Page 159 of Violent Possession
He is in my bed, sunk into my sheets. His chest rises and falls with a rhythm that doesn’t match the violence of the previous night. He sleeps deeply, with no visible nightmares.
The bluish light from my steel lamp, the one I always considered cold and impersonal, falls on the good side of his face, drawing a thin line between the man and the wounded animal. The bad side—the side with the black eye, the makeshift suture on his eyebrow, the jaw that may never be the same—is hidden in shadow. Even so, he looks less threatening asleep than he ever will awake.
There’s something grotesque in this contrast. Violence is not intended for him, but rather committed by him. And yet, here he is, vulnerable to the point of making me want to protect him from everything else, including myself.
I don’t tell him about Seraphim’s message, about the red flower and the girl with clear eyes. There’s no need to involve him more than he already is. He did his part with a savage competence, and now the responsibility—and the blame, if it goes wrong—is all mine. For this reason, I leave Griffin out of the equation. He doesn’t know that in a few hours, I plan to meet a stranger, alone, on a rooftop forgotten by God and building security departments. He doesn’t know about the red card, the symbol, the impeccable cursive.
And even if he knew, he seems to accept that as long as he’s not dead, things can always get worse.
I stare at my reflection in the windowpanes. The man looking back at me seems to be someone who has made drasticdecisions, settled scores, survived disasters. There are cuts on my face. This is the kind of guy who goes to the top of a building to negotiate with a ghost, I think.
I place a Sig Sauer P229 on my back, a combat knife in my boot, and a small .380 in my ankle holster.
I’m going alone, as he asked. But I’m not going unprepared.
I wonder how long it will be until the chaos of this night becomes just another anecdote recycled at business dinners. I have a feeling it will be soon.
I look at Griffin one last time. I think that I won’t be able to sleep if he doesn’t come out of this whole.
So, I leave two painkillers and a note on the nightstand.
“Be back soon.”
He’ll know how to interpret the lie.
The service elevatorof the Metropol is an architectural torment: a metal box, isolated from the rest of the building and condemned to ascend and descend in eternal penance. I get out of the car alone, with no visible countermeasures. I send my men to circle the block at a distance, alert, forbidden to interfere. The paranoia is mine, not theirs.
In the lobby, the reception is deserted. The wall clock reads 11:49 PM. I walk around the ground floor, taking note of the blind spots, the fake cameras that no one believes work anymore.
The night shift concierge suddenly appears behind the counter, with an expression of boredom and fear. He knows who I am. He opens his mouth to say something, but I raise a finger and he falls silent. There is nothing to be said.
The elevator panel groans when I press the button for the rooftop. And when the door opens, the hallway is empty, except for a flashing light at the end, where an emergency door has been unlocked.
I walk toward the light.
Broken glass, overturned tables, and empty bottles. The bar’s retractable roof is partially open, allowing frost and pollution to enter without ceremony. The smell of smoke and rust permeates the air.
And there, a figure stands, his back to me, looking at the city lights.
His silhouette is elongated, theatrical. He wears an overcoat too expensive for the setting, and smokes a cigarette. His platinum hair shines in the distant neon light.
I can count on one hand the times I’ve been closer to death than I am now. And all of them were this silent.
I walk to the middle of the rooftop and stop. I entered with the gun in my hand, pointed down, ready. I am not an idiot. The time for heroism has passed.
“Youactuallycame,” he says, unhurriedly. The intonation is soft, maternal, and yet acidic. “Honestly, I didn’t know what to expect. I thought you would outsource this. Maybe send a message.”
He turns.
He has an elegance that seems out of place amidst the decay. His eyes are an icy blue, and they look at me without a hint of fear.
He smiles, and there is something in the gesture that irritates me. Perhaps the fact that it’s an innate, natural smile, as if he knew that I—that anyone—would eventually yield.
“Griffin tends to be melodramatic,” I say, keeping the gun pointed at the floor. “He described you as an angel. I see he was inaccurate.”
Seraphim smiles a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Angels don’t smoke,” he says, holding the cigarette between two white leather-gloved fingers. The pack, an imported brand, suddenly appears in his left hand, which moves toward me with the delicacy of a formal invitation. “Care for one?”
I refuse with a nod, and his politeness never wavers: he puts the pack back in his pocket as if he already knew I would say no.
