Like raindrops falling, light and fleet,
They move through mist, their steps discreet.
A whispered dance, a subtle beat,
In monsoon’s rhythm, they repeat.
Nursery rhyme for whispered lore,
In rainy season’s whispered roar.
They shield the isle, its secrets store,
In shadows, they forever soar.
So listen close, when raindrops fall,
The guardians watch, they heed the call.
Like drops of rain, they softly fall,
A silent answer to the call.
Like raindrops falling, light and fleet,
They move through mist, their steps discreet.
A whispered dance, a subtle beat,
In monsoon’s rhythm, they repeat.
Heading home with the long-awaited coffee, I catch the sound of Tiban children’s laughter, their joyful voices blending with the rain’s rhythm. Amused, I can’t resist humming along with their song, the simple melody lifting my spirits.
The eerie atmosphere of the moment embraces me as I step into the flat. With coffee in hand, I make my way to the kitchen, only to find it empty. Curiosity leads me to the living room, where HECTOR is engaged in the unexpected task of tidying up clothes while belting out a pop idol tune, though not exactly hitting the right notes.
“Oh, ORPHEUS. You took your time!” HECTOR exclaims when he finally notices my presence midway through his impromptu performance.
“Your singing is still as bad as ever.” I comment. “The closest café was closed. Where’s the boy?”
HECTOR’s expression becomes enigmatic, a mix of emotions dancing across his face. He hurries to my side, leaning in to whisper in my ear, “SIRONA is back. She’s got him in her bedroom.”
The implications of his words slowly dawn on me. “What?” I mutter, the tension in the room palpable. My grip on the coffee tightens as I fight back the urge to lash out.
Before I can react further, HECTOR rushes to keep up with my determined pace as I head toward Sis’s room, my steps heavy with a mix of worry and anger. “Wait, ORPHEUS! Are you angry?” HECTOR’s voice trails behind me as he abandons his task to follow.
With each step, I brace myself for the worst, mentally preparing for the sight of a crime scene. I swing open Sis’s door with a mixture of apprehension and readiness to confront the situation.
“So, then the head will roll up to there.”
“Hmm, I see. But how about you put the lever in this direction? Wouldn’t it lower the risk of accidents?”
“No, because the wall blocks it there. You can’t move it horizontally like this.”
Their voices reach my ears, and my initial sense of dread begins to waver. The scene before me defies my expectations. The boy is sprawled out on the floor, absorbed in his drawings of peculiar and bewildering machines. Odd, but not the issue at hand. What truly surprises me is that Sis herself is right there with him, seated on the floor, engaged in her own drawing.
They’re chatting like a pair of businessmen in the midst of a brainstorming session, yet they look every bit like a couple of toddlers engrossed in a kindergarten activity. The contrast is both baffling and oddly heartwarming.
“Oi, ORPHEUS. Don’t just barge into my room without knocking!” Sis exclaims, her tone exasperated but without bothering to look up from her activity.
Perplexed by the scene before me, I can’t help but ask, “What’s going on here?”
The boy, seemingly unperturbed by my presence, diverts his attention from his drawings to my cup of coffee. “Oh, you brought me coffee? Much appreciated.” His words are casual as he accepts the cup, downing its contents in a single gulp.
I inquire, concern lacing my voice, “Is your head feeling any better?”
As I get a closer look at him, I notice bruises on his face, traces of blood beneath his nose and chin. His reply is casual, almost dismissive. “Not really.” He chuckles softly.
My attention shifts to Sis, awaiting an explanation. She doesn’t hold back. “ORPHEUS, put that bottom ASCLEPIUS to work. Have him find out where that girl is.”
Baffled by her words and feeling a bit out of my depth, I decide to heed her advice and begin to head for the door. Just as I’m about to exit, however, Sis’s phone abruptly starts ringing, catching my attention and further adding to the sense that something isn’t quite right.
“No way, it’s you. After all this time. What the fuck do you want?”
Unease settles in the pit of my stomach. There’s an unsettling aura about the situation, an undercurrent that I can’t quite put my finger on.
“Capo, there’s something off about this guy…” one of my fratelli speaks up, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.
“I’m well aware, I’ve got eyes!” I snap back at them, my frustration evident as their confidence starts to waver.
The man standing before us seems like one of those insanely powerful characters I used to admire when I was a teenager. His skills and confidence defy the bounds of mere mortals.
“Well? Ready to give up?” He chuckles, assuming a ready stance. “But fear not, for I’ve sworn to liberate you from your fleshy prison. I kindly request that you all remain still, so I may grant you a clean, painless demise!”
