on. Through the clean lenses, his sharp green eyes took in his reflection—composed, sharp, and without hesitation.

Padding silently into his bedroom, his pristine, freshly dried feet barely whispered against the hardwood floor. Outside the tall arched windows, Oliver was already perched atop an upholstered bench, watching with half-lidded curiosity as Francis and Kyle dozed comfortably in a nearby sunbeam.

Tristan gave Oliver an affectionate, feather-light scratch beneath the chin, then turned to the ensemble laid out meticulously across the valet stand.

He sat on the edge of the leather chaise and rolled on a pair of sheer black dress socks. The fine, whisper-thin knit hugged his arches and ankles flawlessly, smooth against his pale skin without a single fold or imperfection. Standing up, he stepped into the tailored trousers of a navy three-piece Italian-cut suit. The midnight-deep wool draped sharply along his frame, tapered cleanly with the fluid, structured elegance unique to Italian tailoring. He fastened the mother-of-pearl button at the waist and adjusted the clean crease running straight to his feet.

Next came the crisp white cotton shirt. Freshly pressed to razor-sharp perfection, the fabric was cool against his chest. Tristan worked up the buttons, smoothed the pointed collar, and fastened the cuffs with subtle gold links that caught the light with modest luxury. He threaded a belt in the loops and buckled it.

From the carved mahogany rack, he took a slim black silk tie. He looped it deftly around his collar and tied a flawless, dimpled Windsor knot, tightening it flush against the pristine white fabric. Over this, he slipped into the matching navy waistcoat. The high armholes and precise darting hugged his slender torso, five small horn buttons securing the vest with tailored symmetry. Finally, he shrugged on the suit jacket, adjusted the structured shoulders, and smoothed the notched lapels flat against his chest.

Moving to the black lacquered dresser, Tristan picked up a heavy crystal flacon of luxury French cologne. With two measured presses, he misted the fragrance over his collarbone and wrists—an intoxicating, refined blend of sandalwood, geranium, and dry vetiver that immediately claimed the space around him. He set the heavy glass bottle down with a soft, satisfying click, then reached for his gold pocket watch. He fastened the chain to a buttonhole on his navy waistcoat, then slipped the polished timepiece into the small watch pocket.

With a final, discerning glance at his reflection, Tristan picked up his sleek black leather briefcase from the mahogany desk. Holding it firmly, he turned and left his bedroom.

He walked down the pedway and descended the grand staircase with quiet grace, the understated luxury of his home wrapping around him.

On the ground floor, he made his way to the spacious kitchen. The rich aroma of freshly brewed tea and sizzling breakfast delicacies filled the air. There, standing by the stove, was his brother, Bastien, already busy preparing the morning meal.

Tristan: “Good morning, Bastien.”

He greeted him smoothly, placing his briefcase onto a vacant counter stool.

Bastien turned from the stove with a warm smile, holding a porcelain teapot. He poured a steaming stream of fragrant French Breakfast Tea into a matching teacup set beside Tristan’s place at the counter.

Bastien: “Sleep well?”

He asked, setting the teapot down and reaching for a wide ceramic plate. He neatly dished up a hearty portion of soft scrambled eggs alongside several golden, fluffy pancakes. To finish, he added two slices of perfectly toasted bread, slathered with fresh butter, and set the plate before his older brother.

Tristan: “As well as I can.”

He sighed and flicked his gaze across the island.

Tristan: “Where are Papa and Jasper?”

Bastien: “Jasper decided to take Papa back to his place.”

Tristan picked up the teacup and took a slow, appreciative sip of the steaming French Breakfast Tea. Setting the porcelain cup back onto its saucer, he reached for the small glass pitcher of maple syrup and poured a rich, amber stream over his stack of fluffy pancakes.

Tristan: “Did he or Papa mention what they were going to do for Jasper’s birthday?”

Bastien shook his head. Tristan drew an exasperated breath.

Bastien: “Tristan, what’s wrong? Why do you want Father and Jasper to leave the country for his birthday?”

He knitted his eyebrows. Tristan’s shoulders slumped.

Tristan: “Narcisse has used mind-controlled mice to spy on us and left a toy pig in our driveway with a knife embedded in it, with fake blood and death threats for Jasper. This is why.”

