TVE (1-2) | ENG

The Violet Echo 

This is the story of someone who survived the most toxic love of their life… and slowly came to realize that the wounds were not born in this life alone.

It is not about hating the past, but about healing it— even when that past stretches back thousands of years.

1 – Nine Paintings

The black car glided silently along an unmarked back road. No license plate. No escort. Just one vehicle with one mission. The driver said nothing—he wasn’t there for chatter. He only knew where to take Isaac, and when to stop.

Isaac Renauld sat in the back seat, his left hand resting on the window frame, fingers tapping lightly on the misted glass. Leighryn stretched out gray and heavy outside, clouds hanging low, as if they too were keeping secrets.

He stared blankly through the glass. No music. No sound. Only the faint tick of his wristwatch, counting down in relentless, quiet insistence.

Moments later, the hangar doors eased open. Bright white lights swept across the car, then glimmered along the wings of his jet. His private sanctuary—the one place in the world that demanded nothing from him.

The car rolled in with precision, wheels stopping on an invisible mark known only to the senior crew.

The rear door opened.

Isaac stepped out slowly. His assistant followed, burdened with nearly a dozen carefully wrapped paintings. The hangar’s draft made his long black coat flutter like smoke, tracing a path of its own. His dark sneakers made no sound, leaving only silent impressions on the cold steel floor.

The pilot stood at the base of the jet stairs and nodded lightly. No greeting was necessary.

Isaac returned a brief glance and climbed the steps. One… two… three. One hand brushed the railing but did not grip. He paused at the top, stealing a glance at Leighryn’s somber sky.

“Parice,” he whispered, to no one in particular.

Inside, the jet welcomed him with the warm elegance of walnut interiors, calm yet heavy. He acknowledged the flight attendant with a faint smile, then moved slowly toward the window seat. Nine wrapped paintings lined the cabin, placed exactly as he instructed. Never out of sight.

His assistant nodded, and Isaac responded with a slight nod of his own. His eyes lingered on the canvases: each one not just art, but a vessel of potential destruction. Beautiful, mysterious, dangerous—like a series of time bombs in frames.

His shoulders sagged under an invisible weight. He drew a long, measured breath, trying to quiet the storm in his mind. From his coat pocket, he retrieved a folded letter. In silence, he began to read, scanning each line as though seeking a clue, or a solace, between the words.

Leighryn, 1 September 2020
Hey, Ike. How are you?
I hope you’ve recovered from your grief and found the drive to live again. Keep your spirit up. You must conquer every circuit in the world. You must keep racing, Ike—become a top-tier, prestigious racer, respected and known across the globe. That is your duty. Make your mark in history as a racer whose name will be remembered a hundred years from now.

Do not tarnish your Renauld name like I did. And for that reason, I beg you to guide my son… don’t let him become like me. He must grow up loved, nurtured, and shielded from harm. As my offspring, he may inherit my worst traits—hopefully not. I pray he doesn’t. And you... you’re a good man, with virtues even I sometimes envy. 

I hope you will be the example he needs. Hollie always refuses whenever I mention my wish for her to marry a good man, so my son can feel the full, sincere love of a father. Because she won’t discuss it, I’m quite worried… what will become of them? I don't want Hollie to spend her life carrying everything alone as a single mum.

And honestly, I sometimes wonder… why don’t you marry her? You deserve her, and she deserves you. If that were the case, my anxieties would be gone. I know I can rely on you. But if you’re not interested… well, I can’t force it. Nothing forced ever ends well.

I can only hope for the best. So, as my final request, please help Hollie raise my son.

Perhaps I’m asking too much. I’ve placed so many things on your shoulders. But when else could I trouble you? Hahaha.

Thank you, Isaac. Thank you for putting up with me. Thank you for your help all these years. Thank you for accepting me despite my flaws, for still treating me as a brother. Thank you for your care. Thank you for making me see my mistakes. Thank you for your time—your memories… Do you remember the adrenaline rush when we were racing side by side, fighting for the World Championship trophy?? I’ll never forget that! Thank you for everything.

I hope you are always happy.
Regards,
Fez

A faint, bitter smile tugged at Isaac’s lips, carrying sorrow, grief, anger, and pain all at once.

The dark drama Ferris Rutherford had unleashed was officially over, yet its scars lingered. Wounds and traumas didn’t simply vanish.

