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The Disastrous Chance Noir:
Andreus Lyon had long been an admirer of his father, and his father before him, and so on. He loved the stories his mother told to him in his childhood before she passed away. Stories of knights and kings, of honor and chivalry, a time where the world was enchanted with the souls of societies. Stories of Roland, the Prefect of the Breton March, of how he bravely stood his last stand.
Yet Andreus does not live in those times. He lives in modern Paris, a city gone to ruins. A place whose people does not share his veneration of the old culture and its old glory. And he has no chance to prove himself to be someone who could live up to the dignity of his forefathers.
Until chance happened and bestowed upon him a mysterious ring that can enhance his physical capabilities. His strength became equal to ten men, his foot as light as a feather, and his eyes as sharp as the owl or the cat hunting prey in the night.
And when he met a certain baxter who has been terrorized by the local gang, this was his chance to prove himself that he would've been just as noble and brave as Roland.
"Wow, that is one hell of a story." Dylan mumbled with a mouthful of baked salmon blocking his words. "I mean, do you know anyone in your life who has an evil brother ruining their lives? That's a professional hater right there. And it sounds like something out of a soap opera."
The two men sat across from each other in a dimly lit diner, one of those roadside establishments of an era long past with its cracked linoleum floors and the soft hum of a flickering neon sign outside. At least the air conditioning was still working, tinged with the strong and stinging scent of coffee, grilled onions, and maple syrup. There was only one other table that had customers, and that table was on the opposite side of the establishment. Only a low murmur of conversation mixed with the sound of Dylan eating his food methodically.
Eugene had opted for a plate of spinach with his salmon.
The soft clatter of cutlery filling the gaps between their conversation. Dylan leaned back slightly, his white shirt with orange patterns caught the light from the hanging lamp above and his leather jacket was placed upon the backrest of his chair. He took another bite of salmon, letting it rest on his tongue. Eugene's gaze drifted, taking in the reflections in the window beside them—ghostly outlines of passersby and the dull glow of street lamps fighting the umbra.
A waitress passed by, refilling their cups of soda, her pen tucked behind her ear and her apron smudged from a long shift. Eugene shifted in his seat, feeling the worn vinyl creak beneath him.
"So… you're just going to believe all that?"
"What part of your story is unbelievable? Besides the evil half-brother thing? Because I can't find any."
"God, birthrights, curses?"
"Oh yeah, I totally believe all of that." Dylan shrugged nonchalantly. Dylan continued eating until he noticed that Eugene folded his arms and wondered if this man was just screwing with him. "I'm not being sarcastic; I really believe all of that. God? Definitely exists. If He exists, so do all the other things. Only a fool would say otherwise."
"What makes you so sure He is real, Dylan?" Eugene made sure to emphasize on the word 'you' so it didn't sound like he was asking for evidence about the existence of God; that part was already clear to him.
"I'm not going to deny the existence of somebody who helped me out in my life so much." Dylan chortled. "That would be awfully rude."
"Helped you how?"
A bright gleam shone on his smile, his eyes recollecting something good in his mind. Glory days, most likely? "Eugene, He made sure I never have to work ever again."
Eugene raised a brow. "Did you win the lottery?"
"Yeah, you can say that." Dylan cheerily finished his plate and wiped his mouth with the tissues. "And it was when I was about to graduate high school too. If God didn't grant pity on me, I might've just turned out as someone resentful and unemployed kicking myself for not buying coin pennies on the dollar when I was playing with little dinosaur toys during second grade recess."
"Well…" Good for you, Eugene wanted to say. "Don't be hard on yourself."
"Why not? It's true! I'm utterly talentless." Dylan said with the most uplifting spirit Eugene had ever seen from someone denigrating himself. "I can't even keep the love—I can't even keep a job because I'm that incompetent. Believe me, I've tried."
"I though you didn't need to work?"
"But I wanted to. I've heard the stories of people who got lucky and came to a lot of money all of a sudden; they almost always become gluttonous of all the luxurious, overpriced things and go broke a few years later. I didn't want to end up like that! So, I got myself a few jobs! Idle hands are the devil's playground after all!"
What an utterly strange turn of events. Eugene was the one who just tried to kill himself, yet it was his so-called rescuer who was saying things that sounded like he was trying to justify why his life was miserable enough for suicide. And at the same time, he was awfully cheerful despite hearing Eugene's life-story where he literally described the death of his entire family, the lost of his wealth, the sleepless nights, and finally hearing about how Eugene lost what he thought to be the love of his life. This guy hated Eugene, that had to be a fact.
