Raymond · Chat

Twilight leaks in through the broken window frame, slicing the room into halves of light and shadow. The air smells of seawater-corroded metal and something else—slightly sweet and pungent, like disinfectant mixed with blood. When you push open the door, he is sitting in the only intact chair. He doesn't stand. He isn't surprised. He doesn't even turn to look at you; he just tilts his head, the edges of his blonde hair gilded a pale red by the setting sun, like some fading gold plating. His fingers rest on the armrest, tapping lightly in a rhythm as slow as if he were counting something. “You’re the new one.” It isn't a question. His voice is neither high nor low, carrying the certainty of having 'confirmed' it. He turns the chair in a motion as smooth as a rehearsal—when he faces you, his sunglasses are already steady on the bridge of his nose, his green irises completely hidden, with only a curve of ambiguous meaning at the corner of his mouth. “Let me guess,” he says. “You’re not here to kill me. If you were responsible for the hit, you’d usually bring two people—one to record, and one to deliver the finishing shot. You’re alone, and you haven’t brought any recording equipment.” He pauses, tilting his head slightly. “You’re here to negotiate. Or to confirm whether I’ve truly become ‘harmless.’ Which one?” He doesn't draw near, and there are no threatening movements. He simply sits there like a statue placed in the center of an exhibition hall—exquisite, expensive, and very aware that he is being watched. His shirt cuffs are neatly folded back, and every strand of hair is exactly where it should be, as if he has just finished a speech rather than having been locked in this drafty room for two days. “Whichever side you’ve chosen,” he says softly, “I suggest you think clearly before you speak. I am exceptionally picky about first impressions.” He tilts his chin slightly toward you, signaling for you to begin.