Outside, city lights flickered against creeping darkness. Beautiful. Stark in its contrast. Almost like a painting. For a moment, Isaac almost forgot the ache that had just surged inside him—the bitter inheritance, the weight of Fez’s last request, now resting squarely on his shoulders.

“Isaac, reporting in. Claire’s manager has sent the meeting location. She’s agreed to meet you tonight,” said his assistant, Steve Barlow, bowing slightly as he held up his phone to show the message.

Isaac glanced at the screen and nodded. “Good. The sooner this is over, the better.”

“I’ll get the items you’ll need ready,” Steve said, stepping toward the pile of paintings.

Isaac’s hand shot out, stopping him before he could touch a single canvas. The movement was lightning-fast, almost imperceptible—a reflex born from years as a world-class racer.

“I’ll handle them myself,” he said calmly.

Steve froze, simultaneously awed and puzzled. There was something in the way Isaac treated those paintings—as if they were more than art, as if they were priceless state artifacts.

“You… sure? I just want to help. You sure don’t want anything to get mixed up,” Steve stammered. “Or, if you prefer, I can match each painting with the names on the list I’m holding.”

Isaac turned to him for a fleeting second, eyes piercing, sharp—but just as quickly, he turned away.

“Everything’s been wrapped and labeled. Nothing will go wrong,” he said flatly. “And you’re not allowed to look. You’re too young. Too naive. Too full of hope.”

Steve blinked, taken aback. “I’m actually three years older than you…” he muttered softly. “But… noted.”

A moment later, Steve returned, gently patting Isaac’s shoulder. His voice was softer now, almost friendly.

“Hey, Isaac. Let’s pretend I’m not your assistant. Just a friend talking. Someone you’ve trusted all this time.”

Isaac looked at him, confused.

“Tell me… what’s in those paintings? Why do you insist on traveling the world just to deliver them personally? If they’re just ordinary paintings, couldn’t you simply ship them?”

Isaac drew a deep breath, eyes drifting to the window, staring blankly into the night sky slowly swallowing the remaining light.

“Seeing the way you handle these paintings… seeing our unusual ‘tour’ destinations… and the nine women on the list I’m holding…” Steve’s eyes locked on Isaac, brimming with curiosity. “I can’t help imagining… could these be… the fully nude ones?”

Isaac’s jaw tightened, but he remained silent, leaning back and closing his eyes as if asleep.

Steve shook him gently. “Come on! You can trust me!” he whispered, eyes shining like a kid discovering a hidden treasure. His face lit up, like a teenager meeting their idol for the first time.

Isaac let out a sharp, annoyed exhale. "Are you trying to be like the media? Exposing every little flaw in me for the past six months?"

Guilt hit Steve’s chest immediately. He knew the pressure Isaac had been under since Ferris Rutherford’s arrest. As his assistant, he’d witnessed firsthand the media frenzy and the public’s hunger for the family drama. Obsessive speculation, gossip, and relentless scrutiny had only deepened Isaac’s trauma.

Not to mention the online conspiracy theories, the glorification of Ferris, building a snowball of falsehoods that couldn’t be stopped.

Steve lowered his gaze. “Alright.”

Isaac opened his eyes, staring straight ahead. His voice was cold, firm.

“Listen, Steve… I’m the only one who knows. Until others do, their reputations could be destroyed in the blink of an eye. If their lives are ruined—and that ruin comes from me—can you take responsibility?”

The words weren’t a denial of Steve’s question. They were, in fact, a quiet confirmation—an unspoken yes.

Steve fell silent. It made sense. Isaac would never confirm outright. But from his tone, his choice of words, Steve understood he had to stop asking.

This wasn’t just a personal journey. It was a global mission with the dignity of nine women at stake. Celebrities known as flawless icons, adored by the public, role models without blemish in the media’s eyes.

Steve glanced at his list. Big names. Some award winners. Lives that appeared perfect and carefully guarded. If even one painting leaked, it wouldn’t just ruin their reputations; it would make Isaac’s burden unbearable.

“I understand, Isaac. Sorry for being nosy.”

Isaac merely nodded, letting Steve return to his seat in silence.

As the cabin fell quiet again, Isaac’s thoughts drifted. Without warning, memories from a few days ago hit him: the moment he told Hollie about how things ended with Amy.

---

Hollie’s soft voice echoed in his mind.

“You look exhausted, Ike. Why not take a vacation? Treat yourself.”

“Do I really look that tired?”

