Ten days of solitary confinement within the confines of his apartment had stretched like an eternity of eternities. Mina existed in a prison of walls and silence, permitted neither freedom nor visibility to the outside world. Only the whisper of footsteps at his door signaled the arrival of sustenance and necessities. Occasionally, Grisham would materialize like a specter, granted mysterious passage to tend to Mina's wound, dressing it with careful precision before dissolving once more into the shadows that consumed everything.
The marble floor gleamed cold and unforgiving beneath the rare shafts of light. Birdsong drifted through cracks in the windows, taunting him with their freedom. Mina's body had become a vessel of exhaustion, heavier than it had ever been, as if gravity itself had intensified its pull upon him alone. His eyelids drooped like wilting petals, surrendering to an overwhelming desire for escape through unconsciousness. The bed became his sanctuary and his prison. Books that once offered solace now lay untouched, their spines collecting dust in the half-light.
His consciousness began to drift away, untethered from his physical form, floating toward some distant shore where salvation might await. The gales called to him in his dreams—violent, beautiful winds promising liberation from this darkness that had become his everything. Visions of tempestuous seas and howling winds beckoned with open arms, offering a different kind of freedom than the one denied to him.
Then—nothing.
Consciousness returned to him in waves of darkness. Sometimes, his chamber bathed in golden sunlight that seemed to mock his captivity with its brilliance. Five days passed in this agonizing rhythm of twilight thoughts and fractured sleep.
Yet during this time, the world outside his prison shifted and changed, currents moving beneath still waters.
His father faced increasingly bold attacks from the syndicate. Amane, growing restless with unsatisfied curiosity, had ceased to be content with patience regarding her... son. Whispers suggested she questioned the conditions of Mina's confinement, her maternal concern—or perhaps something darker—driving her persistence.
As the ninth day's shadows lengthened across the floor, Timonu recognized the necessity for change. The invisible hourglass had emptied its final grains of sand.
Mina sat near the window, his silhouette outlined against the fading light, anticipation of release like a physical presence in the room. The sound of his father's voice elsewhere in the building carried to him through the ancient walls.
"Remy, listen." Simoneau's voice held an edge sharp enough to cut through stone. "We need to address the Amane situation. Her proximity grows dangerous, and her demands to see Mina have become relentless. Her shadows haunt my every step. We cannot continue this precarious dance."
A smile spread across Remy's face, invisible to Mina but audible in his voice as he replied, "Finally, I shall meet my little brother."
"Indeed, finally." Simoneau's tone carried no warmth, only calculation. "You must keep him quiet, well-nourished, and properly tended. More importantly, you must... gentle him. Should Amane discover Mina's past deeds, the consequences would be catastrophic for us all."
"No concern necessary, father," Remy's assurance flowed like honey laced with something more potent. "I'll speak with Mina. Come at midnight to collect him."
"Agreed."
The conversation dissolved into silence. Timonu prepared for departure, summoning his carriage to traverse the sprawling cityscape to Mina's dwelling. Caution guided his movements as he positioned his transport ten streets removed from his destination, choosing to navigate the remaining distance on foot.
In daylight, Mina's neighborhood projected respectability—a facade carefully constructed to hide its true nature. Under night's revealing cloak, the masquerade crumbled, transforming the area into something akin to a cemetery of lost hopes. Buildings hunched like mourners, windows staring out like hollow eyes witnessing forgotten sins.
Simoneau arrived at Mina's door, his knuckles creating a rhythm against the worn wood that might have been a code or merely impatience. The door creaked open to reveal Mina's pale face, surprise evident in the slight widening of his eyes. His father's presence here, in this place of filth and shadow, violated the unspoken rules that had governed their relationship. Simoneau had always maintained pristine distance from the soiled aspects of his empire, allowing Mina to serve as the dark instrument of his will.
Wordlessly, Mina stepped aside, inviting his father into the space that had become both sanctuary and cell.
"Listen carefully, Mina," Simoneau's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "Your silence remains essential for several more days. At midnight, someone will arrive to collect you. You will obey him without question, fulfilling his every request. Is that understood?"
"Certainly, father." The words emerged from Mina's lips like reluctant prisoners.
His stance betrayed inner conflict—shoulders tense, one hand concealed behind his back where metal pressed against flesh. The knife he clutched wavered between purpose and hesitation, his fingers alternately tightening and loosening around the hilt, as though two souls inhabited one body, locked in eternal combat.
His gaze drifted beyond his father's shoulder to a place only he could see, a memory rising unbidden to the surface of his consciousness. The rooftop. Grisham. The edge of oblivion.
The memory unfolded like a scroll: Mina perched precariously on the building's precipice, toes curling over nothingness, while Grisham observed with clinical detachment from a safer distance.
"Do you imagine we might escape our fate if we simply... stepped forward?" Grisham had asked, his words carried away by the wind that tugged at their clothing like impatient children.
Mina had pulled back slightly from the edge, vertigo swimming through his veins. "Escape? I doubt it."
"Have you encountered discussions of revival?" The question had hung between them, loaded with implications.
"I've heard whispers," Mina had replied, "but never witnessed the phenomenon firsthand."