He explained. Bastien raised his eyebrows.

Bastien: “This isn’t like the uncle who raised me.”

Tristan blew air through his parted lips.

Tristan: “I feel you take things at face value, Bastien. Not everything is what it seems on the surface. Sometimes you have to dig below the surface to uncover what lies beneath.”

He explained. Bastien gazed at him.

Bastien: “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

Tristan leaned back and formed a pyramid with his fingers.

Tristan: “Narcisse presents himself as a harmless family member to the right people, but his actions indicate a calculated strategy. The threats directed at Jasper are not random outbursts; they are designed to unsettle us and force a misstep. If we only react to the surface provocation, we miss the larger trap he is setting.”

~

The glass doors of Pink Top General Hospital slid open with a muted hum as Jordi stepped inside, his briefcase gripped firmly in one hand. The sharp scent of antiseptic and polished linoleum hung heavy in the air, a stark contrast to the breezy Pink Top City morning outside.

His polished zip-up boots made quiet, steady strides across the lobby floor as he headed for the elevators. Riding up to the executive care wing, Jordi watched the floor indicators tick by, mentally organizing the documents Demetrio would demand to see the second he walked through the door.

Stepping off onto the quiet upper floor, Jordi walked down the hallway to Demetrio’s room. He paused briefly, gave two measured knocks on the heavy wooden door, then gently pushed it open.

Jordi: “Demetrio?”

He spoke softly as he stepped into the private suite.

Inside, the hum and rhythmic beeps of the heart monitors filled the room. Demetrio was propped up in the adjustable hospital bed, surrounded by extra pillows and looking paler than usual, though his sharp, commanding glare remained entirely intact. A stack of untouched hospital toast sat on a tray beside him, pushed aside for a cordless phone and scattered memos.

Demetrio: “About time, Jordi.”

He grunted, his gravelly voice raspier than usual, though it carried every ounce of his typical authority.

Demetrio: “The doctors around here think a heart attack means my brain stopped working. Tell me you brought the grid distribution files from yesterday.”

Jordi couldn’t help a faint, wry smile as he closed the door behind him and set his briefcase down on the visitor’s armchair.

Jordi: “Good morning to you too, Demetrio. Yes, I have the files—and strict instructions from both the physicians and Jiro to make sure you don't send your blood pressure through the roof before noon.”

Demetrio waved a dismissive hand at the mention of doctors and Jaxon, though the tension in his shoulders eased just a fraction. He leaned back against the pillows with a weary sigh, his sharp gaze softening into something far more personal and paternal.

Demetrio: “Forget the doctors for a second.”

He rasped, adjusting the hospital blanket over his lap.

Demetrio: “How is Blair doing? Did anyone make sure he took his constipation medicine this morning?”

His gruff, corporate edge gave way entirely to his protective instinct as a grandfather. Even flat on his back, hooked up to an IV and monitors, Demetrio’s first real priority was always Blair.

Jordi pulled a sleek silver pen and a folder from his briefcase, nodding calmly to put the older man’s mind at ease.

Jordi: “Blair is doing just fine, Demetrio. Shauna told me he took his medication this morning with a glass of milk.”

Demetrio exhaled a long, relieved breath, closing his eyes for a brief moment as the tension drained from his face.

Demetrio: “Good. Good. The boy forgets if someone isn’t keeping an eye on him, and the last thing he needs is feeling miserable while I’m stuck lying in this sterile box.”

He opened his eyes again, fixing Jordi with a look of genuine gratitude beneath his stern brow. Demetrio: “Thank you, Jordi. You take a load off my mind.”

Jordi: “Always.”

He said smoothly, pulling up a chair beside the bed.

Jordi: “Now, if you’re feeling up to it, we can look over the Palm Tree State grid allocations—slowly.”

He popped the brass latches of his briefcase with a crisp double-click. He reached inside, pulling out a thick stack of blue-jacketed Donati, Inc. utility dossiers and fan-folded dot-matrix printouts, and set them squarely on the hospital overbed table.

Demetrio’s eyes narrowed, his tired slump vanishing the moment the papers hit the surface.

Demetrio: “Give me Sector Four first. Did the coastal substations hold through the weekend heat spike, or are the transformers sweating as I predicted?”