Dylan gobbled the last traces of his meal and leaned back against his chair, letting out a long and loud burp grabbing the attention of the staff and the customers all the way on the other side. Eugene covered his own face and wished death came suddenly and quietly to spare him the embarrassment of being briefly associated with this glutton.
"Yeah…" Eugene muttered, distracting himself from the sentiment. "So, if I may ask, what's your story?"
"Oh, nothing much, just a guy who happens to be nearby."
"No, I mean, have we met before?"
"Not really."
"Then why did you say, 'Oh, it's you,' when you saw my face?"
Dylan shrugged. "We met once years ago; it was only a brief moment. It hardly counts."
"And that brief and only interaction left such a lasting impression that you would remember my face?"
"Hey," Dylan shrugged. "Some people just leave a lasting impression. Take that as a compliment; not many people in the world can do that."
"Why would I take that as a compliment when you changed from trying to save a life to apathetic once you discovered who it was you were trying to save?"
"Ah, don't mind that; we're here eating because I invited you to, right? It means that it wasn't a bad impression. I just respected your wish to do whatever you wanted with your body since it's your life and stuff."
"I don't believe you."
"Okay."
"I have a feeling you're not too bothered to convince me either."
"Look, you can believe whatever it is you want to believe; I know there's nothing I can do to change your mind. I've already come to terms with the fact that we've come to an impasse on that part; I'm just waiting for you to understand that too."
Eugene reclined himself away from Dylan. He was right, they were at an impasse; if Dylan wasn't willing to tell him why he acted in the way he acted, then there was nothing Eugene could do to pry that information out of him. Torture and interrogation were illegal for the likes of him.
The only thing left was to try and rack the memory part of his brain as hard as possible. If he's wealthy, he could have at one point tried to secure a loan from Eugene or his company for a business venture and Eugene rejected him. "So, what kind of jobs did you try to do? I mean, a man like you must've started your own business."
"Pfft. Nah. I wanted to keep myself busy, but not that busy."
That rules the first guess out. Perhaps they met during one of the parties Eugene was invited to, and he was unknowingly rude to a waiter who turned out to be Dylan. "So, normal jobs, like being a server, a waiter, something that gets you in touch with people?"
"No, I'm kind of scared talking to people."
"You're talking to me right now."
"That's because there's something that sparked a conversation between us. If I just cold-approach people without a conversation starter, they all look at me weird, like I'm a freak. And I'm already depleting my energy talking to one person; how'd you think I feel when I have to deal with countless? Nah, the back of the scene is the place for me."
"Were your parents rich or something?"
"Yeah, duh, I won the money. What's my money is their money; I trust them not to be Boomers about it and take an insane number of vacations for vanity's sake. Just like their money was my money when I was growing up."
"No, I mean before you won a large sum of money."
"Why'd you ask that?"
"I can't imagine anyone getting through life without the ability to just naturally start a conversation with someone without needing a conversation starter. So, forgive me if I get the idea that you were sheltered by being wealthy in your childhood."
"Nah, my parents aren't anything special to anyone else's eyes. They're special to me and that's about it."
Then how in the world did they meet!? How did their worlds collide!? For God's sake, just let him solve this one irritating question so Eugene could go back onto that bridge and finish the job! He was already half-tempted to just jump off it now so he could ask the ferryman of Styx or whichever angel that shall guide his soul to the next life when and where did he meet this man! The only reason he didn't was because he wasn't so sure they'd give him an answer and he would be haunted by the mystery for eternity!
"Anyway, enough about me, let's keep talking about you. What's your plan after this?"
Killing himself. Thanks for the last good meal, but Dylan was not changing Eugene's mind about this. "I don't know."
"Well, if I were you, I'd start plotting my revenge."
Eugene scoffed. "How? Didn't you listen to my story? I have nothing. Absolutely nothing."
"That's not true, you're still alive, aren't you?"
"What use is my life?"
"And you can still think and speak, right?"
"Get to the point."
"What's stopping you from doing what your half-brother did?"
"You said he tricked you into accepting the gamble, didn't you? Yet, the gamble was still honored by the High Court of Heaven. Maybe you can trick him into accepting another gamble where you get your birthright back."