A sardonic smile had twisted Grisham's lips. "I've had the misfortune of bearing witness. A painful miracle, a marvelous abomination—perhaps the most terrible creation our world has birthed."
"Is it truth or fable?"
"Truth, for those with the means to access it. I've heard Amane herself underwent the procedure."
Surprise had rippled across Mina's features. "You're certain?"
"My source leaves no room for doubt." Grisham's eyes had reflected the city lights below. "They can indeed restore what death has claimed."
"And the rumors of immortality afterward?"
"Science has evolved beyond the boundaries of your imagination, Mina. The questions you should be asking lie elsewhere."
"Such as?"
"Why permit the wealthy elite and those wallowing in filth to experience death's release? Because revival strips away something essential. Death occupies a natural position in our existence. The cessation of life serves a purpose—it liberates us from the agony of continued existence."
Shadows had deepened across Grisham's face as he continued. "Why burden the corrupt with eternal life? An unending parade of sins accumulating while watching others briefly taste life's pleasures before fading? I've heard revival excises portions of one's humanity."
"Grisham..." Mina's voice had faltered. "Let me understand. Revival returns the dead, but eternal existence is a curse rather than blessing?"
"Of course it's a curse. Imagine the endless consumption of limited resources. This world's bounty is finite, Mina. Someday, nothing will remain. What happens then?" Grisham's voice had dropped to a whisper. "I've heard—"
"Mina!" His father's sharp voice severed the memory's thread. "Where has your mind wandered?"
The apartment rushed back into focus. The knife behind his back seemed heavier now.
"Forgive me, father," Mina murmured, his eyes refocusing on the present.
"Remember. Midnight. Await his arrival and exhibit none of your previous... indiscretions." Simoneau's gaze held warning and promise in equal measure.
"I shall remain here as instructed."
After his father's departure, Mina stood motionless in the center of the room, the strange memory still clinging to him like a second skin. Grisham had always possessed knowledge beyond his station, his network of informants spreading through the city like roots of an ancient tree. Yet even Grisham's considerable resources paled before Simoneau's reach. His father existed everywhere and nowhere, omnipresent and omnipotent, bending reality to his will while Grisham struggled to maintain his precarious position.
The concepts swirled through Mina's thoughts—suicide, revival, the beckoning gales. Clarity eluded him, but the most persistent question remained whether the gales might truly offer liberation. The vision of them returned as midnight approached, howling winds that promised to carry him far from this place of shadows and secrets.
Eventually, he surrendered to exhaustion, wrapping himself in blankets that offered no true warmth, drifting into uneasy slumber. Midnight approached with silent footsteps, and with it came the promised visitor.
The knock startled Mina from his fitful sleep. He rose unsteadily, his body betraying him with unexpected weakness. Opening the door revealed an unfamiliar nobleman whose attire spoke of wealth and influence. Perspiration clung to Mina's hair like morning dew, and pain lanced through his abdomen—sharper than the familiar ache of his wound, more insistent in its demand for attention.
The stranger's hand came to rest against Mina's forehead, the touch cool against feverish skin. "You're burning." Concern colored his voice, unexpected and disarming.
"I regret any inconvenience. I am Remi." The introduction carried no hint of the relationship that bound them. "I've come to collect you. Gather your necessities, and we shall depart."
Mina assembled his few belongings with trembling hands, stuffing them into a worn backpack before accompanying Remi from the apartment. The nobleman's solicitous behavior continued as he supported Mina's descent down the stairs, the younger man's weakened state becoming increasingly apparent with each step.
Once settled in the waiting carriage, Remi instructed the driver with urgent clarity: "General High."
The words sent a cold ripple through Mina's core. General High represented the pinnacle of medical care in the region, its imposing structure dominating the landscape like a temple to science and healing.
Remi guided Mina to the seat beside him, studying the pallor of his companion's face with evident concern. "You might find greater comfort resting your head upon my lap. Please, do so without hesitation."
The carriage lurched into motion, each cobblestone and depression in the road sending waves of pain through Mina's abdomen. Reluctantly at first, then with growing desperation for relief, he allowed himself to be cradled against Remi's solid frame, his head coming to rest against the man's chest.
Remi held him with surprising tenderness, creating a protective barrier between Mina's suffering body and the jarring movement of their transport. Something unfamiliar stirred within Mina's chest—not physically painful but emotionally disorienting. A soft sound of distress escaped his lips as he surrendered to the unexpected comfort of Remi's embrace.
Upon reaching their destination, Remi defied convention by gathering Mina into his arms rather than commanding him to walk. The doctor carried him with surprising strength into a pristine examination room where a surgeon awaited their arrival.
"What brings you to us?" The medical professional's question hung in the antiseptic air.
"Fever. Pain." Remi's response was efficient, emotions carefully controlled.
The surgeon lifted Mina's garments to reveal the dressed wound, but his attention quickly shifted. Practiced fingers pressed against Mina's lower right abdomen, eliciting a sharp cry of agony that echoed through the sterile chamber.
The surgeon's expression transformed from clinical interest to urgent certainty as he pronounced a single word that altered the trajectory of the night:
"Appendicitis."