“Yes, very clear,” she nodded. “You’ve gone through years that drained you—time, mind, everything. I can feel how hard it’s been for you… but I managed, with little Orlando by my side to comfort me. But you? You went through it alone. Amy as a girlfriend didn’t make it better. I think you need a break, Ikey. Just to relax. It’s vacation season anyway, right?”

Isaac gave a faint smile. “You’re probably right, Hollie. Sunbathing on a tropical beach sounds nice.”

“That’d be amazing!” Hollie exclaimed. “Go, Ike! Vacation and fun are the best stress relievers!”

Isaac remembered something. “Seems like… now is the perfect time. By the way, Hollie, you remember those paintings Fez made? The ones that made you so mad at him?”

Hollie frowned. “Yeah… why?”

Isaac hesitated, sensing her mood shift. “Sorry, I don’t mean to remind you of something unpleasant. But you know, Fez entrusted all the paintings to me and asked me to return them to their owners.”

“You… still have them?”

“Of course. They’re still in Fez’s studio at his mansion. I couldn’t deliver them before, but now seems like the perfect time. Kill two birds with one stone, see the world.”

Hollie nodded. “I see. So… you’ll be traveling the world… and meeting the women Fez painted nude?”

Isaac said nothing. His jaw tightened, though a faint flicker on his cheek betrayed his hidden thoughts. He adjusted his seat, trying to remain composed.

Hollie smiled. “Sounds like quite the journey, Ikey.”

“Hey, I have no choice! What else can I do?”

“Fez’s hobbies are… unusual. And he involved you in them. I doubt you’ll resist temptation meeting those women, Ike.”

Isaac exhaled deeply. “I’m not easily swayed by women. I’ll prove it to you, Hollie, so you’ll stop teasing me.”

“Okay, we’ll see,” she winked, crossing her legs as she leaned back. “Do you need any help to identify those paintings?”

“Thanks, I can handle it myself.” Isaac smiled.

“Oh! Silly me… of course, you don’t need help at all. Observing erotic art is a pleasure in itself, no one should interfere!” Hollie shot him a teasing glance.

Isaac looked away, laughing. “Hollie! Why don’t you trust me?”

“I do… it’s not about trust, Ikey. It’s just… can Isaac Renauld, famously conservative about sex, resist when facing the actual women Fez painted nude?” she said.

“Besides… Fez is an exceptional artist. My own paintings look like photos, not paintings. So vivid, so real. Someone like Fez with that talent exists only once in the world.”

“You’re right, Hollie. Fez’s natural gift is undeniable.”

“And you, Ikey? Are you sure you’ll survive this world tour?” She winked again.

“Fez… charming, persuasive. He got what he wanted. What I went through when he persuaded me to pose—they must have felt it too. Lured by his skill, by how he handled them.”

“Enough, Hollie. I don’t want to hear that.”

But she continued, “Imagine, Ike… after painting them, Fez disappears. Leaves them hanging, without a word. They must be worried, unsure where their nude paintings ended up. And suddenly, a kind man delivers them back—the very twin brother of Fez, nearly identical, traveling thousands of miles to hand them over personally. I can guarantee you… there are only two reactions awaiting you, Ikey.”

Isaac stayed silent, watching her finish her lecture.

“Type one: those who harbor disgust, anger, and resentment toward Fez. They will greet you coldly, harshly. Type two: those still attached, still longing for Fez. I think they might even attempt to seduce you, Ikey—invite you to their bed—because your face looks so much like his.”

A creeping unease settled over Isaac. Sitting became awkward. He rubbed his face, trying to clear his thoughts.

2 – Grand Tour (of Regret)

PRESENT TIME
Isaac shook his head slowly, as if trying to shake off a nervousness that had quietly latched onto him. His mind tangled with every possibility—absurd, heavy, undefined—that awaited him once this plane touched down in Parice.

He refused to get lost in those shadows. This was not the time to dwell on what might never happen. He needed a distraction.

And then he remembered. Two days ago, he had deliberately left one email unread. From Friedrich Sheppard, the principal of Glauber. Isaac picked up his tablet, opened the inbox, and found the message easily. The sender’s name alone was enough to tighten his jaw.

Friedrich: a gray-haired man with eyes sharp as surgical blades. The glasses only added to his intellectual aura—never masking the threat that seeped through every line he wrote.

The subject line was clear, as usual. Cold, efficient, commanding:
Subject: Pre-Season & 2021 Technical Commitments

With a reluctant tap, he opened it.

Hello Isaac,
I hope your holiday was reasonably enjoyable. Though, as you know, not everyone has the luxury of time to rest.