Eugene laughed. "He's not going to fall for his own trick, Dylan, especially not if it's coming from me. It's common sense; I won't be surprised if the man has the willpower to never drink another cup of wine or alcohol ever again in his life just to make sure he's not falling for his own trick by me."
"Well then, find something that he wants so badly that he's willing to duel you again for it."
"And what would that be?"
"I don't know; he's your half-brother. I've never even met the man."
"Even if I had that certain something, what then? Don't you remember that part when I mentioned I had a friend named Travis who lost his magical streak of good fortunes to the man? How am I supposed win against a supernatural force beyond my understanding?"
Dylan's smile fell when the name Travis was mentioned. The first time, Eugene thought it might've just been a coincidence, but again a second time? Dylan definitely knew Travis as well. "I haven't forgotten."
"So, what's your plan?"
"Do good in the eyes of the LORD."
"Excuse me?"
Dylan adjusted his seat. "Eugene, the way I won my fortune was not completely by random chance. I was on my way to a tournament when I encountered a poor and freezing man on the road. I think his name was Noel or something; it's been so many years ago. At first, I didn't think much when I helped him, just that helping him was the right thing to do and that was what God would've wanted. I found out he was heading to the same tournament I wanted to attend, so I just gave him a hitch-ride on my motorbike."
Dylan got lost in his own memory lane as he continued, chuckling to himself.
"But that wasn't the end. He needed more and more of my help that it went beyond what people would consider to be reasonable, to the point where I was starting to get angry on the inside that he was taking advantage of me so much. He would've never made it past the first round if it wasn't for me. That's when I started praying to God. I prayed that I wasn't doing all that charity for nothing, and that He would help me win the tournament." Dylan threw up his hands, not in a way signifying that he lost all up like it was commonly used as, but the way church people do it to praise God. "And He did. My faith and good deeds were rewarded."
Eugene wanted to scoff and dismiss an obviously crazy and delusional idea. But he didn't. Because it wasn't a crazy and delusional idea. He was already convinced that curses and birthrights existing in some metaphysical plane interacting with the real world were true and tangible, why stop there? Why assume it wouldn't work? It didn't hurt to try, did it?
"No, no, no, no, no…" Eugene waved his hands sideways. "There are millions of people in the world that are doing good things, but almost none of them are millionaires because of that, let alone billionaires. Maybe one or two percent, but that's about it. Doing good things are not enough to take back my company and everything else my father intended to leave for me."
"That doesn't have to be the only thing you can do."
"What do you mean?"
"Well…" Dylan shrugged, bracing himself for whatever it was he was about to say. Eugene sensed it was something embarrassing to say out loud. "There are also bad people in the world… maybe you can do to them what your half-brother did to you. Win their birthright or good luck or whatever it is you want…"
Eugene was right: it was embarrassing. "This isn't a TV show, real life doesn't work like that. You expect me to be some gambling vigilante?"
"As compared to just outright killing yourself and erasing the possibility that your half-brother could ever get his come-uppance?"
Eugene paused.
"I mean, what's really the harm in trying? If it does work, then God would look more favorably upon you when you ask for your sister to be healed and wake up from her coma. If it doesn't, then at least it's going to count towards the weight of your soul as you take your final breath before the angels come down and scoop you up to be judged in God's court. That's more of a chance to see your whole family again in Heaven."
He… was right, wasn't he? He forgot his sister. His own sister! How could he have done that!? Who would she have when she wakes up if he had gone through with it!? And what if what Dylan was saying was true!? Since there is a God, and He does intervene on behalf of those who invoke Him, why not try!?
"Plus, suicide is a sin. If you had gone through with taking your own life, you would've never seen your family again; you're not going to be alive to repent after all. It's not all sunshine and rainbows when you snuff yourself out."
If Eugene had gone through with it, Novak would just be even happier.
Oh God…
He would've just made him happier! Imagine that insufferable smirk curling at the edges of his mouth and his sharp eyes glinting with mockery. Those eyes… THOSE DAMN EYES! Looking through him, dissecting him, savoring every ounce of humiliation Eugene was drowning in. That arrogant tilt of Novak's head, the way his grins as to demonstrate his superiority, set Eugene's blood boiling. He was NOT going to give Novak that satisfaction! NEVER!
"So where do I find them?"
