Sentinels of the Celestial Realm - Nothing in that world Part 1

by Corey Gould

Center of this intrigue is a highly trained officer from the Special Reconnaissance Regiment, cadre commander with deep ties to military intelligence. Rachel Marron, the world-renowned black pop star fleeing social unrest in the US, she must navigate the turmoil of a global thriller while grappling with his own demons. Inspired by Whitney Houston's movie The Bodyguard and her life.

3. Shadows in the Heaven

Holograms in the Dark

The Londoner reclines in first class, molded by the fine leather that adapts his frame, a throne in a metallic chariot racing through the night sky. A TransAtlantic GX8 slices through the high-altitude dark. Ion engines thrumming under the craft's skin, smooth, the slipstream of a whisper.

In the cabin, a symphony of adjustable lights dances on the weary presences of passengers.
At the same time aligning their bodies with the precision of circadian algorithms.
Londontown to New York—an old route, but the tech onboard makes it feel futuristic.
This isn't stratosphere travel as it once was—it's a muted pulse on the frontier of futurism.

The military tribune shifts in his armchair.
Civilian attire does nothing to dull the knife-edge of discipline carved into him by many years of army service.

The lieutenant colonel's posture defies the plush luxury.
Shoulders squared, eyes scanning with the alertness of a hawk.
His hands, folded with deceptive ease, rest as a coiled spring beneath that cloak of calm.

Beside him, a businessman.
His fingers jitter against his in-flight flat panel.

Relieve by the imperceptible hum of the personal force field that cocoons the commando soldier.
Not more than a low buzz against the silence.
It mutes all but the most invasive sounds, guarding against unwanted intrusions on the same path as a sentry made of ether.

The plane holds its breath.
Voyagers wrapped in curated comfort sink into sleep.
All their features softened under the bio-responsive illumination.
They're unaware of the ripples of tension that stretch as if that wires from the martial officer's seat.

The news reports on the adjacent monitor play on, offering snapshots of a world teetering on the periphery.
Headlines slash through the peacefulness …

UNREST SHAKES THE CITY, CALLS FOR THISTLEDOWN'S RESIGNATION MOUNT, WEST END RIOTS TAKE OVER LONDON STREETS.

The images leap and stutter. Scenes flickering with the frantic urgency of havoc. Their visages become cast in red and blue bright: the burn of protest fires licking at obscure alleys, banners flailing in a similar way to the wings of panicked birds. The fronts of the oppressed become framed by the black gleam of riot helmets.
All captions chant their battle cries in sterile white: justice, peace, change, blood.
Each vibration of the masses moves through the broadcast—an organism with veins full of anger and rebellion.
The Square Mile's western terminus—a wear-out ending in this battered corner of Albion's megalopolis—, that shabby quarter of the forgotten, roars on cue, its rage wrapping the cold bars of society's cage and rattling them to splinters.
The Big Smoke's expressway, packed with the unwashed populace, surged in rollers of Mobgripe.
Each scene seems punctuated by the steel-gray lines of Rustic Ruckus's anti-police barricades.

The SRR-officer's gaze remains steadfast, the surface of a deep lake where bottomless pit currents collide.
At the espy of plebeian brawls, something tightens, a fleeting glimmer that pulls across his sight, sharpening them.
His mind, relentless and calculating, shifts through the Rolodex of power game makers.
Who would capitalize on this boiling hell?
Who stands to profit from the smoke and shrieks, from barricades that echo with battlecrys demanding more than politicians know to give?
In the back of his recall, the special force warrior runs through the names and titles of the key players, assessing the potential fallout.

The rhythms of the crowd and the fractured screams of the headlines are familiar.
Their soundtrack—anxiety spiked with pleas, fire with demands—has played in many angles of his commitment to memory.

As fast as you can, thousands of feet above the storm, separated by nothing but metal and breath, the soldier stays still.
The officer weighs the repercussions, the latent strength in a city pushed to rage, and the sinister calculus needed to navigate it.
The secret service boss's frown deepens, the rigid set of his mouth marking an expression that borders on arrogance.
He reads the shifting captions: Civil Conflict. The Prime Minister Under Siege. Will Thistledown Bend?
Each phrase bit into the sterile silence as a whispered taunt.

The neighbor's television rolls onward, dishing out scenes of uniformed police bracing against a tide of shouting, seething humanity.

A muscle in the lieutenant colonel's jaw tense.
To him, the idea seems horrible that in Albion's capital shadowed niches rise with clenched fists and howl to life the scum as an amateur farce.
That's the underbelly's desperate mimicry of dominance.
Real politics, the kind that steers nations, never builds on noise.
It's engineered in rooms where the public enunciates cut with icy steel of decisions.
He dismisses the footage with the same antipathy somebody might spare a fly.
The roars of tumult shrink, their reach limited to pixels and passing interest.

He glances over the cabin, where travelers sink into curated comfort.
The low thrum of artificial gravity tricked the thinker into feeling cradled, untouched by the raw disorder below.

An attendant glides by, movements feather-light.
With the hush of fabric brushing aura, eyeballs scan for requests while guests drift in their near-weightless bubble.

The aircraft, the crown jewel of BAE Systems, mocks the turbulence of the world it sails above.
While American giants such as SpaceX and Boom Supersonic battle for prestige, the British titan has leaped ahead.
At that time, the British ruled the stratosphere with sleek gliders, capable of swallowing the Atlantic in two hours.
The Germans let their wings burn out, their vision of vegan propulsion engines crashing against the walls of indifference.

The cabin's wind imbued with nano-agents that whisper into each passenger's bloodstream, throbs understated.
Tailor-made infusions of calm or alertness shape their inner tides.
Someone dozes deeper under a timed release of sleep enhancers, while another sips an eco-palatable martini.

The vision, sharpened by an energy boost that leaves the taste of citrus and something electric on his tongue.
The militium's breeze tastes neutral, precise, free from the push or pull of artificial serenity.

Windows became obsolete here.
All traded for AR panels that dazzle with their ability to show anything.
There you see rolling continents, celestial bodies unfurling in universe maps.
Not to mention overall virtual vistas of planets out of alternative worlds painted in brushstrokes of cobalt-green and coral.

He does not scan at them much.

The actual view, past all technological theater, little more than a tenebrous stretch of infinity, the black behind the Turquoise curve of Earth.
A streak of luminous clouds appears as specters.
The right side glowed in the rarefied ambiance, a distant reminder of Earth's unsolved mysteries.

The elegant, tailored lighting alterations, stirred by a collective sigh.
Everything syncs to the ebb and flow of brain waves, enveloping the commuters in hues that coax or cradle their meditations.