Jordi: “They held, but only because we shifted thirty megawatts from the northern reserve.”

He replied smoothly, flipping open the primary docket. He extracted a fold-out schematic mapped with green and purple load lines detailing Palm Tree State’s primary grid. With his silver pen, he traced the heavy lines running through the southern metropolitan basin.

Jordi: “Substation Nine in Pink Top City hit ninety-two percent operational capacity by Saturday afternoon. Air conditioning loads were peaking across the residential corridors.”

Demetrio snatched the sheet and squinted at the printed columns of kilowatt-hour figures.

Demetrio: “Ninety-two percent? That’s shaving it far too thin. The relays are twenty years old. If Nine blows, the domino effect takes down the entire commercial district all the way to the docks. Why didn’t maintenance throttle the auxiliary feed from the dam?”

Jordi: “Because maintenance was waiting on executive sign-off.”

He said, meeting Demetrio’s glare with unruffled calm.

Jordi: “Which I authorized at noon on your behalf under emergency protocol 12-B. We diverted the surge through the western loop before the relays even had a chance to heat up. Outages were kept to zero.”

Demetrio grumbled beneath his breath, tracing the numbers down to the bottom margin where Jordi’s signature sat beside the emergency authorization stamp. A faint twitch at the corner of Demetrio’s mouth betrayed a rare spark of pride, though he cleared his throat loudly to stifle it.

Demetrio: “Good call.”

He muttered, turning the page with a rasp of dry paper.

Demetrio: “A lesser assistant would have waited for me to wake up from an angiogram, and half the city would’ve gone black. Now, what’s this deficit in the rural expansion budget? Don’t tell me the state regulatory committee is stalling the capital expenditure again.”

Jordi: “Not stalling—demanding an environmental impact audit for the marshland corridor.”

He explained, leaning in slightly as he turned to the correspondence file.

Jordi: “They’re claiming the high-voltage lines could disrupt local wildlife. I already drafted a formal response citing the 1984 state exemption clause, but it will need your official seal before Thursday’s hearing.”

Demetrio let out a sharp, gravelly bark of a laugh that ended in a brief wince as he clutched at his chest, catching his breath against the pillows.

Jordi: “Take it easy.”

He cautioned quietly, his posture straightening as he watched the heart monitor’s steady green line flicker with a minor flutter.

Demetrio: “I’m fine, I’m fine.”

He waved him off, gripping his pen with determined knuckles.

Demetrio: “Just brings back some color to my blood. Give me that petition. I’ll sign the damn exemption right now. No bunch of state bureaucrats is shutting down my line while I’m laid up in bed.”

The sharp click of the wooden door opening interrupted Demetrio mid-scrawl, the silver pen pausing an inch above the parchment.

A tall physician in a crisp white coat stepped into the room, a metal clipboard tucked neatly under one arm and a stethoscope draped around his neck. He took in the spread-out blue dockets, dot-matrix charts, and the CEO leaning forward with fire in his eyes, and let out an exasperated sigh.

Doctor: “Mr. Donati…”

He said, shaking his head with a firm, practiced frown.

Doctor: “I thought we had an understanding about treating this private suite like a boardroom.”

Demetrio immediately bristled, pulling the covers up slightly but keeping a protective hand flat over the papers.

Demetrio: “I’m signing an emergency state exemption, Doctor. It takes ten seconds. The power grid doesn’t take sick leave.”

Doctor: “Neither does a damaged heart muscle if you push it.”

He countered smoothly. He walked briskly around to the side of the bed, gesturing with an open palm toward the paperwork.

Doctor: “Fold them up for a moment, please. Time for your morning vitals.”

Jordi leaned in smoothly, caught the doctor's eye with a subtle, respectful nod, and began gathering the schematic printouts into an orderly stack.

Jordi: “Of course, Doctor. We were just wrapping up the urgent items.”

Demetrio: “Traitor…”

He grunted under his breath at Jordi, though he relented, grumbling as he leaned back against the pillows.

The doctor wrapped the blood pressure cuff snugly around Demetrio’s forearm and pumped the bulb until the gauge climbed. Silence settled over the suite, broken only by the rhythmic whoosh of released air and the steady beep of the heart monitor. The doctor listened intently through his stethoscope, his eyes tracking the needle, before peeling off the Velcro with a loud tear.