"I don't know." Dylan shrugged. "It's not like I ever had an evil half-brother who I needed to get revenge on and went on a mission to try collecting the metaphysical fortune of bad guys so I can have every advantage I need for a request to God that my sister becomes healthy and wakes up from her coma."
Eugene threw his hands up. He felt the urge to berate Dylan some more but held his tongue. This was not the time to do something like that. "So, I'm still basically lost."
Dylan let out a huge sigh. "Look, I'm actually on a road trip right now to visit my parents in New England. You want to come with?"
"New England? That's the other side of the country. It'd be faster if you just took a plane."
"It wouldn't be a road trip then, would it? It's not about the destination, but the journey! Besides, I don't have a deadline to meet, I might as well explore the country on my way there! And what else do you have planned besides continue being homeless and poor?"
Like before, Eugene had no rebuttal to that. And like everything, what was the harm in trying? "Alright… I'll come with you."
And who knows? Maybe he could get something out of the journey.
The fragrance of death and profit was something Doctor Sean M. Rosenberg was all too familiar with as he leisurely strolled down the hospital's christened halls. A clipboard under his arm and his phone in his hand, he swerved to avoid clashing with the nurse pushing a cart of medical supplies to whatever room she was carrying them to.
He yawned. It had been five hours since he got his last sleep, and he needed another one right now. But he resisted, because that was meant for overtime pay, not for working regular hours. And besides, he needed to check up on his patient; he was very close to getting this case closed and all that was needed was one final push to the finish line.
"Hello, Mister Everett." He walked into his patient's room and stood at the foot of the hospital bed, his white coat pristine, his demeanor calm and professional. Mister Everett—a man in his mid-thirties with sunken eyes and a gaunt expression—lay in the bed, tethered to the machines that hummed softly in the gloomy room.
"Hello, doctor." Was all that the patient said before he went back to staring into the wall and be lost. His mood wasn't any better than it was yesterday, nor the day before. In fact, he was getting more depressed and anxious the longer he stayed in this hospital.
Exactly what the doctor needed.
"Feeling any better today?"
"My leg doesn't hurt as much anymore as it used to."
Ah yes, the leg. Everett broke it during a traffic accident with a commercial truck when his car went out of whack and took a life of its own. Along with his other leg, his left arm, and his right arm. Essentially, he broke every part of his body except for the most important parts. If it wasn't for that, Everett would've been out of this hospital some time ago.
"And what about how you feel on the inside?"
"No."
"Well, I'm glad you're being more and more honest with me, Mister Everett. You don't owe it to anyone to change how you really feel. Remember that."
"Yes, doc, you've been telling me that for quite a while."
Doctor Rosenberg proceeded to take a seat on the nearby chair. This was somewhat of a routine for him. Check up on Everett, sit down, make some polite conversations, learn more about the man, and so on. The hospital had no problem with Rosenberg taking up some extra time with this patient, after all, their goals align. They made sure that Everett never got a room with a window, just a blank, sterile wall. No television, no magazines to entertain himself with. Just him. Alone. For hours. The only human interaction he would get was from the doctors and the nurses maintaining his condition. Nurses whom have been instructed to make no small talk.
Last thing anybody in this hospital's administration needed was for a rogue nurse to pluck him out of the nice, steady pace Everett was on.
"I guess your sister hasn't visited you yet?"
Everett felt a spike of pain. It showed on his face. "No."
"Not one family member? How about friends?"
That spike delved deeper, stretching, enlarging. It was so obvious; the patient could not even hide it from his face no matter how hard he tried. Everett was an unmarried man living alone stuck in a dead-end job with no prospects of ever making it out of his predicament. No friends whatsoever, and his family has no overt display of care for him. And an obsession with anime figurines. In essence, a loser.
Of course, Rosenberg was not going to outwardly insult him for that. Don't want his heart to be closed to all further suggestions of opening up and taking Rosenberg's advice. It was enough just to isolate him.
Doctor Rosenberg tried to make some further small talk, but Everett kept his answers as a simple yes or a simple no. Sensing the atmosphere, Rosenberg told him that he could wait as long as he needed to until Everett felt like talking.
"Doctor… have you…?" Everett began again after half an hour of silence.
"Yes?"
Everett went silent for a few minutes after that, keeping Rosenberg on the edge of a cliff. Until finally, he continued. "Have you ever… had patients who considered taking the easy way?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean… let's say there was a man in a fatal condition or they hate life. Have you ever seen it get better?"