It spills over the commando officer in a calculated wash of muted silver, more of a suggestion than a lucent.

Holographic monitoring devices glint to life around the cabin, summoned by a glance or a gesture.
The luster outlines, ghostlike, before retreating, sleek.

An SRR-tribune in plain clothes, seated across the aisle, stares into that endless expanse beyond the hovering boards. No stars—alone in the thick velvet of the cosmos, lightless that swallows the shine and holds its breath. The cubicle rides through this mum ocean. It engineered pacification. This a stark contradiction to the roars rising from London's boulevards, where the earthbound fight for their piece of the future.

A console inserted in the armrest vibes with a smooth tone, a silent invitation as floating icons and translucent menus.

The tribune's palm hovers, interest waning.

The neuro-interface reads the shift in his cerebral undulates, offering pathways to distraction, but he lets it be.

His thoughts drift, weaving through the hum of the ion engines and the gentle groan of shifting metal.
The chair underneath him adapts, the memory foam structure flowing the same as water, realigning under subtle sensors.
Pressure points ease as embedded micro-massagers respond to a tension he isn't aware of holding.

The aircraft's outer shell became composed of sentient microscopic fibers.
That varies from minute to second, healing the scratch a careless ring might leave or stitching against wear.

It's an unsettling aliveness, an awareness that creeps through the stateroom with the intimacy of a whispered secret.

He can almost believe the plane watches, even breathes.
The tribunus militaris's left hand moves, more reflex than choice.
A shimmer of his wrist ignites the mini-projectors implanted downward on his skin, casting a cool blue lambency that pools above his fist.
The lucid mold into a three-dimensional sphere, delicate and seamless, pulsing the same as a heart.
He shifts his fingers, guiding the data menu to spin and splinter into encrypted files.
It stays invisible to the curious and unreadable to the most prying in eyesight.
The plane's airborne servers, cloud-like and omnipresent, connect him to global internet streams.
Information flows at the speed of instinct, unrestricted.

One file floats forward, labeled in clean lines: Rachel Marron—Private Archives.
He touches the midair, and the hologram unfolds.
A recording blooms, rich and layered.
Rach's utter spills into the invisible bubble around him, notes of fatigue staining its natural grace.

It possesses him a scene he had studied before—a quiet moment between her and her parents.
A rare portrait of normalcy cracked at the margins.
As a forensic psychologist.
He's hyper-concentrated on the subtleties—the tics, the facial fleeting emotions that betray her.

A child's veiled dispatch breaks through, tiny and sharp as glass. "Peter Pan," Ashley says, clinical and empty, as if inclusive stories have lost their wonder. The SRR-knight's brow creases, optics narrowing on the playback. Kids dream, they laugh, they chase shadows of fairy tales. But not this soul. The girl speaks as if she has already resulted in disappointment.

The diva's speech stutters with emotion, cutting through the recording's static.
The softness turns resolute with a glitch-like shift.
Words flaring and wilting as she pivots from tenderness to cold, from nurturing to defensive.

His perception narrows further, tracking the micro-expressions by a hair, the moves of her jaw, the twitch by her watches.
A textbook case, he muses, the profile of someone strung taut by the threads of instability.
Bipolar, the thought clicks into place, familiar and certain.
She drifts through moods likewise, blades caught in a pendulum's arc, jagged and relentless.
The singer doesn't realize what happened.

He pulls the 3d projection closer, rewinds, plays it back in slow motion, dissecting the story hidden between the beats of her breath. The cabin's murmurs and mechanical whispers blur, leaving the glow of the holo and his focused gaze. Psychology trained, he uncovers the secrets of a woman the world views as enigmatic. He knows better. She's complex, yes, but predictable in her mess.

"Whoa, look at that. It's something out of Harry Potter!" a state, loud and too bright, crashes into his concentration, splintering it as if a crystal fell against a stone. He blinks, the illusory gleam fading as reality rushes backward. The plane hums on, the data sphere suspended between the last frozen frame of Rache's lineaments and the endless stretch of the sky outside.

US News - Next Day

The newsroom appears mute as Sarah Mitchell's gaze flicks between the two experts on her monitor.
The tension in the TV station feels palpable, the static before a storm.
James Thompson leans onward, a brow arching as he senses an academic sparring match brewing.
"Dr. Jenkins, Dr. Carter raises a significant point," he interjects smoothly, turning to the environment scientist's pixelated frame.
"If extraterrestrial blow-ups are as ancient as our planet, how does greenhouse warming contribute to what we witnessed over Western Australia?
Could it be thinning the planet's defenses?"

Dr. Jenkins, undeterred, lifts a document, fringes frayed from anxious handling.
"It seems still nuanced, James.
Issue not whether collisions happened.
It's about the rate of occurrences we're seeing at once.
Climatic erosion weakens our natural filters.
We've shifted from the realm of statistical outliers to events with increasing regularity.
This bolide's penetration symbolizes a harbinger of that kind we'd be foolish to ignore."

Dr. Carter's image continues unflinching.
She tilts her head, a half-smile more of resignation than amusement.
"While Dr. Jenkins's concerns reflect legitimate environmental fears, they misplace blame.
Heaven mechanics don't change because of climate stressors.
If we speak of the bolide, we should address orbital paths and gravitational anomalies.
Of course, near-Earth object surveillance shortcomings."

The studio keeps silent as a reel of devastation plays in the corner of the control framework …
Burned forests, flattened homes; and communities get cast in deep shadows by rolling clouds of ash.
A voiceover kicks in: "Casualties I expected to rise, with local authorities urging citizens to stay clear of impingement zones until further notice."

Sarah bends forward.
Her articulate smoothing coaxes a more grounded angle from the discourse.
"Dr. Carter, what do you foresee for future galaxy monitoring initiatives?
Could we have anticipated this?"

The astrophysicist's peepers narrow, calculating.
"We are playing catch-up.
Our current technology allows us to track large, well-known objects.
But a blank becomes vast, and out there exist thousands of undiscovered bolides.
Budget cuts, lack of global coordination—all play into the gaps we face.
We need financing, cooperation, and robust predictive models."

Dr. Jenkins's mug stresses, words burning at the back of his throat.
"Investment not alone for telescopes and radar, Doctor Carter.
Also for planetary care.
A world with a strong atmosphere doesn't just ward off extramundane debris—it heals.
Ignoring these interconnections puts us all at risk."

"I must disagree," said Dr. Linda Carter, statement measured.
"The idea that weather variations create these bumps I find not supported by the data.
A Chicxulub impactor weighing five metric tons would not burn up in and out in the surroundings, regardless of atmospheric conditions.
These blows have always happened and will continue without element factors."

