The sun had barely risen over the city, bathing the streets of Kinshasa in a golden, warm light. In the luxurious villa where Diego, Dylan, and their guests were staying, the atmosphere seemed calm on the surface, but everyone appeared lost in thought.
Ryder got up very early. He had barely slept, haunted by his encounter the day before with someone he believed to be Victoire. The young man's words still echoed in his mind: "Why did you leave without me? Why didn't you wait?"
Sitting in the garden, Daniella joined him, a cup of coffee in hand.
— You didn't sleep either? she asked softly.
— No. And you?
— Same. I keep thinking about last night. It was unsettling, Ryder. His voice, his gaze… Everything about him reminded me of Victoire.
Ryder clenched his fists.
— I don't understand. How did he survive? Why come back now? And most of all, why didn't he tell us sooner?
— Maybe he had his reasons, Andrea said as she arrived. But something doesn't add up. Victoire was like a brother to us. He would never have avoided us like this. There's something strange going on.
Inside the living room, Dylan watched the scene from afar, hidden behind the curtains. He saw his former friends sitting together, united like they once were, but now filled with doubt.
— They're still doubting, he said to Diego, who had just entered the room.
— But they believe it's Victoire. That's all that matters. Your secret is safe. Thanks to my friend, they finally got their "answer."
Dylan nodded, looking worried.
— It's strange, but I don't feel relieved. Just… empty.
Diego placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
— You did what you had to do. You were no longer safe in that truth. Now, everyone thinks Victoire is alive, and you… you're just Dylan, the adored artist.
A heavy silence settled.
— And him? Dylan asked. Your friend, the fake Victoire. Do you think he'll manage?
— He's ready. I explained everything to him. He accepted this role to help you. He won't say anything. He knows he looks too much like you for it to be a coincidence.
At the same moment, "Victoire" was coming down the stairs to join the three friends outside. He approached slowly, almost timidly.
— Good morning, he said in a soft voice. I hope I'm not disturbing you.
— Not at all, Daniella replied with a faint smile. We were wondering if you'd come.
The young man sat down next to them.
— I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable yesterday. I just needed to talk. To let out everything I've felt over the years.
Ryder nodded slowly.
— We understand… Victoire. But we need to talk. We have so many questions.
The fake Victoire nodded.
— I'm listening.
Andrea spoke up.
— When you woke up from your coma, why didn't you look for us? Why wait all this time?
The young man took a deep breath.
— I was broken. Lost. A family took me in and brought me far away. I was told no one had come to see me during my hospitalization. I thought you had abandoned me. So I tried to forget.
Daniella had tears in her eyes.
— That's not true. We were waiting for you… We didn't know you were alive…
Silence fell again.
Inside the villa, Diego discreetly observed the scene from upstairs, satisfied with how the plan was unfolding. Dylan, meanwhile, kept glancing at the clock.
— They're going to find out eventually, he murmured.
— No. You've got nothing to fear. We've covered our tracks. And my friend is playing his role perfectly.
But deep inside, something had cracked in Dylan. This lie, as useful as it was, was eating him up. He thought back to the memories with Ryder, Daniella, and Andrea—their laughter, their dreams, their sincere friendship.
Later that day, Diego decided to organize an outing for all of them, to relieve the tension. He suggested a visit to the city's most famous recording studios.
— It'll be a chance for you four to relive your beginnings, he said with a wink.
Daniella accepted enthusiastically.
— Why not? We definitely need it.
The fake Victoire smiled shyly.
— I'm curious to see who you've become. And above all, to hear your music.
Ryder, still suspicious, nodded without saying a word. His mind remained troubled by the striking resemblance and almost-too-perfect behavior of this "Victoire" they had found again.
On the way to the studios, Dylan remained silent, headphones over his ears. Diego glanced at him with concern.
— You sure you're okay?
— I don't know, Dylan sighed. Maybe one day they'll discover the truth. And I don't know if I'll be ready to face it.
— That day won't come. Not if we keep playing it right. Focus on your music, on your future.
But Dylan knew deep down that nothing would ever be simple again. Because even if appearances were safe, memories never lie...