Rosenberg pressed his hands together, a picture of sympathy. So, it's finally come to this stage.
"Mr. Everett," He began, his voice smooth as silk, practiced through many years. "I know how difficult this has been for you. I can't imagine the toll it must be taking on you—not just physically, but emotionally. But—"
"Please just give me a straight answer, doctor. Whatever you think is my hidden intention, just ignore it. I'm just curious."
Rosenberg nodded. "Very well, Mister Everett, I'll give you a straight answer: no. I don't think I've ever seen any of those kinds of people get better. Some of them will try to put up a charade of being fine and dandy, but deep down? I could always tell."
The patient shifted slightly, his eyes darting to the wall again as though seeking an escape. He didn't respond. Rosenberg took a measured breath, tilting his head in a gesture of concern.
"Sometimes…" He continued. "They recognize they have to ask themselves the hard questions. About quality of life. About dignity. About what truly gives life its meaning."
Inside, his mind ticked like a well-oiled machine, calculating. A healthy liver. Two functioning kidneys. Lungs that could breathe life into another ten patients. And the heart—oh, the heart.
"They've fought valiantly," Rosenberg said with a tone tinged with morbid admiration. "No one could question their strength. But strength doesn't always mean holding on. Sometimes it means knowing when to let go."
Everett frowned, his brow furrowing. "So… they died miserable?"
"The ones who refused to give up did. They kept trying to find hope where there was none. I've seen it with my own eyes, time and time again. Their frail and broken bodies, the ragged gasps that feel like shards of glass tearing through their lungs. Their organs falter, one by one, until the agony becomes so unbearable that even medicine cannot fully silence." Doctor Rosenberg paused, letting the weight of his words sink into Everett's mind. Deep. "Their eyes—oh, their eyes—are the worst. The terror, the desperation. They beg silently, sometimes aloud, for just one more moment, even as their bodies betray them. I've held their hands as they screamed through nights that never seemed to end. The machines beep and hum around them, keeping them alive when every fiber of their being wants to stop, wants to rest." Doctor Rosenberg shook his head, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Every second of that fight etches scars into their hearts, scars that never heal. No one wins in that battle, Mr. Everett. Not the patient, not the family. It's only suffering, drawn out and cruel."
"And what about those who gave up?" Everett's voice got lower and trembled just a little bit more. "Isn't it natural to fight, to want to live?"
"Maybe. But from my experience as a doctor, I found that more often than not, the opposite was actually true. They found peace. Their faces relax, their bodies ease, and their loved ones remember them as they were, not as victims of a war they could never win. And in the end, isn't that what everyone deserves?"
"And what about those who didn't suffer? Who just hated how their life has become?"
And here they've come to the core of the issue. Doctor Rosenberg folded his hands together and covered his mouth with it. Everett should not see it at this time. "Do you know who Socrates is, Mister Everett?"
Everett nodded. "A Greek philosopher."
"Do you know how he died?"
"He was sentenced to drink a poisoned wine that would kill him."
"Sentenced, but they gave him some time to live because in reality, they wanted him to just get out of the city; his death was never their real intentions, just something to scare him away. But he stayed; do you know why?"
Everett shook his head.
"He refused to escape, not because he wanted to die, but because he saw the value in knowing when and how his end would come. He saw it as an opportunity—a rare gift. Socrates used those final days to put his affairs in order, to reflect on his life, and to meet death on his own terms. When the moment came, he drank the poison calmly, even discussing philosophy with his friends as it took hold. The calm, the dignity, the peace… having the power to choose that for yourself. To let go of the pain and the struggle, and to leave this world on your own terms, surrounded by care and compassion."
"But… he was brave. And he was famous and rigid in his philosophy. He wasn't the average man, and you've never met him. I want to know the patients you personally have attended to."
Doctor Rosenberg placed a reassuring hand on Everett's arm. "Bravery isn't the absence of fear, Mr. Everett. It's making a choice despite it. Socrates wasn't without fear, but he chose to see the end as a friend rather than an enemy. By embracing it, he died surrounded by his beliefs, his thoughts, and his dignity intact. And that was the same sort of bravery I saw personally in the patients who chose the same thing Socrates chose. That's why I brought him up. Those who know that it's not weakness to say enough is enough. To choose peace over pain and that there are humane and dignified ways to find rest."