The tension crackles in the television station as the static before a lightning strike. Sarah's brow knits, a thin veil of sweat catching the glare of overhead lamps. James shifts in his stool, papers crinkling under his palm, gazes darting between the two scientists locked in intellectual combat.

Dr. Jenkins's phiz blooms crimson, veins taut at his temples, his enunciate teetering on the rim of a screech. "Climate denier!" he spits, the words slicing through the surroundings. His hand slaps a stack of documents so hard the edges flare equal startled birds. "How can you dismiss this? The spike in minor Astro-collisions aligns with atmospheric decay. The evidence isn't just here"—he points, jabbing a finger at the control device of his cluttered bureau—"it's everywhere."

Dr. Carter, sitting in her halo of cool, ambient office brightness, tilts her head with a practiced calm.
Her view doesn't flinch; they assess, sharp as polished glass.
"This denies environmental rewrites.
It becomes about maintaining scientific integrity.
Meteor encroachments are part of Earth's rhythm, a heartbeat as old as time.
Taking the sky's fury embodies a product of human negligence simplifies what we grasp."

The argument simmers, a pot on the brink of boiling. Sarah crouches forward, the bright Forget-me-nots color of her blazer stark against the newsroom's muted tones. "Thank you, Dr. Carter, Dr. Jenkins. We'll revisit these insights after a brief pause. Let's refocus on the facts, not the heat."

As the broadcast segues into commercials, a strange silence follows, as if the media broadcasting holds its breath.
The unresolved debate lingers as a heavy shadow, pressing on viewers as a collective weight.
Remembering the tangled truth, what might fall.

5th Avenue, Manhattan

Rachel steps into the lodge.
The breath grows heavy with the faint odor of cedar and last night's rainfall. Each step benefits from pushing through the fog.
Her glances, puffed from crying, take in the scene. Her brothers, Michael and Chris, splayed on the couch, mouths open in mid-laugh at the reporting flickers on the three-dimensional screen.
The news anchor's silver-tong drips with drama.
Then talking about the meteor's eerie descent into the Australian outback, stirring wild tales and stranger theories.
They do not blink as her younger sister passes.

The kitchen appears colder than usual.
Metal counters sheen sterile under the pendant refulgent.
Her reflections perverted and squirming, a nervous ghost.

The pop star opens the fridge, the murmur of the compressor swallowing her sigh.
She pulls out a jar of stracciatella mix and sets to making a milkshake, the blender's muted purr masking the ache in the back of her surveillance.
The cool, smooth texture of the spoon clinks against the glass, rhythmic, around meditative.

Chris moves, a giggle peeling off as Michael nudges him.
The glow of the virtual bounces on their expressions, turning into silhouettes with intense cheekbones and untroubled smiles.

Rachel's goggle softens for a heartbeat, touched by their innocence, but it fades as fast as it comes.
The tiredness she carries comes not alone from lack of sleep.
It's exhaustion that roots itself abyssal, clutching at marrow and musing.

Footsteps creak behind her. Editha enters, her presence warm, her horizon-gleam darting from the singer to the boys, to the hum of the blender. Little Ashley bounds in after her, cheeks pink and hair woven into tight, shiny braids. Her uniform looks crisp, too clean for a child's mischief. She spots her mother and beams, her Soul-light sparkling brighter than the dawn sun cutting through rain. The Voice's mine melts, the weight slipping, just for an instant. She leans down, brushing her lips against Ashley's cheek. The perfume of childhood shampoo mingled with the sharp sweetness of her vanilla chip swirl.

"Morning, baby," Rach whispers, wrapped in tired warmth. The girl's smile widens, a balm the Queen of the Night undergoes skin-deep but cherishes all the same.

Michael and Chris still don't spare the goddess of music a glance. Their eyelets, glued to the holographic film lounge flutter in shades of blue and crimson.
The channel transfers with a swipe of Michael's hand, right away projecting a Britannic tidings report.

A tone shifts, murkier.
The conditions in the room harden as chaotic footage from London's underground.
Subterrane Level 7 emerges, casting fierce, jittering shadows against the walls.
Eclipsed gaze, calm point out, scientist explains Canoidea.
Grimaces, once human but forthwith grotesque and warped, snarl from the holo-manifestation.
Their twisted features bear a canine, almost wolfish, resemblance.

Rachel's fingers pause on her cup, the milkshake forgotten as the images crawl under her skin.

Strong-armed police in sleek, black armor round up the infected, their movements stiff and efficient.
A sudden bark—a command or perhaps a plea—echoes from the speakers, making her wince.

"Damn," Chris mutters, his body tensing as he crouches over, elbows digging into his knees. Michael shoots him a look, shadowed hollows narrowed, irritation sparking as flint.

"Here we go again," Mike scoffs, hands folding crosswise his chest. He drifts, the creak of the couch adding a low, uneasy note. Their bickering ignites, small jabs escalating into louder, sharper digs. The words blur together—a morn time's tired soundtrack songstress knows by heart.

She doesn't interrupt. They're her brothers, and their constant skirmishes are as predictable as the sunrise, as tiresome as the recycled air that hums from the wall vents. She lets out a long breath through her nose, feeling the weight of the lodge pressing down.

The entrance swings open with the whoosh of the automated lock. Sy, Bill, and Wesley stride in as if they own the place. Sy's image inflames with an affable simper when he spots her. Billy nods with reserved politeness. But Wes—Wes's glass-shine engages on the leading lady, probing and insistent. His smirk represents all energy and flash, a force that demands attention. But today, the boundary of Rache's patience comes to razor-thin.

"Morning, beautiful," the hip-hopper greets, stepping close with that cocky tilt, slanting in as if to brush his lips to hers.
She shifts back, the movement seamless yet loaded.

The surrounding atmosphere thickens, the others catching the wordless exchange.

Wesley's smile falters, void-lights narrowing, a quiver of confusion breaking through his well-rehearsed charm.
"Editha stay over?" he asks, half-playful and half-accusatory. His gaze darts to Eddi, who stands near the door with Ashley, arms crossed, her dull-mirrors foreboding as a storm. She holds her muteness, jaw set tight.

Songster's response cuts through his performance. "Have you said morning to my daughter?" The molding in her tone sharpens, slicing through the lazy grin he wears.

Wesley blinks, thrown for a second before his cinder-lights sink to the girl. "Hey, kid," he says, with a careless wave and a perfunctory nod. The warmth of the gesture runs to an absent, hollow as an echo. Ash little acknowledges him, more interested in the pattern her shoes make against the polished floor. The silence speaks volumes.