Doctor: “One-thirty-eight over eighty-eight.”

He announced, scribbling the figures onto his chart.

Doctor: “A bit elevated, which doesn’t surprise me given the heavy reading material.”

He warmed the disc of his stethoscope against his palm before pressing it to Demetrio’s chest, listening to his heart’s rhythm and checking his lungs with quiet concentration.

Doctor: “Take a deep breath for me... and exhale.”

Demetrio complied begrudgingly, his jaw clenched.

Doctor: “Rhythm is stable.”

He conceded, tucking the stethoscope back over his shoulders. He clicked his pen and made a few quick notes on the clipboard.

Doctor: “No signs of arrhythmia this morning, which is good news one week post-infarction. But you’re still on strict observation, Mr. Donati. If your blood pressure spikes again, I’m having your assistant banned from bringing anything heavier than a crossword puzzle into this room.”

Demetrio: “Jordi keeps this company running so I don’t have to shout over the phone all morning.”

He retorted, though his voice lacked its earlier bite, clearly fatigued from the examination.

Demetrio: “When do I get out of this bed?”

Doctor: “We’ll review your telemetry tomorrow morning.”

He said, offering a non-committal, cautious smile.

Doctor: “Behave today, eat the lunch they bring you, and we might consider moving you down to the step-down unit by Friday.”

The doctor gave Demetrio a stern parting glance before stepping out of the suite, letting the door click shut behind him.

The moment the physician was gone, Demetrio’s gruff demeanor returned, though a faint breathlessness betrayed the toll the brief checkup had taken. He flicked his fingers, urging Jordi closer.

Jordi stepped up to the edge of the bed, his briefcase already packed and latched, ready in hand.

Jordi: “Yes, Demetrio?”

Demetrio pinned him with a piercing, unwavering stare, his gravelly voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial rasp.

Demetrio: “Two things, Jordi. Listen to me carefully.”

Jordi: “I’m listening.”

Demetrio: “First, don’t let the vice presidents touch the western line expansion while I’m flat on my back.”

He commanded, his knuckles tightening against the hospital sheets.

Demetrio: “Vance and Holloway have been itching to cut costs on the cabling, and they think my absence is their green light. If either of them tries to push an amended requisition through procurement, you kill it. Tell them it came directly from my bedside. Understood?”

Jordi: “Understood.”

He replied without hesitation, his tone cool and steady.

Jordi: “No corner-cutting. The requisition stays frozen.”

Demetrio: “Good…”

His expression softened, the hard lines around his mouth relaxing into something far more tender.

Demetrio: “And second... check in on Blair again this evening after you leave the tower. Call the house, make sure he ate dinner, and make sure he isn’t getting frightened with me gone so long. Tell him his grandfather will be home before he knows it.”

Jordi forced a smile.

Jordi: “...I will personally make sure Blair has everything he needs tonight, Demetrio. You focus on your recovery. I'll handle the rest.”

Demetrio gave a single, firm nod of approval and leaned his head back onto the pillows, closing his eyes against the sterile glare of the fluorescent lights.

Demetrio: “Get out of here then. Go run the company.”

With a polite dip of his head, Jordi turned on his heel, left the room, and headed toward the elevator.

~

The morning heat was already creeping through the thin slatted blinds of Celeste and Fabien’s house, casting zebra stripes of butter-yellow sunlight across the mattress.

Tangled in a knot of faded sheets, Celeste was completely dead to the world. She lay sprawled out on her back, one arm dangling over the edge of the low frame, breathing slowly and evenly. She wore a soft black ribbed tank top and matching cotton panties, her long mane of lime-green hair pooled like a vivid splash of spilled ink across the pillows. The quiet room was only broken by the faint, muffled hum of the bathroom exhaust fan and the tiny click-clack of claws down the hall as Ashley darted after an imaginary dust mote in the linoleum corridor.

Down the short hallway, the bathroom door creaked open, releasing a billowing plume of citrus-scented steam.

Fabien stepped out onto the damp floor mat with a towel slung low around his hips. Droplets of water caught in the loose, tousled waves of his chalk-white hair, running down his shoulders and disappearing into the pale green towel. He didn’t bother reaching for a comb; instead, he raised his hand and swiped a broad path through the thick mist coating the medicine cabinet mirror.

