Chương 8: Act 1, Chapter 8: Chance encounters

Day in the story: 20th September (Saturday) The next few days passed in a blur. The laptop hadn't been cracked yet, and Thomas hadn't reached out—neither to me nor to Mr. Penrose. Phillip said that might actually be a good sign.

"He's a professional," he reminded me.

"If he's laying low, it means he's doing it right and he's not leading anyone back to Penrose's Finest." I tried to believe that, and in the meantime, I returned to the university. Caught up on what I'd missed. I walked the halls like a ghost—body still sore, but healing. The bruises faded, the cuts itched and I let myself rest. Mostly, I just listened. To lectures. To whispers in the corridors. And to Peter's ever-growing romance with Zoe, which had taken on a life of its own.

He was happier than I'd seen him in a while. His eyes were brighter, steps lighter and mood better. It felt like I was watching someone else's slice-of-life film unfold while mine remained on pause, waiting for the next act of violence to hit play again. But for now, I let the days drift. Let normalcy try to wrap itself around me like a warm, but temporary blanket. It was Saturday morning and I decided to make it an art day.

I had a project for Symbolism to finish and there was no way I was going to pass off my billboard stunt as a final piece. I needed something less rebellious and more portable. The weather was playing nice: a little chilly now, but the forecast promised sun later. A jacket made sense, so I reached for one and the moment my fingers touched it, a chill ran down my spine. This jacket was the one I wore the night Shiroi touched me. And yet…

neither I nor the fabric had unraveled like everything else he laid his cursed hand on. I remembered the way frost bloomed along his skin as if my jacket had bitten back. It was one of my latest denim painting experiments. I'd watched a dozen tutorials, bought the proper paints and finally mastered something that held up, even through the washing machine's trials. The centerpiece was the iceberg on the back.

I'd painted the shoulders and sleeves too, crafting a bird's-eye view that even featured a small polar bear making its way along a distant shelf of ice. Shiroi had called me a mage when he touched it. Was it a joke? A guess? Or something more? I didn't know. If I were a mage, even accidentally, I wished I had frozen him solid, left him shattered and broken to pieces. He deserved every bit of it. Still, the jacket was cool in at least two ways and I loved it. So I wore it.

I packed my paints, brushes and my portable easel and headed out to catch the bus that would take me to the park near the university.

I was nearly finished with the painting now. I'd set myself up in the park, a curated slice of nature tucked between the arteries of the city. There were well-maintained paths flanked by evenly spaced trees and beyond them, clusters of more densely packed trees, as though trying to remember what freedom felt like.

Patches of grass spread out in lively greens and the air was full of the city's version of peace: joggers pounding soil and gravel, couples strolling with coffee cups, children laughing as a stray ball bounced too close to my easel. But my painting was something else entirely. It wasn't about what you saw when you looked at this postcard-perfect park. It was about what lurked beneath. At the center of my canvas stood a cluster of twisted, weather-beaten trees, bent but not broken.

Their bark split open like old scars, their gnarled branches reaching upward not in triumph, but in imminent surrender. Their leaves clung on in grays and ashen yellows, the green all but bled out. They were ringed by concrete titans—cold skyscrapers with sterile faces. Windowed monoliths that mirrored nothing but each other, trapping their own reflections in an infinite loop.

The buildings stood over the trees, looming over them, leaning inward slightly, as if they were conspiring to crush the last breath of wildness from the scene. Separating the trees from the towers was a moat of cracked pavement. Thin blades of grass clawed their way up through the fissures. The benches were tagged with decadent graffiti. The sky above was a smear of industrial gray.

And in all that bleakness I gave the canvas one defiant ray of hope, a narrow beam of golden sunlight breaking through the gloom, landing on the central tree like a quiet benediction. A dying saint in its cathedral of glass and steel. Perched on a branch, almost hidden among the lines, was a single bird. A crow made from folded black paper—its posture slouched, its beak turned away from the viewer. I titled the piece Sanctuary Under Siege. I noticed the light gathering on my skin as I painted.

It had appeared almost as soon as I began—subtle at first, like a shimmer at the edge of sight. But it stayed with me this time. It was silent and constant—a strange companion that never asked for attention yet refused to be ignored. Even when I paused, refocused, or blinked it away, it didn't vanish. At first, it was a calm, soft and luminescent mist. It drifted from my pores like breath on a cold morning. When I was at peace, when my brush moved with quiet certainty, the light mirrored that serenity.

But as the passion of creation took over, the glow transformed. The mist sharpened into motion, crackling across my skin like miniature lightning, flickers of energy arcing from elbow to fingertip, responding to the rhythm of my thoughts. I pulled my brush away from the canvas after the final stroke and exhaled, half expecting the light to vanish then and there, like a dream at waking, but it lingered instead. Rainbow-colored streaks of brilliance shimmered over my arm, like ribbons dancing in the wind.