Tony and Henry stroll in moments later, filling the room with their simple spirit. They greet Rachel, then drop to one knee, their smiles stretching wide as they say hello to Ash. She lights up, leaning into their embraces. The difference hits as a current, too obvious to miss.

Michael and Chris, oblivious to the tension and lost in the gravity of the news, flip backward to the broadcast.
This time it's Wales—a sprawling report on additional mutation, an unrelated village kept hostage by quarantine.
Rodentia, they call it.
The stereoscopic media-anchor trembles with restrained alarm.
He becomes spiked with urgency as grainy images of closed-off towns quiver on the kinescope.

"And now there's a new," Chris mutters, shaking his head, incredulity and dread mixing in his sound. Rach stares at them, the irritation crawling up her spine. All this confusion, all this fear, and it takes this to catch their interest?
The axonometric news ticker glides without noise behind him, casting a soft neon hue that highlights his nonchalance.

She straightens, her say steady and commanding. "Hologram off."

The projection dissolves, leaving the room shadier, the coruscating muted in an eyelash, hazy gray. Michael and Chris blink hollow-fires. There seems to be nothing left to burn. He adjusts as if waking from a deep, shared daze. For the first chance that morning, they, in fact, look at her. The mise en scene hangs burdensome, silent but full of words unsaid.

"Are you high early in the dawn?" her younger sister wonders.

"Don't polish your holy glow too dogged, sis, in front of Ash," Michael replies, bored. "Otherwise, the little lad will notice that the gold plating chips off by the girl next door," Mike smirks, and the familiar phrase lands as a barb, digging into an old wound. The vocalist's jaw moves in stillness. Her sibling knows what he's doing—reviving the ghost of her past with the boy who once called her that in whispers under streetlights.

Rachel doesn't wait. "Did you two talk to Papa?" The matter leaves her mouth tight and clipped, frustration held back by a thread.

Chris sprawled on the slick, eco-leather couch with Jasmine curled on his lap as an accessory, throws her a slow, lazy expression.
"Why?" His question drips with indifference, not much lifting the silence.

"Why?" The star's patience snaps. "Someone killed almost our father!" Her statement cracks, the disbelief cutting through her as a jagged shard. How could they not know? How could they not care?

Michael and his bro exchange glances, scowls caught somewhere between puzzlement and mild surprise. Chris lifts his brow-arches, a half-smirk playing at his lips. "Did something happen to him?" His tone, flat down to casual, so light, as if discussing a misplaced set of keys.

The Queen's breath comes faster, a hot flush of anger rise. Her heart beats against her ribs, rapid and heavy. She feels the absurdity of it all—the cold disconnect of her brothers, the sterile gleam of their surroundings. In this streamlined comfort and curated emotions, their detachment hits harder.
"No," she bites out, veil-fire gaze narrowing, dripping with sarcasm. The room's sleek automated effulgence dims, acting to the rise in her heartbeat. The tension becomes tangible, a whipping in the sphere.

Michael and his sib part extra view, their fathomless shades of her stare sparking with a shared joke no one else than they get. A sneer forms on Chris, extensive and careless. They break into a song, singing pitched and mocking: "Rule, Britannia. Britannia, rule the waves … "

Rachel's fists clench, nails pressing crescents into her palms. The high-up feels thick, squeezing on her chest. "Do you think that's funny?" Her proclamation wobbles, penetrating with the sting of betrayal. "Papa ran towards a bomb and a Ghost officer saved him. Then someone tried to shoot him, and the same Watcher helped him again!" The terms "Ghost" and "Watcher" hold power, no longer some absurdity but a cold reality. The hall shifts with a subtle hum as if reacting to her pounding, the hi-tech ambiance adjusting, dimming to soothe tensions.

Michael's brow furrows, a flit of real understanding crossing his flinch, but it's gone in a blink. He moves to Chris, more entertained than alarmed. "The old man has an SRR bodyguard?" He sounds nearby. He quizzes Chris on a trivial fact from some tabloid.

Chris, the perpetual jester, shakes and smirks. "Don't forget: an officer," he corrects, tilting his head with faux reverence. He turns his peer to Rach, the amusement glinting in his peepholes as if ice.

"Lieutenant colonel, actually," Her words, sticking in her throat, bitter and strong.

A spark fires up in their pinholes at that. The corners of the brother's mouths pull wider, the giggle rising. Chris's goggles go wide, feigning shock. "Wow!" he says, stretching the word into a parody of awe.

Michael joins in, arms thrown out as if he's narrating to an audience. "An officer from the Special Reconnaissance Regiment. Who gets that?" The grin on his snoot gleams, intense as the LED-lit trim of the lodge.

Chris's silent caverns looked, tapping his chin drama-wise as if deep in thought.
"King and queen, maybe," his declaration drips with mock-seriousness.

Michael's laughter spills out, echoing in the sterile, sound-dampened area. "And our old man." They share a laugh.

Chris, never knowing when to stop, adds, "Pays to be friends with the robot general."

Their hilarity fills the scope, sharp, almost metallic in its resonance. Rachel's pulse falters, a wave of numbness washing over her as their expressions crash against her ears. The room, with all its modernity and comfort, appears colder than ever. They do not see it—the danger, the weight of what happened. Or worse, they do, and the righteous don't care. The realization sinks in, heavy as lead.

New York, Airport John F. Kennedy

The stratosphere glider sinks down toward Gotham.
It slices through a sky, gray and grumpy, with clouds resembling a hangover.
The vertical landing jolts the wayfarers, eliciting a mix of surprised gasps and half-hearted applause, the same as a subpar magic trick.
Some of them cling to their overpriced synth-tea, hoping their beverage stays upright and their dignity intact.

A seasoned officer turns ambassadorial and perches in a corner.
He glances around, a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

He notices the furtive glances—tourists sneaking peeks from behind their devices, pretending to drop their phones just to get a better look at him. In the Thames Metropolis, he was familiar with the paranoia of secret tasks, not this ridiculous fan club vibe. Are they entertained by his sharp jawline or his dashing royal charm? Either way, he wishes he'd brought his shades. The lieutenant colonel's trained senses pick up their amusement. From a type that comes with hushed whispers and prevaricator grins. This isn't the wariness he's used to from covert missions. No, this feels ... off.

As the door hisses open, the customary announcements crackle over the loudspeaker as a cheeky twist.
"Ladies and gentlemen, because of recent surveillance protocols, Big Apple visitors arriving from the UK will experience extra delays at security checks.
Your patience dwells appreciated, but let's be real—it's New York, and nobody has that!"
A collective groan rolls through the cabin, similar to a well-rehearsed symphony of complaints.