His reflection stared back at him in clear, dripping glass. A faint dusting of white stubble roughed up his jawline, just enough to catch the late-morning light.

Fabien reached into the cabinet, fished out a can of shaving foam, and shook it with a sharp, hollow rattle. He sprayed a crisp mound of white lather into his palm, smoothing it over his cheeks and chin with practiced strokes. He picked up his razor, rinsed the silver head under warm tap water, tilted his chin upward, and began shaving with steady, deliberate passes. The sharp rasp of the blade clearing clean swaths of skin kept rhythm with the slow drip of the faucet.

Rinsing the steel between strokes, Fabien caught the hallway’s reflection in the glass behind him.

The bedroom door sat slightly ajar. Through the crack, he could see the edge of the mattress and Celeste’s bare shoulder, completely unbothered by the growing noise, her steady breathing undisturbed by the humid morning air.

Fabien splashed water onto his face, patted his cheeks with a hand towel, and reached for a glass bottle of aftershave. He splashed a few drops into his palms, rubbed his hands together, and patted the liquid onto his freshly shaved jawline with a satisfied hum. A crisp, invigorating scent of mint and cedar quickly filled the warm bathroom air.

He leaned against the doorframe with an amused, lopsided grin, watching her sleep like someone with absolute immunity to the rest of the world.

Fabien ran a brush through his thick, white waves until the unruly dampness settled into its usual effortlessly disheveled frame around his face. Leaving the bathroom behind, he padded barefoot into the bedroom, quietly slipping around the edge of the mattress where Celeste hadn’t even twitched.

He grabbed a fresh pair of briefs from the dresser drawer and pulled them on, then pulled on his favorite denim jeans. He shrugged into a black Rush band tank top—its faded concert graphics worn soft from countless washes—and caught his reflection in the full-length mirror as he leaned against the wall. To finish it off, he tossed on a classic light-wash denim jacket, instantly rolling the sleeves up past his forearms.

From the nightstand, he picked up the squat glass bottle of Gucci cologne. Two quick, fine mists hit the hollow of his collarbone, releasing a sharp, sophisticated blend of citrus, spice, and warm cedarwood that immediately cut through the sleepy morning air.

Capping the bottle with a faint metallic snap, Fabien glanced over at the tangled mound of blankets still burying Celeste and let out a quiet chuckle.

Fabien made his way barefoot into the kitchen, where the plastic eyes of his Garfield wall clock ticked away with steady, exaggerated clicks. At the sound of footsteps, little Ashley darted out, circling his ankles with a sharp, squeaky mew before settling by her food bowl. Fabien chuckled, reached down to give the kitten a gentle scratch behind the ears, and set about making breakfast.

He filled the stainless-steel kettle with cold water and clicked the stove burner to life, pulling out a tin of Earl Grey. The sharp, fragrant bergamot blossomed into the air the moment he popped the lid. As the water heated, he set a heavy cast-iron skillet on the adjacent ring and laid down thick strips of bacon that immediately began to pop, hiss, and curl into glistening, golden-brown ribbons.

Moving around the counter with an easy rhythm, he cracked three eggs into a ceramic bowl and whisked them into a pale yellow froth with a splash of cream and a pinch of black pepper. He dropped two thick slices of sourdough into the toaster, then lifted the bacon onto a paper towel-lined plate to drain before pouring the whisked eggs straight into the skillet. With gentle, patient sweeps of a wooden spatula, he folded them over the low flame until they formed soft, velvety curds.

The kettle began to whistle just as the toast sprang up with a dull clack.

Fabien killed both burners and poured steaming water over the dark tea leaves in his mug. Within seconds, the rich aroma of bergamot mingled with the savory sizzle of smoked bacon, buttered toast, and warm pepper, filling the kitchen.

Fabien pulled out a chair at the small kitchen table, the Garfield clock ticking away overhead. He set down the steaming mug of Earl Grey alongside a plate piled high with velvety scrambled eggs, golden-brown toast, and crisp bacon.