They fluttered and twirled, as if reluctant to leave, caught in that strange liminal moment between creation and quiet. I sat still, watching them. For a long time, I just watched. I wondered then if there was more to me than Lex. More than Jess. More than Usagi or the myriad disposable masks I'd worn over the years like second skins. Maybe, buried beneath them all, there was someone real. An Alexandra, a girl and a woman I was meant to be, but never fully became. Maybe that was the light.

Maybe I too was under siege. Not by skyscrapers or concrete, but by identities I had built to survive. Just like the weary trees I had painted, still standing in defiance, I was fighting to grow through the cracks. Fighting for a sliver of sky. Fighting to breathe. Or maybe I was just overthinking things. Wouldn't be the first time. I reached for the necklace resting against my collarbone. Cool steel met my fingers, grounding me. I had made it myself during the metallurgy sub-course I'd enrolled a few months prior.

It felt fitting, if all of this began with a necklace, maybe it should continue with one of my own. A heart-shaped locket, forged from stainless steel, large enough to hold a folded slip of paper, the same one I used to anchor memories. I could remember everything as long as I kept it close to my skin. I had tested it yesterday. Took it off for a few hours for a little experiment. And slowly—like fog rolling in—the memories began to blur.

The wrecked car, Shiroi's twisted powers, whether we even shot him or not, it all became hazy like a dream passing into oblivion. Then, when I put the necklace back on, thanks to a reminder I had cleverly set on my phone, the truth snapped back into place If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it. I asked Penrose last night about Shiroi's "magic." He looked at me blankly and said that he didn't know what I was talking about. There's a force at work here.

Something that wanted this hidden, that wanted people to forget. And somehow, through my art, I could establish a little control over it. Over whatever this was. I just hoped it would be enough to help me survive the shitstorm I wandered into last week. And as I was thinking about all this, a man came over and stopped near me. He wore a long coat and black sunglasses that concealed half his face. His dark hair fell loose, and the lower half of his face revealed pale skin—Caucasian, perhaps Asian.

Somehow, art on display always makes people think they have the right to start a conversation.

"Artists are just thieves," he said. The way the statement echoed my own truth left me momentarily stunned.

"Excuse me?" I managed once the paralysis loosened its grip.

"They take something from the world, veil it in symbols and perspective, and ask the rest of us to guess what it was before all that effort, love." He turned toward me and smiled faintly, though the glasses made it impossible to tell whether it was sincere.

"Maybe."

"Certainly. Why else use fake names—pseudonyms, pen names? To protect loved ones?" He laughed.

"No artist is in that much danger, right? You're just common thieves." He held my gaze a moment longer, then walked away, leaving me speechless yet again. I waited nearly two hours after the strange critic left—for the paint to dry enough to transport safely. If necessary, I could touch it up at home; any damage from the ride could be repaired. I was about to start packing when another voice sounded behind me.

"Beautiful piece." I knew that voice, that accent, even though I'd heard it only once and briefly. I turned—I knew that face, too. Eveline de Marco, my target. The original owner of the fated necklace. She looked different now, younger in the natural light. Dressed casually but with elegance: a long skirt, a white blouse with delicate floral embroidery, a soft pullover and a light scarf over her neck. At first, I had pegged her as being in her thirties. Now, I wasn't so sure.

She might have been just a touch older than me.

"Thank you," I said, heart skipping, but thankfully, there was no flicker of recognition in her eyes or posture. No hint she knew my voice from when I was Claudia. Still, two men hovered twenty feet behind her, dressed in sharp Italian suits, standing too still to be anything but her protection detail.

"It really captures how nature can survive through the hardest conditions, even those of the concrete jungle."

"I was going more for the city's oppression angle," I replied. She laughed, and it sounded both light and genuine.

"May I ask, are you against such oppression?"

"I'm against the blindness of people," I said.

"I want them to see both the oppression and the perseverance, then decide for themselves."

"Well said. I like that approach." She tilted her head slightly, squinting at me.

"Excuse my boldness, but… have we met before? I feel like I know you from somewhere." Oh good god.

"Maybe. I've had a few of my pieces in galleries around the city. I also study at the university over there." I pointed vaguely across the trees. She seemed to relax.

"Could be. Maybe we just crossed paths. I, unfortunately, never attended university myself, even though I wanted to."

"Money wasn't the issue, I guess?" I looked her up and down with a playful smile so she'd catch the teasing in my tone.

"No. That wasn't the problem." She lowered her voice slightly, leaning in like she was letting me in on a secret.

"Do you mind talking with me for a bit? To be honest, I don't get many opportunities."

"Not at all," I said. And I meant it. It was nice, in a strange way.

"What's the problem, then?"

"You probably didn't notice, but there are two men following me." She said it like she was talking about the weather. Then added, chuckling, "Go ahead and look. This isn't a movie."

"Wow, I hadn't noticed," I said with a grin.

"Are you a fugitive on the run?"

"Almost." She smiled, then gestured toward a nearby bench.

"Take another guess." We walked toward it together. I left my easel, painting and bag nearby. Her security shifted position subtly, now stationed just close enough to intervene, if needed.

"You're an heiress, right? Some kind of fortune and your parents didn't want you exposed to too many people too fast."

"You do have a keen eye." She smiled.

