The Uninvited Guest

"If you have no hater, I'm in a different life. But I know I'll find a way to hate you," the man says, his voice steady and cold, aimed directly at Azarias.

They stand in a massive room that resembles a library. Bookshelves stretch up to a second floor, connected by a grand, spiraling staircase behind Azarias. He sits casually in a rolling chair at the center of the room, his presence commanding despite his laid-back posture.

Just another pawn, Azarias thinks. Always knocking at the gate.

A large, sleek desk stretches before him, cluttered with an array of monitors showing streams of data. Atop the desk sits a small, antique telephone—eerily reminiscent of the early 1900s—its vintage charm contrasting with the room's futuristic design.

The metallic walls reflect soft hues of blue and silver, casting an otherworldly glow. It's a fusion of eras—where the past and a clinical future collide.

"I don't really care," Azarias replies indifferently. "You're on the list of—"

He pauses, glancing at one of the monitors, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Wait... another 400 people said they hate me. Oh." He smirks, scanning a particular comment.

"One was really into the gig." He lets out a short laugh and leans back, his shoulders relaxing.

Without a word, he rolls his chair across the room. The movement is smooth, nearly soundless. He stops in front of a large, transparent wall.

It's made of polsium, a near-indestructible material that gleams under the ambient light.

Beyond it lies a breathtaking view—an endless expanse of skyscrapers and high-rises piercing the sky. The lights from the city below shimmer like distant stars. Despite the brilliance, it's the night itself that holds Azarias's attention.

"Polsium is sturdy," he murmurs absently, watching his own faint reflection. Unlike faith. Unlike flesh. Lysander's ashes seemed to swirl in the district's haze.

"Everything's better at night," he says softly, almost to himself.

He turns his gaze back to the man, who remains motionless.

Though he spits hatred at Azarias, his body stays rigid, as though restrained by an invisible force. Rage simmers behind his eyes, but he doesn't move.

"You can leave," Azarias says at last, not even sparing the man a glance as he rolls back to his desk.

The man scoffs but obeys, turning sharply and exiting. His silence is a quiet rebellion, but one that holds no weight here.

Azarias sighs, the sound barely audible over the room's mechanical hum. His eyes drift downward, toward the 1,307th floor. A faint smile touches his lips.

"He's a pesky one," he mutters, referring to Henri with ambiguous fondness—or disdain. It's hard to tell.

He returns to his desk, gazing at the rows of flickering monitors. Though information streams across them, his attention wanders.

A soft chime. Incoming call: CARDINAL IGNAZIO NERO.

Azarias's brown eyes flicker gold. He lifts the antique receiver, its weight like a sacrament.

Outside the Room

The elevator seems ordinary—gray doors, multicolored buttons—but inside, the scene is nightmarish.

The man who had stood in Azarias's office is now a shredded corpse. Blood covers the walls. His limbs are dismembered, chest carved open with surgical precision. His head is missing. This wasn't rage—it was calculated, meticulous.

Back in the Room

"Yes, I scheduled a meeting with him before the speech. Yes, we have history, yes... father," Azarias says into the phone, his voice flat and distant—more like a recitation than a conversation.

He ends the call without waiting for a response. His gaze returns to the monitors, fingers tapping a quiet rhythm on the desk. A faint smile tugs at his lips.

"People are fascinating creatures," he murmurs, as if marveling at some unknowable design.

He types a message quickly and sends it:

Rolls-worth has vowed to invest in hiring and retaining better guards with ranks included (and increase their protections from legal liability), push policies like 'stop and frisk,' direct the DOJ 'to dismantle every gang, street crew, and drug network in Ghent,' Actually deploy first rank guards 'to restore law and order' when local guards 'refuse to act,' and impose the death penalty for drug dealers, drug cartels, and Bounty hunters.

A reply blinks on the screen:

Suck it up! Church voter, that is what we need!

Azarias stares at it in disbelief. His fingers hover over the keyboard, as if crafting a reply, but instead, he sighs and leans back.

The door bursts open. A woman storms in, pale and out of breath.

"The man is—" she begins.

"Dead. I know," Azarias interrupts without looking at her, his eyes still scanning the screen.

"May his soul rest."

She hesitates, unsettled by the calm. The horrific image from the elevator lingers in her mind, but she remains quiet. In this world, death is expected.

"May it," Azarias echoes emptily. Souls never rested. Elias's didn't. Lysander's screamed in every hearth.

Azarias finally glances up, eyes bored.

"People think they control the game." A bitter smile touches his lips. "But the board was rotten long before they picked up the pieces."