Down by his bare feet, Ashley was already on high alert, her tiny tail flicking with sharp anticipation. Fabien broke off a few small, cooled pieces of bacon, leaned down, and set them on a saucer on the floor. The kitten let out a high-pitched trill and immediately pounced on her prize, gnawing away with furious kitten enthusiasm.

Taking a sip of the hot bergamot-infused tea, Fabien settled back against the seat, scooped a forkful of eggs, and enjoyed the quiet, savory start to the morning.

Before Fabien could take another bite, a sharp, double-toned chime echoed from the corner of the dining room. The distinctive notification ding of Bungle, his desktop instant messaging client, chimed once, then twice in rapid succession.

Setting his fork down, Fabien wiped his mouth with a napkin and pushed his chair back. He padded into his bedroom, over to his desk, where the CRT monitor glowed in the ambient light. On the screen, the colorful Bungle window was flashing along the taskbar, broadcasting incoming text messages from his chat list.

He clicked the glowing icon to bring the chat window to the foreground, then paused, his eyebrows shooting up in utter disbelief. The bold header at the top of the conversation read BlairDonati—accompanied by a glaring orange counter indicating an astonishing 100 unread messages.

Fabien leaned in, gripping the edge of the desk as he rapidly scrolled through the massive wall of text cascading down the screen. Message after message had been sent in rapid-fire succession over the last twenty minutes, filled with frantic capital letters, dramatic punctuation, and frantic updates detailing everything from Ashley sleeping to Shauna making him take his constipation medicine.

Fabien let out a low whistle, a light chuckle escaping his lips as his fingers hovered over the mechanical keyboard. With a lopsided smile, he quickly typed out a response to stem the tide of incoming messages before Blair’s keyboard caught fire.

SeigneurMonstre: Hey, Blair, sorry, I was eating breakfast.

BlairDonati: Yeah, well, you could NOT do that and come talk to me instead! I am having a crisis now!

Fabien laughed.

SeigneurMonstre: What’s the crisis now?

BlairDonati: I don’t want to take my constipation medicine! It tastes like pennies, and it makes me poop a lot. If I need to poop a lot, how will I impress Ashley?! Also, I went into their house last night to take pictures for my music video!

He sent an attached image of Ashley curled up wearing a tabby cat onesie. Fabien snorted.

SeigneurMonstre: How romantic! She will surely love that!

BlairDonati: I guess, but they’re getting fatter if you want my honest opinion!

Fabien laughed and sipped his tea.

BlairDonati: Fabien, go to Pink Top General Hospital and tell Gramps I don’t need my freaking constipation medicine! This is giving me stress, and I can’t concentrate on making my music video for Ashley!

SeigneurMonstre: Why do I have to tell him? Why do you need to be reminded to take it?

BlairDonati: Because it’s a waste of time! If you’re my friend, you’ll do this for me; if not, I guess we’re not friends!

Fabien snorted and reached out to type.

SeigneurMonstre: How tragic, and who was the one who was helping you on your love quest with your ladylove?

BlairDonati: That’s not the point, Fabien! I would have said this on your server, but I can only take Deimos being mean to me so much! I don’t need this stress, GOSH.

Fabien clicked his server’s icon to see the new messages. He threw his head back and laughed.

DeimosK: Why the fuck do you need to be reminded to take your constipation meds, asshole? You don’t have ADHD or a disability. Nah, you’re just a lazy fucking asshole. I love how, out of all your rants you spammed on this server, none showed concern for your grandfather, who lets you shit your racecar bed and not work a fucking day in your life while you waste away doing jack fucking shit.

Fabien turned his head, and his gaze lingered on Celeste’s peaceful, unbothered face. A soft, warm smile spread across his lips as he shook his head in quiet awe, genuinely amazed by her uncanny ability to sleep through every bit of morning noise without so much as stirring. Rising from his computer desk, he walked to their bed, leaned down over the mattress, and brushed a gentle, tender kiss against the top of her head. With a lingering glance, he quietly turned around and padded back to the kitchen to finish his breakfast.