Everett doesn't respond, his head bowing as his face was downcast. The silence in the room was heavy. "Did they die happy?"
"It was the happiest I've ever seen them."
The words hit their mark. Everett let slip one fatal sob, then slowed his breathing. The doctor sat quietly for a moment, letting the silence work its way into Everett's fractured resolve. Medical Assistance in Dying was legal in Oregon. Doctor Rosenberg knew it, and so did Everett.
Finally, Everett looked up, his eyes rimmed with red. "If… if somebody—" He paused. He didn't want to keep the charade up anymore. "If I do this, will it hurt?"
Rosenberg smiled faintly; let Everett see some sort of a lease-like warmth. "Not at all. It will be peaceful. You'll drift off into rest, surrounded by care and compassion."
The patient nodded weakly, his spirit crushed, his will bent.
"Okay." He whispered, his voice barely audible. "I think I would like that."
Rosenberg leaned forward, barely able to contain himself. "Mister Everett. Are you absolutely sure?"
Perhaps a mistake, as Everett actually seemed to be considering his options again fell into silence. Come on, what else did he have to live for? Make peace with the fact that no woman would ever find him attractive, and that he was never going to be a dad. And what was it that he was doing again? Some no-name content creator that couldn't muster up even five hundred views on a good day. A very fancy way of saying unemployed. Rosenberg has seen the room he filmed in, just a saturnalia of lewd imagery of anime girls. The only thing he has to look forward to was a nightly session with the computer and the feeling of shame and self-hatred afterwards.
The only, single, redeeming quality about Everett was being a registered organ donor.
"Yes, doctor." Everett finally came to a conclusion. "I'm sure."
He rose from the chair and gave Everett's shoulder one last reassuring squeeze. "I'll make the arrangements," he said softly. "You've made a courageous choice, Mr. Everett."
As soon as Doctor Rosenberg closed the door behind him, leaving Everett sobbing quietly in his hospital bed, his carefully maintained facade dropped from his face. Solemnity, evaluated, and sincerity's mask vanished, replaced by an electric buzz of unrestrained glee. He strode quickly down the hallway, heels clicking against the linoleum, and lips twitching upward despite his best efforts to contain himself.
His hands clenched into fists as he pumped them into the air, his entire body alive with triumphant energy.
Yes! Alright! That stupid little bastard bought it. Hook, line, and sinker. His heart, his kidneys, his liver—they're all pristine. Top-notch quality. Oh, the amount of kickback he'd receive for such a healthy heart goes for these days! A few sad faces and some little stories, and now he was looking at a gold mine!
He chuckled darkly, imagining the fat check already. The thought of the lucrative payout sent another shiver of satisfaction coursing through him.
And the best part: this was all legal! Good luck prosecuting him without a crime! Besides, this was a good thing anyway! There's someone out there who wasn't such a loser like Everett, but they have failing organs; they need it more than him.
Straightening his tie and smoothing his lab coat, he let out a final, contented sigh, his euphoric grin once again masked by a polished, professional expression. Time to get back to work—there were arrangements to be made, contracts to prepare, and more patients to convince.
I'm actually almost finished with the semi-sequel of The Disastrous Chance Noir, called Worth of an Englishman (over 110,000 words!). Now all I have to do is write the final scene of the duel and the conclusion of the main character's descent into the path he set himself upon. I'm sort of working on a synopsis now, and this is the draft:
Worth of an Englishman:
Britain is on the edge. For decades, the looming threat of unbridled chaos long hung over the azure main. Every other day, there is always some attack that riles the factions of the country up in civil unrest, adding racial tensions that have created a powder keg, long simmering beneath the surface, and explode it out into open conflict. Desperate to maintain control, governments has employed widespread media campaigns aimed at pacifying the masses. Yet these measures only seem to deepen resentment, especially with one Carlun Routledge.
Andreus Lyon had gone back to the normal life, seeing anything outside of it as a fool's errand, until a vision from the Beyond commanded him to go to England and employ his skills once more. If he should return to his civilian life, then at the very least, he should teach and leave behind someone who has an even stronger will than Andreus had.
But the last time Andreus did something with good intentions, it ended badly for him. This time, the consequences are going to be much bigger than just him and every matter of his life. Would this endeavor come to haunt Andreus, or will it give him the rest he needs?
Coming Soon!
12/27/2024