I clench my teeth, his words only fuelling my defiance. The entire town is under my control, and with a single message, this guy will have to face a whole city. Just as I’m about to reach for my cellphone, the Chinese guy emerges from behind his cover, shouting out a directive. “SHOOT ME!”
The confusion spreads like wildfire within the casino. We exchange bewildered glances, wondering if he’s completely lost his mind.
The man in the white suit turns to look behind him. “What on earth are you saying, my love?”
“SHOOT ME! RIGHT NOW! SHOOT AT ME!!” He continues to shout, his movements frantic and erratic.
One of my men acts without awaiting my orders, firing a shot near the Chinese guy as a warning.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” The Chinese man yells in exasperation. “DON’T MISS! AIM BETTER! HERE!” He points to his forehead. “OR HERE!” Now he points to his heart. “ANYWHERE IS FINE!”
Suspicion mingling with curiosity, I choose to tentatively trust his bizarre request. Perhaps he has a plan. In case he ends up dead, it could also be seen as fulfilling his wish, absolving me of any debt to the Triads. “Open fire,” I give the nod, and a burst of bullets streaks toward him. As expected, the Japanese guy counters every single one.
Starting to wonder if this whole circus act serves any purpose, I watch in amusement as the Chinese guy darts to the side, purposely out of the Japanese guy’s protective range, and then urges us to shoot him again.
With each new round of bullets, the Japanese man has a tougher time deflecting them all. After the third volley, he takes hits to both of his arms.
“No way… It’s actually working…” I mutter in disbelief.
I can’t help but admire the absurdity of this guy’s plan. Running in circles, we aim at him like performers in a circus, turning the tide against his opponent.
My laughter mingles with the cacophony of bullets clanging against steel, creating an oddly entertaining melody.
The spectacle continues for a few more minutes until, riddled with bullet holes and bleeding from head to toe, the Japanese guy finally succumbs. He kneels, the pressure too much to bear, and his movements come to a halt.
“If I knew that love could bring such pain…” He mutters, his words heavy with a mixture of regret and sorrow.
“Bravi, ragazzi!” I applaud, genuine amusement colouring my tone. “That’s the most entertaining show I’ve witnessed in a while! Rest in peace, Giuseppe. He was a decent bloke.” I signal to the maids to remove his body.
“Finish, him, now, end, it, for good,” the Chinese guy gasps, his breath ragged as though he’s just run a marathon. Sweat beads glisten on his forehead.
I shake my head playfully. “Oh no, my friend. The moment he took one of mine, it became personal. I apologize, sir, but there are certain rituals we must observe when someone dares to harm our kin.”
I beckon to Pauline, the black-haired croupier who had dealt us our cards earlier. She approaches with her trademark mischievous grin. “Pauline, dear, how about you showcase your specialities to our guests? Have him taste your finest dish. You two,” I point to a pair of my fratelli, “lend her a hand with transporting our guest here.”
“Oui, monsieur,” she responds with a wink, her excitement palpable.
I turn my attention back to the Chinese man. “Do you take any issue with our little arrangement?”
His response is surprisingly nonchalant, given the circumstances. “No, I couldn’t care less about him. However, the others I seek help with are in Omond. I require an army—I’m referring to the yakuza.”
I nod in understanding, still leaning against the wall. “I had a hunch. Give us a few days to prepare. Remind me of your name again?”
“TIAN SHUI,” he replies, grasping my outstretched hand. With my assistance, he rises from the floor. “But I can’t waste a second. I must find my real boyfriend, TIAN HUO. I’ll be on the next flight to Omond, but I need you to come with me as a guarantee.”
“You’re really pushing your luck,” I remark with a chuckle.
He meets my gaze with a smug grin. “You should’ve thought twice before making promises so lightly. Unless, of course, you want me to persuade my superiors to impose an embargo on your company.”
I can’t help but admire his audacity. “You’ve got some nerve. I must admit, I almost wish you were on my payroll.”
He shakes his head, a knowing smirk on his lips. “Not a chance. There’s nothing you could offer me that compares to what awaits me within the Triads.”
“We’re just waiting around for the agency to make their move!” Moustache declares as if he’s unveiling a brilliant revelation.
I give him an incredulous look, raising an eyebrow. “Okay, but how exactly?”