~

The night air blew smoothly past the open top of Tristan’s 1987 red Toyota MR2 convertible as he navigated the quiet streets of Little Tokyo. High above, the twin moons bathed the cityscape in a soft, silvery glow, casting long, overlapping shadows along the pavement. Tristan flicked his turn signal, the rhythmic clicking echoing softly in the cabin as the red sports car turned smoothly onto Meadow Boulevard. Settling into the drive, he headed down the quiet stretch toward Percy’s Japanese mansion at 85 Meadow Boulevard, the engine’s low hum accompanying his steady progress.

Tristan brought his car to a smooth stop outside the manor. He turned off the ignition, stepped out, and went inside. Once inside, he looked around.

Tristan: “Percy, are you in?”

He called out.

The quiet rustle of soft footsteps echoed down the polished wooden staircase as Percy appeared. He descended with smooth, deliberate grace, making a striking impression in an eye-catching pink rhinestone shirt detailed with delicate frills along the placket and cuffs. The shimmering embellishments caught the warm ambient lights of the foyer with every subtle movement. Paired with sleek, tailored black trousers that tapered neatly over polished black Chelsea boots, his ensemble stood out with vibrant elegance against the mansion’s tranquil backdrop.

Percy: “Good evening, my ice prince.”

He greeted smoothly, adjusting his frilled cuffs as he stepped onto the ground floor to join him.

Percy led the way toward his private bar inside the mansion. He pulled out a sleek barstool for Tristan, who sat down.

Percy reached for a cocktail shaker and filled it with ice. With practiced elegance, he measured out two ounces each of vanilla vodka, amaretto, Irish cream liqueur, and heavy cream, then added a single teaspoon of vanilla extract. Securing the tin, he shook the mixture with effortless, rhythmic precision until the outside frosted over with a cool sheen. Straining the rich, velvety cocktail into a chilling crystal martini glass, Percy slid the drink smoothly across the polished bar surface toward Tristan.

Tristan accepted the drink with a slight nod of thanks. Reaching into the inner pocket of his navy suit jacket, he withdrew a sleek, monogrammed gold cigarette case that gleamed under the warm bar light. He snapped it open, selected a single black-and-gold Sobranie cigarette, and placed it between his lips. Before he could reach for his own lighter, Percy produced his Zippo with a crisp, metallic click. Flicking the flint, Percy held the flame steady and offered it to Tristan. Tristan leaned forward slightly, drawing in a slow breath as the tip ignited, then exhaled a quiet trail of smoke into the air.

Tristan took a smooth sip of the cocktail, letting the velvety blend of cream, vanilla, and almond settle on his palate before setting the glass back down.

Tristan: “It’s quite lovely, Percy. Thank you.”

Percy: “I dub this ‘Winter Welcome’.”

He rounded the bar with fluid, unhurried steps and paused just behind Tristan’s chair. Reaching out gently, his long, slender fingers threaded through the cool silk of Tristan’s long white locks, softly undoing the low binding to let the pale lengths spill across his dark suit jacket. Percy worked his fingers through the soft strands with slow, mesmerizing strokes, his touch warm and attentive against Tristan’s scalp.

Tristan leaned back slightly into the touch, a quiet, rare sigh escaping his lips as the subtle tension in his shoulders finally eased under Percy’s tender affection.

Percy: “So what brings you by, my lovely?”

Tristan raised the black-and-gold cigarette back to his lips, taking a slow, deep drag as the tip glowed faintly red. He held the smoke for a fleeting beat, letting the warmth settle before exhaling a fine, silvery stream into the room’s dim ambient light.

Tristan: “Papa met someone. He was an attorney I knew for a while. He had a crush on me and…”

He pursed his lips.

Tristan: “I pretended to reciprocate the feelings to spite Deimos.”

He admitted with strain. Percy chuckled, shook his head, and grinned at Tristan with that gleam in his ruby eyes.

Percy: “Of course, you did.”

Tristan shot him a brief glare.

Tristan: “...Nevertheless, he and Papa shared better chemistry, and both eventually started seeing one another.”

He said firmly, taking another sip of his drink. Percy tilted his head.

Percy: “Is this a problem for you?”

Tristan shook his head.

Tristan: “Not for me, no. It is for Narcisse.”

Percy raised an eyebrow.

Percy: “Your uncle? Why on Reona would he have an issue with this?”

Tristan looked away. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to divulge his suspicions that Narcisse raped his father.