The Brit clutches his cornflower-colored diplomatic passport as if it advances to a golden ticket. He watches the flight attendant bounce over to him with eyes that twinkle as if he won the lottery. "Diplomats first," she beams, a little too bright for 7 AM. He swishes past her, getting the impression of a celebrity emerging from a private jet. Someone spills his coffee on his own coat.

Stepping into the terminal, he gets struck by the jumble.
The vast, luminous concourse hums with the quiet, mechanical efficiency of bots patrolling and neon-lit kiosks buzzing with holographic ads.
But something else fills the unfathomed deep—stares.

A crowd of teenagers gathered nearby.
Everyone elbowing each other and whispering.
Their mobiles rise comparable to paparazzi at a movie premiere.
One girl holds her hand as if acting in a drama, as if to say, "Wait right here, I must fetch my best selfie angle!"
She darts to a cluster of souvenir shops, ponytail swaying, no doubt to find the perfect mug that screams I met a diplomat!

The emissary skips sideways at the glass partition.
His countenance reflects in a spirited manner pressed charcoal suit, shirt crisp and pale, tie impeccable.
Nothing out of the norm.

The station's ambient synth-music thrums tail-end of him, punctuated by the chirp of surveillance drones whizzing past.
He shifts his collar, views narrowing.
An airport worker almost face-plants over a baggage cart.
A businessman stops mid-conversation, raising his thumb in an enthusiastic "You go, Glen Coco!" sort of way.
The British envoy raises an eyebrow, wondering if he by accident wandered onto a set for a spy movie.
So why are they acting identic to how he's a pop star on tour?
"Love your work!" a woman breezes, dripping with admiration. The militium stares after her, up and down bewildered. What on earth has he done to warrant such fanfare? Did MI6 beyond-the-scenes launch a campaign using his appearance, or has his name slipped into some viral mess he missed?

Navigating the diplomatic line at passport regulation, he's given a wide berth.
The douane-officer beams at him as if he spotted a unicorn.
"Welcome back," the border cop chirps, stamping his blue-bordered diplomatic ID card as when it's a prized collectible.
The United States gives them up for recognized diplomats, but they have a certain reputation for border guards ... "MI5 or MI6?"

The man from London smiles, "I'm just a diplomat."
The English blink, realizing he's unsure why they remember him here.
The public servant's enthusiasm feels a bit as if a kid meets his superhero.

At pass check, the custom-agent glances at the Pom, breaking into a grin reserved for VIPs.

The trained mask he wears, of a man honed by missions in hostile territory and long political talks, starts to crack.
Something isn't adding up, and the nagging sense of exposure prickles up his neck as an invisible hand.

The security guard at passport control peers over the rim of his high-tech glasses. The lenses tinted a light blue, mapping the biometric data that floats holo-based above the desk. He moves, arms crossed in a practiced pose of authority, his mustache twitching with a life of its own as if it's trying to escape the talk.

"I've seen a lot of diplomats," he says, carrying a slight metallic echo from the safety filter woven into the wind.
"But this? This becomes a first."
He flips the subject of His Majesty's identification with the grace of a card shark.

A three-dimensional seal shimmers under the terminal's cold white luminiferous.

The passenger on mission leans in, the corners of his mouth lifting into a smile designed to be equal parts charm and superiority.
The kind the limeys have mastered over centuries of monarchy and dry humor.
"Well, I try to exceed expectations. One has to rise above mediocrity, above all in a place as... uninspired as JFK."

The gatekeeper's mustache twitches again.
The UK emissary swears it almost curls upward.
"Marcus Gallagher, huh?"
The name echoes in the silence between beeping scanners and announcements in multiple languages.
The guard's spectacles narrow, sparking.
He connects dots he can see, but nobody else.

The diplomat inclines, feigning interest. "You say that as if you've just discovered the Royals live next door to you in a trailer park."

The sentinel leans back, letting out a breath that fogs up the virtual cinematheque for an eyelash. His stares roam over Marcus with a mix of doubt and amusement. "You don't quite look identical to a typical chap from the islands. You've got more of a ... local flavor to you."

Marcus's smirk deepens as he flicks an imaginary speck off his cufflink, the silver catching the tender candescent as a subtle wink.
"Ah, but they don't know England for its beauty. I'm more of an evolutionary hiccup."

The guard chuckles, a rare sound in the sterile hum of the terminal. "Modesty too? You seem a genuine piece of work."

"An endangered species, if you will," the Brit responds, his watch observing the room for the first hint of trouble. The airport station stands packed with travelers dragging transparent luggage. All contents get lit with neon borders that rat-tat-tat in a low voice with each step. A drone floats by, emitting a modest whir as it captures security footage. Its tiny red lens follows the English as if it's suspicious of his every image.

The threshold keeper, not done with his impromptu comedy act, hangs over with a glimmer in his laugh-lights danced. "While you're here, you should check out one of those advanced immersive theaters. You'd steal the show, I bet." The official suggests, his orbs gleaming with hilarity.

The Briton's brows knit together for a second before smoothing out, his pondering dismissing the remark. "I'll keep that in my thinking. Though New York isn't the city I long to revisit."

"Why's that?"
The guard's smirk widens, entertained by the Londoner's mounting disdain for the metropolis on the Hudson River.
He enjoys this unexpected exchange more than he should have.

Marcus lifts a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug, glimpses scanning a group of teenagers nearby. Their augmented reality glasses display holographic social feeds. At that moment, they react and stare in his direction. "Let's call it the trip was an assault on all senses. Rude people, shoulder-to-shoulder crowds, and the music—oh, don't get me started on the musicians. Walk into a record store last time, thought I'd broaden my horizons. Asked for '50 Cents' and they threw me out for cadging."

The border warden snorts, unable to hide his grin. "50 Cents? So they tossed you, huh? Thing they didn't decide to battle you on the spot."

"Battle? That's what you label it?" The diplomat's tone rises, disbelief coloring each syllable. "It sounded more as if someone choked on a thesaurus and a drum machine at the same point. And they dare to call it culture."

The official beam harder, enjoying every hint of outrage in Marcus's stiff pommy accent. "Well, you're for sure gonna fit right in here. Just... avoid the music shops, yeah? Wouldn't want a repeat of the 50 Cent incident."

The guard laughs all the way, waving him through with a mock salute. "Welcome to Fun City, Mr. Gallagher. Hope you survive it this time."

The Brit mutters somewhat too clipped and Anglican to catch. Prompt gathers his passport and steps forward with a look that says he's brushing off Empire City's amount of crumbs off his lapel. But he can't ignore the cacophony of the arrivals hall. There grows the murmur of talks. Neon ads blink for endless brands. Not to forget, that unmistakable smell of the Melting Pot lingers around: a mix of too-strong cologne, something fried, and ambition.