Isaac let out a soft snort. Of course, this was Friedrich’s favorite opening line. Polite, yet laced with subtle sarcasm—typical of a man with an ego as colossal as the victories his team had claimed.

Several points require attention so we don’t repeat the minor mistakes of last season:

🔹 Simulator Sessions
Initial sim schedule is set for January 8–12. Your attendance is considered confirmed, so please rearrange any personal matters that might conflict.

🔹 Technical Adjustments
There will be updates to the brake-by-wire system and power unit mapping. We all know you’re sensitive about this, so it’s best you review the preliminary data sent by the Chief Engineer next week. No surprises during pre-season testing, please.

🔹 New Debrief Structure
Due to past season communication issues, debriefs will be restructured. CC to Fabio Ortolani for clarity on boundaries. We need performance, not opinions.

🔹 Media & Team Commitments
2021 livery launch is scheduled for February 10. Attendance is mandatory. The communications team will contact you after the New Year.
(And yes, this is not mere formality.)

If you encounter logistical issues or wish to discuss, please do so well before January.

Isaac almost closed the email when his eyes caught the most nauseating line at the end.

NB: Isaac, there should be no more excuses to skip media events or race week. The killer who tainted the motorsport world’s reputation has finally rotted in hell. And rightly so. You cannot imagine how devastated the fellow principals—who once helped build someone’s career—feel as witnesses to this tragedy. Their own reputations, and the teams they built with blood and sweat, lie in ruins. While I often clashed with him, it did not diminish my respect. You know exactly who I mean.
You are under no obligation to accompany that person anymore, nor any parent, nor anyone else. I ask that you direct your full attention to the team. Glauber needs a driver with urgency. Do not make this team adjust to you. From now on, you should adjust to Glauber.

See you on the simulator track.
Let’s see who’s ready first.

Regards,

Friedrich Sheppard
Team Principal
Glauber FP

Isaac read it once. He didn’t blink. Then he snorted, quietly. Almost a laugh, but bitter.

This bastard…

His eyes returned to one line: “You know exactly who I mean.”
His jaw stiffened. He knew Friedrich was completely right.

Gerhard Brautovich, principal of GT Forrier—the team that had once hosted Ferris Rutherford before the tragedy—was now busy salvaging the wreckage of its reputation. Not because of guilt, but because every time Ferris’s name surfaced in the media, the team’s name was dragged along. One sentence: “Ferris Rutherford, former GT Forrier driver,” was enough to make sponsors back off and slowly tarnish the team’s image.

Isaac exhaled once. Twice. Three times.
His eyes remained sharp, but his chest rose and fell slowly, regulating the tempo, restraining the surge of emotion threatening to erupt.

You think writing like this will provoke me? I won’t beg for validation.

“Steve,” Isaac called, still staring at the screen, not turning his head. “Send a message to your boss. One sentence: I’ll attend, don’t panic.”

His voice was cold, clipped, final. Steve knew instantly—he had heard that tone before, and it always meant: no questions asked.

“Understood. Sending now,” Steve replied, obeying without further explanation.

***

“Miss Claire will see you shortly. Please wait.”

Minutes earlier, Claire’s personal attendant had delivered the message politely, then ushered Isaac into the marble-floored, classically-styled living room. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting a warm glow over the space.

On the marble table, tea sat in porcelain cups. Its aroma faint, elegant, unmistakably refined—definitely not something from a supermarket shelf.

Instead of remaining idle in a stranger’s room, he slipped out the side door to the balcony.

Though the night wind hit sharply, Isaac found the view from this balcony worth more than a trivial chill. The fifth-floor terrace offered a perfect view of the base of the Eivel Tower, where city lights met human sounds.

He stared downward aimlessly. Until a movement caught his attention. A man, in a black coat, knelt before a small circle of people.

Isaac narrowed his eyes.

The Eivel Tower lights reflected off something small… a ring.

The woman in front of the man froze, then covered her mouth with a hysterical cry.

Around them, friends cheered. Some clapped, some snapped photos. Some hugged each other.

City lights, laughter, warm embraces. A perfect night for two who might have believed… they would never lose each other.

Isaac stayed silent. His gaze fixed on the couple, but his mind wandered elsewhere.

He had knelt before a woman once too, witnessed by many, with a ring he had chosen himself and words rehearsed for days. And Margee… she had laughed like that, with smiles, tears, and embraces—before an unbridgeable distance stretched between them. 

