The receptionist at Bismart offered Tristan a polite smile before motioning to the black leather chairs lining the lobby.

“You’re the next to walk in. Please have a seat.”

Tristan nodded, heart still beating faster than usual. The ride with Adrian had scared him more than he cared to admit. He dropped into the chair, palms pressed together between his knees.

A large flat-screen mounted on the wall was playing the morning news.

“Breaking: two vehicles collide near Callisto Avenue. Authorities confirm one fatality, suspecting mechanical failure. Details coming shortly…”

Tristan’s breath caught in his chest.

The image flashed on screen. Twisted metal, shattered glass and police tape flapping in the wind. But it wasn’t just any wreck. He recognized the street. The same corner Adrian had turned, the moment bullets flew and adrenaline spiked.

But there was no mention of a chase. No hint of gunfire. No mention of the White Cloaks.

“Car accident?” he whispered under his breath. “Is that what this city does? Covers the blood with lies?”

He glanced around. No one else seemed fazed. The woman beside him flipped idly through a magazine. The receptionist tapped away at her keyboard.

For a moment, the world spun. Was he the only one who knew the truth?

Before he could dwell on it further, a soft voice echoed from the hallway.

“Tristan Guil?” a man in a sleek grey suit appeared. “You’re up.”

Tristan stood, adjusting the collar of his shirt. He was here for a job…but suddenly, it felt like he was stepping into another trial.

~~~

Adrian sat in the silence of his private lounge, pouring dark whiskey into a crystal glass cup. The day had been a headache,white Cloaks, and now… the presence of something he couldn’t name.

He didn't understand one thing. If Tristan had been a random person,he would've killed him. In the mafia world,no witnesses are left alive.

“You’re slipping,” Rumeya’s voice called from the shadows behind him.

He didn’t flinch.

“Funny,” he said, without turning. “I thought I asked you to leave yesterday.”

“I came back,” she replied, stepping into the room with calculated eyes. “And I thought you should know your little houseguest? The ordinary jobseeker? He’s not as innocent as Luca thinks.”

Adrian sipped his whiskey, face unreadable. “And yet you’re the one stalking him in alleys.”

“Someone has to do the dirty work since you’re too busy playing chauffeur,” Rumeya purred, eyes narrowing. “Why did you take him to Bismart, Adrian? That’s not your style.”

He set the glass down gently. “Maybe I wanted to watch him squirm.”

“Or maybe he reminds you of her,” she said, voice sharp now. “Of Aliandra,of unfinished things and of bullets you didn’t fire when you should have.”

Adrian’s jaw ticked.

“I don’t like being baited, Rumeya.”

“And I don’t like being lied to.” Her voice dropped. “He’s CIA. Or worse. I’ll find out exactly who he is… and when I do, you won’t be able to protect him.”

Adrian stepped closer, eyes dark. “No one touches him unless I say so.”

Rumeya paused.

“Careful, Adrian,” she whispered, brushing past him on her way out. “Pets bite too, when they know they’re being watched.”

The door clicked behind her. And Adrian, for the first time in hours, didn’t sip his drink.

He stood by the tall window in his study, one hand still wrapped around his untouched glass. The ice had melted.

Rumeya’s voice still clung to the air he couldn’t shake.

She reminds you of her... of Aliandra...

Aliandra.

That name rang like a curse behind his ribs.

She had haunted him for years… not the memory of her death, no. It was the way she smiled even as she bled, the way her eyes refused to close, as if she'd cursed him with her gaze.

He remembered the scent of snow and gunpowder.

He remembered screaming at her body even though it no longer heard.

“I will find you, Aliandra. And when I do... I will kill you again.”

He had meant it.

But now... there was this boy,Tristan. With sharp eyes and secrets stitched behind a quiet tongue. Always watching,always too careful.

Adrian didn’t trust him — and worse, he recognized something in him. A sliver of that same flame that once danced in Aliandra's eyes.

It unsettled him more than bullets ever had.

He turned from the window and walked to his desk. Fingers hovered over a locked drawer. He opened it slowly. Inside,a thin black folder labeled Project LaAdrian. A file long buried,blood-stained and marked for deletion.

He brushed away the dust.

If ghosts were rising, then it was time to stop pretending they were gone.

Aliandra might be dead or she might be somewhere in the dark, watching him through someone else’s eyes.

And if she had sent Tristan... the game was already in motion.

To be continued.....