Meanwhile, beyond the city in Rachel Marron's penthouse on 5th Avenue

Miss Marron stares out at Central Park, a frown engraved profound into her features.
Lustrous and big casement in her high-rise residence adapts without a glitch, dimming as the sun blazes outward, providing her a sanctuary from the glaring lambent.
She taps a finger against her temple, the voice-activated Artificial Intelligence humming in response.
"Open them a bit," she commands, wanting a sliver of sunlight to peek through and warm the glacial lodge.

The glass changes, and she senses the soft glow of solar rays wash over her, illuminating the plush interior and the elegant decor that speaks of wealth and taste. But at that time, it all feels rough. The AI, ever-attentive, warns, "Adjusting to your specifications, Rach. You are visible from outside."

"Perfect," she replies, laced with sarcasm as if inviting the world to witness her unraveling.

In the distance, the bustling sounds of New York drift in—honks, chatter, and the faintest echo of music that appears miles away from her reality.
Here, in her luxurious confinement, the second to none thing she can't adjust turns up the turmoil roiling inside her.

The singer pauses, frozen. She eyewitnesses locked on her brothers as though they're strangers who've invaded her home. A hall, spacious and as a rule buzzing with the warmth of family life, suffers cold, suffocating, and silent save for the recall of their laughter—a sound that lingers as an unwanted guest.

The walls.
Sleek with muted tones.
Illuminated by the adjustable sunshine streaming through futuristic windows, seems to close in over her.

Ashley's wide cinder-lights dart between the adults, her small fingers fidgeting with the hem of her dress. Editha stands near, arms folded, the adamant in her gaze matching Rach's fury.

The sing heroine's jaw clenches, her breath catching in her chest as she fights the urge to scream. Throughout the room, Ash's eyelets widen, the innocence of her youth tinged with confusion. Eddi, standing a step behind, appearances as unyielding as granite, her lips pressed in a hard line, a quiet beacon of support.

Wesley, lounging by the floor-to-ceiling window, looks almost that he just watched a magician botch a trick. Tony's quiver-glints swing and search for an escape route that doesn't exist.

Sy and Bill exchange views, worry etched deep in their expressions. The tension thickens, heavy enough that it's near tangible. Wesley's brows draw in concert, and Tony's mouth opens a little as if words might help, but none come. Wes steps forward first, arm sliding around Rachel's waist in a body language that may have seemed reassuring on any other day. But today, it grows in pain … a lifeline against a rising tide. She clasps his hand, pressing it against her stomach, the gesture full of exhaustion as if she's holding herself together by sheer will.

Celeb breaks the stillness, sharp enough to slice through the ambiance. "What am I paying you both for?" The question falls as a hammer, shattering any pretense of normalcy. She senses weary, analogous to an overplayed song, the strain at the end catching up.

Chris's and Michael's smirks evaporate.
The fathomless shades of their stares sharpen as if realizing for the first time they're not just background characters in this scene.

A mild beep sounds from the smart-home system, a memento that someone set a timer for breakfast—a timer that appears humorous and irrelevant.

The bros straighten, their cocky expressions replaced by the stunned realization that this runs not to a moment for bravado.
The maisonette seems to shrink, the distance between anybody a chasm filled with unsaid truths.

The pop actress turns, her gaze softening as it lands on her petite lad. "Honey, who are the people who care about you the most?"

The little girl shifts on the spot, her answer somewhat above a whisper. "You and Eddi." The hesitation ought brief, but it cuts deep, exposing what the diva already knows—that this storm starts and becomes felt by everyone, even the smallest among them.

"Rach, what do you want?"
Chris holds ignorance, almost a challenge, oblivious to the emotional hurricane tearing through the apartment.

The astute glass behind him dims as if trying to hide from the superstar's rage.

"Eddi isn't Ashley's nanny," the luminary of music's voice wavers but stays firm, each word layered with pain.

Michael lifts his chin in full view. "Neither are we, sis."

Rach's glare blazed. "You're her uncles!" Her call out cracks through the lodge as thunder, making Ashley flinch and the AI piano murmur, "Volume threshold exceeded." The penthouse transforms the automated ambiance into a sudden sentiment match for a cruel joke.

"We're family," she says, the words faltering as though carrying them out of her chest costs her breath. Her throat benumbs, her desire weakening into something fragile. "Ash gets teased at school. It would be nice if one of you men in her life showed up." Although VIP hints at what the rumors tell about her and Editha, she comes down to very embarrassed to say it. She does it in the hope that her brothers will take pity on the young lady.

The room grows deafening in its silence, and without her saying it, the rumor hangs thick between them, unspoken and suffocating.

Celebrity's facets flush with embarrassment, the vulnerability too raw, too open.

Ashley, too small for the hall, too wise for her years, pipes up, "It's okay, Mommy," Ash, timid and more worried about her mother than herself. "We're going to England soon. Maybe things grow better. Grandma and Grandpa live there."

Rachel's eyes snap to her daughter, the room's worry pulsing louder.
The muted resignation in Ashley's feeling, the style she twirls inward, stings the big-wing deeper than any retort.

Rach's heart twists at the messages, not alone for what they mean but for the clarity in Ash's utterance that sees through everything. The little girl curls in on herself petite, her small fingers fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. She knows more than she should; they all do. The tension rises palpable, the burden pressing down as the headbanger of pop struggles to maintain the flood of emotion beyond her dull-mirrors.

Megastar swifts, her attention cutting quid pro quo lasers toward her employee.
"Jasmine, up to work."

Perched on Chris's lap with the confidence of someone who believes they're untouchable. Jasmin blinks, affronted. "It's not time to start duty yet," she protests, a whiff of indignation in her speech. The defiance crackles through the gust, setting Rachel's nerves on fire.

"You don't belong to the Marron Hive when I'm financing you," Diva's comments strike as a cold iron, each syllable measured. "Get your paycheck from my brother from today on." The message lands hard, not just to Jasmine but to everyone within earshot.

Jasmin's semblance switches, the bravado draining as she stands. Rache doesn't miss the opportunity to twist the blade, eclipsed stare flicking to Chris, vacant and unfeeling. "At least as long as I pay him," she adds low but barbed.

Chris's outside darker now, and he springs up, fists clenched. "Calm down, OK?" His put-into-words tremble, a mix of anger and pleading, the penthouse holding its breath for what comes next.