Moustache points enthusiastically at the two distinct parts of his plan laid out on the whiteboard. “See, there are two options: first, we can patiently wait for the agency to initiate their plan. They’re bound to take action sooner or later, but the problem is we don’t know when. They might already be in motion, but who knows how much time it’ll take for their scheme to unfold.”
I huff, frustrated. “Waiting is not my strong suit, especially when Boobies is out there waiting for me.”
“Got it, got it. So, that leads us to the second option,” Moustache continues, undeterred. “You work for the agency, right? That means you must know other people who also work there, right?”
“Uhhh…” I fumble, feeling a bit caught off guard.
“You’re colleagues, so there must be a way you all communicate, like a group chat or something,” Moustache prods.
“Uhhhhhh…” I trail off, the truth dawning on me.
“What? Come on, you’re telling me you don’t know anyone else at the agency?” Moustache jests, a teasing smile on his face.
“Well, I do know someone, but I’d rather not have to deal with her if I can help it. We’re not exactly on the best terms,” I admit reluctantly.
We exchange glances for a few seconds, and then Moustache sighs. “Well, it looks like we’re left with the first option then. So—.”
His sentence is abruptly cut short by the ear-splitting roar of a shotgun blast.
Instinctively, we both jump and scramble for cover behind armchairs and tables, our hearts racing as adrenaline courses through our veins. The sharp retort of the shotgun blast reverberates in the confined space, a deafening explosion that seems to shake the very foundation of our surroundings. The acrid smell of gunpowder permeates the air, mingling with the raw scent of rain that had seeped in through the shattered window.
Glass shards scatter like a deadly rainfall, glinting in the dim light of the room like malevolent stars. Panic tightens my chest, a gripping fear that spreads like wildfire, suffocating rational thought.
Bursting in like a hyperactive monkey, a figure clad in full protective gear and a gas mask hops into the flat through the window, disrupting the tense atmosphere. Their presence is ominous, their appearance otherworldly as if plucked from a dystopian nightmare. With every thud of their boots against the floor, the dread in the room intensifies, creating a cacophony of unease.
With a voice muffled by the gas mask, they let out a booming laugh that ricochets off the walls, “HELLOOOOOOOO, BOSS!! MAJOR WANTS TO SEEEE YOUUUUU!”
In stunned silence, Moustache and I exchange another glance. The panic on his face tells me he’s just as clueless as I am about how these guys managed to track us down.
“Hey, DARIUS, the door’s blocked by a damn drawer, which is why it’s a pain to blow it open!” the newcomer shouts to someone outside. “But don’t worry, we found it. All that wandering around the district finally paid off. I’m a hundred percent sure I heard his annoying voice from outside. There’s someone else here too, but they must be hiding since they heard us coming in, hahaha!”
No way this guy has some kind of super hearing ability?
Panicked, I start to look around for a way out, but Moustache pulls a grenade out of his jacket and hurls it toward the entrance. It blankets the area in dense smoke, and he seizes my hand, urging me to run. As we sprint through the smoke, my confidence in our escape grows—there must be a back way to slip through.
But just as we’re about to feel safer, the newcomer’s voice slices through the smoky haze, “Heeeeere you aaaare, little rats.”
We narrowly avoid getting shot by diving into the corridor at the last moment. It hits me—this guy doesn’t need to see us; he can track us through sound alone.
“Do you have a stun grenade in your kit?” I hiss at Moustache, desperately seeking a way to counter our pursuer.
He shakes his head in response. “I don’t have a kit!”
“But is there a back way?” I ask, urgency colouring my voice.
“Yes, but if we make it out of this alive, promise me you’ll call that person from the agency you know, okay?” Moustache’s tone carries a mix of determination and anxiety.
“Fine, I’ll do it!” I exclaim, pissed.
I guess I can do it if it’s a matter of life or death!
The newcomer’s gunfire ceases, and I dare to steal a quick glance back. The smoke obscures my view, rendering him invisible. “Where is this guy?” I mutter under my breath, my heart pounding like a drum.
Yet, even as I whisper, his voice suddenly emerges from the corridor ahead.
“BOOH!” His mocking echoes, followed by a triumphant laugh that grates on my nerves.
“If you help me to get us out of here in one piece, I’ll personally tell Boobies that you saved her life.” My grip tightens around the hilt of my knife as I speak to Moustache, hoping that the promise serves as a motivating force.
“Holy Moly,” Moustache exclaims, removing his hat to reveal an unexpected surprise—an old-school revolver. A mixture of determination and uncertainty colours his voice. “I’m not a fighter, but it’s time to show off.”