Isaac drew a long, slow breath, as if his lungs had forgotten the motion. 

The cheers below swelled, rising louder and louder, someone shouting the couple’s names, but he averted his gaze, searching the night sky for anything to distract him from a joy that felt too loud, too alive for a night like this. 

Parice celebrated, and he could not. The warmth below only made the ice inside him sharper, more insistent. 

Isaac remained on the balcony as the sliding door behind him clicked open softly.

The tap of heels broke the silence.

The scent of jasmine—and something sharper, like black pepper—wafted quickly.

“You know,” the voice was light, almost playful, “if you stand outside too long, you might freeze. But… you still look handsome, so maybe it’s worth it.”

Isaac turned.

There she was, framed in the doorway. A tall, elegant woman in a burgundy satin dress, plunging neckline hugging her slender frame. Waves of glossy brown hair framed a near-perfectly symmetrical face. Bold lipstick matching her gown curved into a smile that, to anyone, seemed far too practiced to be mere politeness.

"Hello," Isaac greeted warmly, stepping closer and extending his hand. "I’m Isaac. You must be Claire Deveraux?"

Claire took his hand without hesitation, holding it a moment too long. "Hi, Isaac. It’s lovely to finally meet you," she said softly, her voice almost singing.

There was a faint smile in her tone, a subtle suggestion that anything could be a game—if only he allowed it.

Her gaze was sharp, yet her smile radiated warmth, as if the winter chill on the balcony didn’t touch her at all.

“You came all this way just to return the painting?” Claire tilted her body slightly at the door, playful. “Or… did you come to see the one in the canvas up close?”

Isaac drew in a quick breath, heart tightening. He had just watched two strangers promise each other a future, and in their joy, he glimpsed the reflection of a life he could never reclaim. And now, before him, stood Claire—Fez’s old world—bringing with her a presence entirely new, a pull he had not expected. Temptation.

“I’m just here to deliver the painting.” His voice was flat, though his eyes were adjusting. Claire was too bright to ignore. Too… beautiful.

Claire chuckled softly, then stepped closer. Her fingers, cold yet gentle, brushed against Isaac’s arm for a fleeting moment. “What a shame. I was hoping you’d come for something more… personal.”

Those lips… that look… Isaac caught the signal loud and clear.

Danger doesn’t always announce itself with threats. Sometimes it wears a red dress and looks at you as if you’re the only reason Parice glows tonight.

Isaac blinked, summoning every ounce of control. Survival mode engaged. He knew he had to resist, and yet, before he could speak, his heart had betrayed him, leaping from numbness to a frantic pounding, from still silence to a rhythm that made the world feel startlingly alive.

“Uh…” Isaac cleared his throat, his mind racing for an escape. “Don’t you want to check that the painting really belongs to you? Before I head back to Leighryn?”

Claire raised an eyebrow, slightly annoyed. Not even a minute, and he was already talking about leaving. But the expression quickly softened into a small smile. What Isaac said made sense.

“Come on,” she said casually, lightly tugging his hand, leaving him no room to refuse. “Help me check.”

Inside, the painting had been leaning against the wall all along, still wrapped neatly in brown paper. Claire approached it and, without hesitation, tore away the wrapping.

The moment it was revealed, the painting filled the room with its presence.

A portrait of Claire’s body… completely nude, posed with deliberate allure, colors arranged with sensual intent. A work that only someone who understood the human body as intimately as their own mind could create. The detail was dazzling. Honest. Wild.

Isaac deliberately averted his gaze. His hands slipped into his pockets; he turned his back to the painting.

“Hmm…” Claire murmured softly. “I almost forgot how beautiful Fez’s work is.”

She turned to Isaac, standing a few steps away, and smiled.

Her steps were slow but deliberate. Her fingers touched his shoulder—a light, teasing touch, an unspoken signal. “Honestly… I didn’t think you’d actually come.”

Isaac replied briefly, flatly. “I said I would come.”

Claire laughed softly, a sweet sound, tinged with subtle mischief. “Yes, but many men promise. Few actually show up.”

She drew in a slow breath, then softened. “Funny… he’s the one who painted me, yet now it’s you bringing it back.”

Isaac opened his mouth to respond but stopped. His thoughts stumbled for a fraction of a second, as if a blank space had swallowed his words. Oddly, he felt embarrassed—though he’d done nothing wrong.

Claire stepped even closer. Her hand touched Isaac’s arm, warm and gentle.