Before the room can implode, Editha steps in. Her hands rise, palms out, the universal gesture of harmony. "Fine. I'll pick up Ashley from school." Her tone soothes a balm, but no way to smother the sparks in the hall.

Pop icon's shoulders stay tense.
Wesley's arms tighten around her in an instinctive hold, but she no longer registers it.
The exhaustion in her void-lights spreads through the loft, devoid of warmness or care, a carbon copy to a shadow, deepening every line in her face.
"Close the door when you two leave," she says, the finality in her saying leaving no space for argument.

Chris and Michael exchange a glance, their movements stiff as they gather themselves to go. Mike hesitates, the weight of their shared past heavy in his voice. "When will we come back?" he urges.

The actress's gaze drifts to the window, the city's future-perfect skyline a blur.
Her answer floats from somewhere unreachable.
"When you call papa!"

The portal clicks shut behind them. Wesley tries to stifle the satisfaction crawling up his spine, but the pop princess's sharp pivot snuffs it out. She turns, the forgotten warmth in her fixation replaced by an Arctic chill.
"How about you?" she asks, her mood an icy winter.

Wesley's arms fall away, confusion furrowing his brow. "What's wrong, Munchkin? I didn't do anything."

"That's the problem," Rachel replies, her tone hollow, each term carved from ice. "Will you take care of Ashley?"

His peep dart to the little girl, then backward to the mother. He looks trapped. A man handed a puzzle, missing a clue. "I have no experience with kids."

"At least you were one once," she responds, piercing as shattered glasswork.

"But I am not the Boy Who Never Grew Up," the Bostonian defends, his smile weak, a dying beam.

The stillness gets uptight. Bill's lips transform into a grim line, Sy's glimpse drops to the floor, and Editha doesn't inhale. They know the storm when they see it, and Wes emerges as the tree about to splinter.

Rachel's glowering spark. "Show you with Ash," she states barbed.

The Hip Hopper scoffs, hands folded strong as armor. "I'm not her dad, Honeybunch. All your kid. Find someone else to play the hero. From my point of view, Peter Pan." His remarks slap the hall, bouncing off the tinted crystal, which changes to a deplorable hue as if the AI knows to stay out of this.

The diva's mouth tilts in a grin with no warmth, a solitary warning. "Maybe I should," she says, somewhat above a whisper but hitting equal to a hammer. "I exist in a duet, remember?"

"You're pushing this on me?" Wesley's rage flares, with an uneasy gleam narrowing. "I have a career too."

The Voice's blaze-gloom boils cold. "I bankroll that." Her stare drills through him. "You walk in here how you own the place, but you can't even look my daughter in the eye. You stand not on top of anything in my house. Get that straight."

His grimace flushes with wrath, his jaw tightening as Rachel's words sink in. The room goes mum, the kind that wraps tight around the heart. Editha's ogle flick to her friend, the unique movement in the suffocating gale. The faint hum of the penthouse's automatic technology fades as if holding its breath.

The English singer's threat cuts through the silence, razor-sharp. "And don't you dare make another joke about Eddi and me." Her viper-gaze narrowed, filled with a quiet, lethal promise.

Wesley's anger bursts through his chest. He steps back, fingers clenched. Without a word, he turns toward the exit, feet heavy with bitterness.

"I didn't give you permission to leave," Rache's mock lands as a lash.

"I need a gap to breathe, okay?" Wes snarls the bitter-burn lour beclouded with fury.

"You can get that on the roof terrace," she bites out, tone frosty than ice.

He stops at the doorway, torn between an explosion and retreat. His palms tremble as he pushes down the rage. "I'll be back," he grits out, his scowl-light deepened. "I just need a minute. Central Park."

Ashley clings to Editha, wide falter-shine in her facade glistening, pressing closer as if she could disappear.

Editha's arm curls around the girl, a silent promise of safety. The room arises thick with judgment and the diva's cold, unwavering stare.

Bill clears his throat, a deep, guttural sound. "He'll come back," the manager says. It sounds more sentence than reassurance.

Pop star's gaze stays pinned to the door. "Of course he will. Who else signs his checks?"

Wesley storms down the hall, the automatic portal hissing shut behind him equivalent weight to a last insult.
At the elevator, Chris and Mike watch, amusement waving in their grin-glints.

"What's up with you?" Chris's smirk spreads as the ascender doors part, polished chrome reflecting Wesley's anger.

"Running from the queen," the rapper mutters, stepping inside. The close quarters press in as the entrance seals them in.

Michael smirks, leaning backward. "You're not the first of her boyfriends to crack."

Wes's laugh comes out hollow, jagged. "When Rach's not on drugs, she's unbearable. Sober, she talks knives."

Chris nods, a shadow crossing his frown. "That's the Marron way. Welcome to it, man."

Rachel stands in the entryway, her fingers still curled near the frozen handle of the gate the Hip Hopper had stormed through. She keeps her peep fixed on the gleaming marble floor, eyes glossed, until a single, muted note eludes her lips.

"I…" she sings, her intonation soft, barely audible. "… wanna dance with somebody …" She lifts her head, and somewhat in her facial expressions change, slipping into a misery too abysmal for talks. She turns backward to the dim warmth of the home, seeking something she can't find. "Yeah, I wanna dance with somebody" She continues, stepping ghost-like in the lodge, her sound flat and almost pleading now. She hesitates in the doorway, looking at Editha, at Bill, and at Ashley, who observes her, each bearing her sadness in their own hushed way. Rachel's singing swells, though it trembles, spilling into the empty spaces surrounding her, echoing off the high walls.

"With somebody who loves me" The whisper falters, her song shaking, as if every note were weightier than the last. She crosses the space, faltering by the edge of a table. For a second, she sways. Then she collapses onto a stool, burying her forefront in her hands, the refrain vanishing into quiet, mute sobs.

Ashley, small and uncertain, runs to her mother and wraps her arms around her. The girl's own shade begins to fall as she nestles against Rachel as if she can absorb some of the hardship. Editha gets them both close, her visage shadowed with worry as she rubs Rachel's back.

Sy, standing near, glimpses at Bill, his expression tight. "This … it is destroying her," he murmurs, low but insistent.

Bill's face hardens, his brows knit. "I understand." He lets out a long, frustrated sigh. "I'd keep her family far from her if I could. They don't see what it's doing to her … but we know what she'd say."
He shifts, rubbing a hand through his hair, then pulls his phone pad from his pocket, frowning at the screen. "I'll call her father," he says, his tone resigned but determined. "He's five hours ahead. Time to disturb him." He pauses, thumb lingering over the dial as he watches mother and daughter, each clinging to each other, nearby as if they're all each other has left.