"I'm Eveline. Eveline de Marco." A real name. Should I use mine? My first instinct was to just go with it. It was just another mask after all. But somehow my previous encounter left me wondering about the dangers it might pose to those around me.

"I'm Violet Williams." I lied.

"People call me Vi. Or Viola."

"Which do you prefer?"

"Whatever you fancy."

"You were close, Vi. It's not my family, though. It's my husband's. He has enemies who might target me to get to him."

"Politician? Businessman?"

"Both, unfortunately."

"You don't seem oppressed," I said.

"You seem… radiant."

"Keen eye again." She turned to me, a little wistful.

"Yes, I am happy. I'm in love with him. But I get lonely sometimes."

"No friends to talk to?"

"I could call some of them friends. I could talk to them, but they're mostly dull. Not an artist painting truth into the world. That's cool." That one hit me with unexpected warmth. I think I might've even blushed.

"Thank you," I said, recovering.

"You're an interesting piece yourself, lady." She laughed again.

"Would you mind if I called you from time to time? Just to talk about life?"

"Would it paint a target on my back too?"

"Fortunately, my husband doesn't read my private messages." Her voice had a teasing lilt.

"Nor does he listen to all my conversations." You think so, lady. I bet he does. Or someone on his payroll does.

"Let's do it differently, then," I said.

"If we meet again, by happenstance or fate, then I'll give you my number. What do you say to that, Eveline?" She smiled, amused.

"I could have one of my men follow you. Organize fate myself."

"Will you do that?" I asked, already certain I could shake them off in a heartbeat.

"No." Her smile softened.

"I like your proposition. Second meeting to seal the deal." Third, actually. But let her believe what she wants.

"I accept, Viola." She extended her hand toward me. Her detail immediately tensed. I took it anyway.

"Fantastic, Eveline. To the next meeting, then!" I said brightly, standing and moving toward her security to collect my things.

I had barely started unpacking when my phone rang.

"Hello, Mr. Penrose."

"Alexandra. Honey's log has been deciphered. I went through it." Oh damn. Please let it be good news.

"Bad news," he added without waiting. No shit.

"Shiroi was a representative of Robert de Marco." I stopped mid-step.

"Robert? Don't tell me it's Robert de Marco from the gala. The auction house."

"The very same."

"I met his wife today." A pause.

"Coincidence?" he asked.

"Seems like it, but it's a little too convenient, don't you think? I don't know what to make of it, sir. Why would Robert want his wife's necklace stolen?"

"I don't know," Penrose said, the weight in his voice unmistakable.

"We may never know. But one thing is clear: Mr. de Marco wants this buried. Badly."

"It seems so. But why go through all that trouble?" I asked.

"Why not just take the necklace privately?" Penrose finished my thought.

"Exactly. Why orchestrate a public theft? Why make it messy?"

"I don't know, Alexandra. Maybe he needed the FBI distracted during the gala?" I shook my head, even though he couldn't see it.

"No, sir. That's a terrible plan. If he was certain the FBI would be there, he could've just not shown up. Or staged something he could control better. I could've backed out. I nearly didn't make the grab. It's too risky. It doesn't make sense for it to be about the FBI." Penrose sighed.

"True. Then maybe—maybe the dynamics inside the de Marco household aren't what the world thinks they are. Maybe Mrs. de Marco holds more power than she shows."

"She'd have to be one hell of an actress."

"She could be just that. I'll need to deal with him," Penrose said quietly.

"And his assassin. I don't like loose ends any more than he seems to." I felt the tension creep up my spine.

"Do you think he can trace this back to us? Even with us having the logs?"

"He might not need the logs. He might have Thomas. And if they torture him… he might spill."

"No way sir. Thomas would never—""Everyone breaks, Alexandra." Penrose's voice was calm, but heavy.

"It's just a question of how long and what it costs." I went silent. He was right. And it scared me how right he was. There is no one invulnerable to pain.

"What will you do, sir?"

"I will think," he said.

"And then act. I'm not someone guided by haste or emotion." That was true. Even when Penrose tore people apart—figuratively or literally—it was never rage. It was math. A means to an end. Even fear and respect were tools in his arsenal.

"Will I have a role to play?" I asked.

"Probably not. You're my best thief, Alexandra, not my assassin. I called to inform you. And as you young people say, to brainstorm."

"Was the search for Thomas a total bust? No trace on CCTV?"

"I checked. All footage in the relevant areas was corrupted, unreadable." Of course it was. Nothing involving Shiroi ever left a clean trail.

"Mr. Penrose… I still want to help. Somehow."

"As long as it doesn't jeopardize me or the operation, do as you will. But inform me before you act."

"Yes, sir."

"Good day."

"Good day, sir." I ended the call and slumped onto my bed, my eyes glued to the ceiling. The plaster up there looked cracked, like a spiderweb spreading from some old impact. It mirrored my thoughts too well. Going into de Marco's house was a terrible idea. I'd be walking into a gilded cage. I didn't want the entire Mafia on my heels. That left only one option, the man who hunted me. I needed to turn the tables.