“You’ve seen the painting, right? What do you think?” Her voice softened. “Am I… beautiful?”

Isaac remained silent, but he knew she could hear his increasingly heavy breaths.

Unintentionally, one strap of Claire’s dress slipped from her shoulder. She looked at him gently. “Maybe… you’re the type who likes women like me, hmm?”

Then her smile shifted, teasing. “Or do you prefer the cold and untouchable?”

Isaac didn’t answer. His gaze fell to her lips—glossy, red, seemingly plump… and sweet. He muttered under his breath. God… keep me away from those lips.

Summoning the last bit of control, Isaac spoke, flat and quick. “I’m not… really one for discussing personal preferences.”

Claire laughed again, a laugh that knew she had won. She closed the distance until their bodies touched. Her fingers slowly traced from his stomach to his chest, as if testing whether this man was truly made of steel.

Isaac stiffened.

“Isaac,” Claire whispered with a smile, “you’re so tense. I’m not a rival racer, you know.”

Isaac stepped back, forcing some space between them. “Tense because of the cold balcony,” he said.

Claire tilted her head, her smile now dangerous. “Well then… how about we move to the bedroom?”

She spoke sweetly, almost in a whisper. “I’ve got wine, a heater, and in there… you can verify if the body on the canvas still matches the one in front of you.”

Isaac drew a deep, heavy breath.

His mind replayed the painting. Then compared it to the curves of Claire’s body beneath her satin dress.

He swallowed. I just recovered from a storm inside… why now test me with another?

One part of his mind said, Go ahead. She offered it herself.
The other part, stubborn: NOPE. Are you insane?!

Finally, he stepped back.

“Thanks for the offer,” he said quietly. “But I have to go now. My assistant is waiting downstairs.”

Claire blinked slowly. Slightly surprised. Slightly amused. “A guy as cool as you… running from temptation. Should I admire you… or regret I can’t have you?”

Isaac glanced briefly back, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe both.”

Then he walked away, his heart still racing too fast for a night this cold.

Claire didn’t stop him. She simply murmured softly, just loud enough for him to hear as he left. “Come by again sometime, Isaac. No painting this time.”

Isaac didn’t answer. But he knew… his face burned.

For the first time that night, he felt—if only slightly—alive.

Claire stood at the doorway, watching Isaac’s back recede.

A small smile spread across her lips, then faded halfway, becoming something more reflective. Her eyes narrowed slightly, her mind starting to speak for itself.

He’s stubborn… harder to conquer than I thought. Fez wouldn’t miss my invitation. But him…

Claire shook her head gently, the remaining smile still there. Looks like you’ve got one more fan now, Isaac. I’ll be at the Parice Grand Prix… let’s see if a man as hard as you can last.

Meanwhile, in the corridor toward the elevator, Isaac nearly broke into a light run. Once the doors closed, he leaned against the elevator wall, exhaling heavily, like someone just escaped a swirl of intoxicating perfume.

“Okay,” he murmured, rubbing his chest. “One down. Eight to go. Focus.”

Isaac drew a long breath, trying to steady his pulse and thoughts, still shaken from the encounter.

The elevator descended slowly. The dim ceiling lights cast a faint reflection of his face on the metal doors ahead.

Isaac studied that reflection. Eyes nearly hollow, jaw tight, and the leftover tremor in his breath.

He glanced at his wristwatch. Only a few hours since landing. Parice hadn’t yet welcomed him warmly—but he already wanted to leave.

He lifted his gaze, closing his eyes briefly. In the darkness behind his lids, the Eivel Tower still glowed in his memory. Couples hugging. Laughter. Embraces.

And himself, standing still like a shadow. Untouched. Uninvolved. Unalive.

His lips moved slightly, barely audible. Three days in every city are pointless if all that follows me is emptiness.

A soft chime announced the elevator doors opening. Isaac stepped out, his gaze forward, his body still straight, but now carrying something slightly lighter—or perhaps colder.

He grabbed his phone from his coat pocket, dialing the number he knew by heart.

“Steve,” he said calmly, almost like his usual self. “Cancel all hotel reservations. Change the route. Minimal stops. Let’s speed things up.”

Silence on the other end for a beat.

Isaac added, his tone still even, leaving no room for debate. “Not because I want to rush home. But because I know… I can’t enjoy any of this. Let’s finish it all before something else inside me breaks.”

He hung up. Steps measured and firm toward the waiting car.

The Parice sky still glimmered above. But Isaac didn’t look back.