As the weight of the moment presses down on her, Rache, at a slow pace, rises from the chair, her exercises heavy with exhaustion and sorrow. She scans toward the grand piano nestled in the corner of the lounge, its keys untouched, yet somehow inviting in the stillness.

With a deep, shaky breath, she walks over and sits at the instrument, her fingers hovering in doubt above the fingerboard. The hall holds its breath, watching as she begins to play. Her movements are deliberate, filled with a masterful bravura that belies her fragile state. The haunting melody of "Once and for All" flows from her, each note resonating with the depth of her pain and longing.
The music fills the room, weaving through the silent tears and worried glances.
It's as if the piano becomes her voice, expressing what words cannot.
The powerful crescendos and delicate diminuendos mirror her internal turmoil.
All that creates a poignant contrast between her outward composure and inner devastation.

As she plays, Rachel's body sways in a gentle manner, her face a mask of concentrated emotion, hidden in the shadows of her hands.
The melody carries her away, a temporary escape from the chaos of her life, allowing her to channel her sorrow into the music.
The room feels smaller, the piano's song binding them all in a shared moment of vulnerability.

Ashley continues to hug her mother, her own sobs mingling with the piano's lament. Editha remains close, her arm a steady anchor around Rachel, while Sy and Bill stand at a distance, powerless witnesses to her anguish.

The last notes linger in the air, fading into a heavy silence that speaks volumes.

Rachel sits back, her breathing uneven, eyes still closed as the last echoes of the piano dissolve into the room.
The emotional intensity remains in her longing for harmony amid the dissonance of her fractured relationships.

As the last note dies away, Rachel sits in silence. Her fingers hovering over the keys, expression cloaked in that shadowed, Poe-like melancholy that seems to settle over her. She lifts her hands from the piano, flexing her fingers in dribs and drabs as if shaking loose some unseen weight. Her gaze drifts over to Editha, eyes dark with a strange and distant sorrow.
"Eddie…" Her voice, soft but with an edge, breaks through the stillness, a whisper from some haunted corner of her mind. "I need you to arrange a call … to my parents."

Editha blinks, startled.
She knows well enough to catch that something heavier than usual lingers beneath Rachel's words.

Rach's face gives nothing away, just that haunting intensity.
Rachel rises from the bench, her posture regal, yet haunted, each step deliberate as she approaches Editha. "I need to talk to them with that Ghost. About Finnian … Devon." She pauses on his name, letting it settle into the air like a name pulled from an old story—a figure half-remembered, half-feared.

Editha feels a chill run through her. "You really want to do this?"

Rachel's nod is slow, and purposeful. "I don't just want it, Eddie. I need it. I need to know … what happened to him."

JFK Airport, same moment

Marcus Gallagher stands frozen in the hushed VIP customs area, the sterile shine casting cold reflections on polished floors. Every glance feels a dart, each whisper, a breath on the back of his neck. He adjusts his fitted suit jacket, fingers brushing against the fine material as if grounding himself in reality. With passport control behind him, he grips his sleek, silver briefcase. A futuristic model with fingerprint encryption and an AI lock that, as part of one's breathing, hums to life when touched. He steps forward, head high, posture taut.

The station thrums with the rhythm of travelers, their movement a tide. The Brit navigates with careful strides. A glimmer of recognition flares in strangers' squint; the attention gathers as a storm. A pair of teenagers sidle up, giggling and exchanging extended glances before rushing toward him. Their holographic jackets shimmer as they move. "Quick selfie?" whosoever asks, already snapping a shot before he can answer. Marc offers a tight smirk, caught between amusement and annoyance. He endures the unexpected cheek kisses as the girls peep away, beaming.

Then chance-medley crashes into him. A voice, shrill and drenched in fervor, slices through the wind.
"I want your baby!"
The scream comes from a young woman. She strains against the arms of security bots whose ocean-colorful sparkles wink in agitation as they beep for backup. An Englishman freezes, eyes wide, uncertain if he should laugh or run.
While random terms such as femme-trivial, courtesan extraordinaire, vagina-influencer, hooker-feminism, slut-colonialist, and pass-around-female, pop up into the mind of his anglaise noblesse.
The diplomat decides to wave pleasantries and smile in grace to thank her for this heinous plebeian compliment.

At the sight of his palm in the air, her face lights up as a rocket launch. "He waved at me!" she shrieks, igniting a wildfire of pandemonium among the onlookers. A ripple of gasps swells into cheers as others crane to see what's happening. Half the terminal turns, phones flying out, imitating a flock of startled birds.

He presses on, steps growing quicker, but the cheers and flashes escalate close to him. An aged 'mam wobbles up and grabs his hand, shaking it with vigor, her grip fierce. "My grandson loves you!" she crows, clutching his palms as if it transforms a trophy. The Briton panics, "I prithee, dost thou speak in jest? Forsooth, I trust that be but metaphor!"

The older woman raises an eyebrow, glancing around at the people nearby, as if to make sure she's not picking up things. Her lips purse in confusion, and then, with a half-laugh, she mutters under her gasp: "What the hell did you just say? You talkin' like you stepped outta a damn Shakespeare play or somethin'? Is this the Renaissance? Honey, this is Gotham, not some dusty ol' stage. Ain't nobody got chance for that fancy crap!" She shakes her dome with a mix of amusement and bewilderment, adjusting her glasses.

But Marc pushes forward, each step tighter than the last. The terminal's air rises dense, conversations crumbling into gasps and murmurs as his presence fuels an escalating buzz. The cacophony sharpens, pricking at his composure. A ripple of unease runs through him as his gaze lands on a towering, neon-lit poster. His heart skips. It's his face—no, not quite. That visage, larger than life, seems an animated hologram of Jasper Rothko's smirking profile. It grows flickering with the tagline "Run All Night—In Theaters Now!"

Marcus's breath catches in his chest, his polished briefcase thudding to the ground. The realization becomes a punch to the gut. He buries his head in his hands, fingers digging at his temples as if trying to massage away the absurdity. "This can't be happening!" The exclamation echoes, drawing glances and whispers of identical wildfire. He clutches his skull as if he were suffering from pain on the left side.

Outside, the city surges with noise and neon. Marcus breathes in the electric hum of New York, pulling sunglasses from his pocket and sliding them on. The sun glares overhead, searing against metal skyscrapers and glass walkways. He drapes a sheer scarf over his noggin, blending a hint of the exotic with the practical. The delicate fabric flutters with a touch of mystery, melting the lines of his countenance and keeping the eager gazes at bay. Anything to avoid hearing, "Jasper!" one more time. He quickens his pace, the world swallowing him in its pulsating, relentless embrace.