Tristan: “...I’m not sure, but Narcisse left a stuffed toy pig in my driveway with fake blood and a knife inside it. There was a balloon and a card with death threats directed at Jasper.”

He explained as he took another drink. Percy snorted.

Percy: “Someone has a dark sense of humor.”

Tristan: “Right, and Narcisse implanted mind control devices as well as listening devices on field mice to infiltrate our house, so he knows of my plans to vacate Papa and Jasper from the premises for his birthday.”

Percy’s fingers paused briefly in Tristan’s white locks; his dark ruby eyes glittered.

Percy: “If he’s using field mice to carry listening devices, he’s relying on small blind spots. But surveillance goes both ways, my darling. Once you know the vector, you control the information he receives.”

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a low, soothing purr beside Tristan’s ear.

Percy: “We don’t just purge the house. We give him precisely the movement he expects to see, while we quietly slip your father and Jasper beyond his reach. If Narcisse wants to play puppeteer, we let him dance to our rhythm first.”

Tristan smirked slightly.

Tristan: “Not a bad idea.”

He said softly.

Percy gave Tristan’s shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze before stepping away, his frills swaying with his fluid movements as he strolled toward the far corner of the private lounge. He approached a vintage mahogany stereo cabinet, its warm wooden finish glowing beneath the soft ambient lighting. With careful precision, Percy selected a vinyl record from the rack, slipped it smoothly from its sleeve, and placed it onto the turntable. The needle dropped with a subtle crackle, giving way to the rich, velvet tones of smooth jazz that filled the room and wrapped the space in an effortlessly cool atmosphere.

While Percy’s back was turned, adjusting the volume control, Tristan’s sharp green eyes drifted over the polished counter. Tucked neatly on a shelf just behind the bar, half-hidden beneath the rim of a brass ice bucket, sat a worn, leather-bound journal. Tristan stared at it in quiet contemplation, imagining Percy carefully guiding a pen across its pages late into the night—recording secrets, passing thoughts, or perhaps subtle observations about him.

Turning back toward the bar, Percy extended a sleek, open hand to Tristan with a soft, inviting smile.

Percy: “May I have this dance, my ice prince?”

Tristan nodded. He crushed out his cigarette in a crystal ashtray, then drained the rest of his drink. Rising to his feet, he took Percy’s hand as they stepped into the center of the lounge, swaying together in a slow, elegant waltz to the smooth jazz.

Percy gentle hand rested against the small of Tristan’s back, his thumb rubbing comforting, soothing circles through the fine wool of Tristan’s navy jacket. He gazed deeply into Tristan’s green eyes, his gaze softening with quiet affection. Percy leaned in, closing the remaining distance between them to press a tender kiss to his lips. Taking advantage of the distraction, Tristan opened his mouth to Percy’s and casually reached behind his waist, his fingers discreetly swiping the leather-bound journal off the bar shelf and slipping it out of sight behind his back.

Tristan gently broke the kiss, leaning back just far enough to look up into Percy’s ruby eyes. Percy’s thumb traced softly over his lips, brushing against their smooth warmth with lingering affection. Tristan’s smile widened into a sharp expression as he tucked the stolen journal securely behind his back into the waistband of his pants.

Tristan: “I should be going now.”

He whispered.

Percy: “You don’t want to come upstairs?”

He smiled. Tristan pursed his lips.

Tristan: “No.”

He said tersely.

Percy: “Are you going to be okay, my love?”

Tristan nodded.

Tristan: “Of course, I am.”

He inhaled sharply.

Tristan: “Thank you for your time. I will see you later.”

Percy: “Don’t be a stranger, my darling.”

He blew a kiss. Tristan smirked and turned around to leave.

Stepping out into the crisp night air, Tristan made his way back to his car. He tossed the stolen leather-bound journal onto the empty passenger seat, slid gracefully into the driver’s seat, and pulled the door shut with a solid click. Turning the key in the ignition, the sports car’s engine roared to life with a low, smooth purr. Tristan pressed the clutch, shifted into reverse, rested his hand on the passenger-seat headrest, looked back to check behind him, and carefully backed out of Percy's driveway. He pressed down on the clutch pedal once more, smoothly shifted into first gear, accelerated, and rolled down the quiet road, disappearing into the silvery moonlight.