I take another sip, allowing myself a moment to revisit thepastthat has grownmoretreasuredwith time,not less.
“Are you talking about Iselyn Mikhailov?” Yan asks.
I laugh softly. “You’re paying more attention to my personal affairs than you should.”
“You ask about her whereabouts the whole day,” he replies calmly. “Not my fault. What happened to that angel?”
I stare into space, lost in thought.
“She fell for someone at a very young age. She used to text that person every day, asking about his whereabouts, telling him about her day, wishing him good morning and good night, even though he never replied. On her sixteenth birthday, she got access to her bank account and used her first transaction to send a gift to that person. She didn’t know the risks of putting someone’s address on a general e-commerce platform. His enemies got hold of his address and attacked there. Although he didn’t have to face any serious consequences, he was furious. When the angel texted him to ask how he was, he said many things to her that he should never have said. After that day, the angel never contacted him again.When she left his life, he realized how much she had mattered to him.But he was still in denial, refusing to accept his feelings. How could he?It made no sense. He couldn’t understand why he wanted those useless good morning and good night texts every day, why he wanted to know what she did each day, why he saved all the random images she sent him. None of it made sense. And then, by the time it started to make sense, it was too late. He had none of that anymore. He had lost his angel…and now,the angel doesn’t want him.”
“That sounds very regretful. Does the person now love that angel?”
“He doesn’t know. He couldn’t understand love. He can only understand logical things, not emotional ones. And love is nowhere near logical. He only knows that he wants that angel all to himself. And yeah, he feels sexual desire for her, if that contributes to analyzing love.”
“You want me to recommend that person some self-help books? I think he needs them.”
I get up from the couch. “Why don’t you fuck yourself? Ah—my bad. You can’t do that.”
“Just the way you can’t understand a basic human emotion like love. Sometimes I feel I’m more human than you.”
“I think it’s time to change my assistant.” I approach the stairs.
“You want me to place a call to Zloban?”
“To ask him to make a new AI assistant for me?”
“No. So you could bicker with a human.”
“Shut up and get lost.”
It goes silent. I slip my phone into my pocket and unlock the door to my room. She’s sleeping on my bed, the lights off. The drug and the antidote have pulled her under their combined effect, or she would have started shouting again. I wonder how she’ll react when I tell her I get hard when she gets angry.
She’ll turn red. I smile. She turns red over everything.
I turn on the dim light, just enough to watch her. She’s wearing my white T-shirt, the fabric loose on her small frame. Her curly red hair is spread across the pillow, wild and soft.
Typical angel.
I still remember the first time I saw her. She was twelve years old, wearing a white dress, looking at me with visible stars in her ocean-blue eyes. The first thing she said to me was,“I’m Iselyn Mikhailov. Don’t forget my name,”her smile bright, a rising red blooming on her cheeks.
In every gathering or party we attended after that, she used to come to me to say hello and talk about random things. For four years, everything changed—her face, her height, her dressing style—but that smile and blush remained the same.
And then they were gone.
I’ve met her three times in the last four years. She never once looked at me. Will I ever get that shy smile again? Those stars in her blue eyes? That shade of red on her cheeks?
Will I get my angel back?
chapter 4
Iselyn
I open my eyes, and they protest. I press them shut again, then open them slowly. My head throbs, my eyes ache. The headache is from those toxic chemicals I consumed yesterday; the eye pain is from something I did last night, something I’m not going to admit this morning.
People have last-night dirty secrets—sleeping with their nemesis, murdering someone. I have useless tears as my secrets.
I get out of bed and head to the bathroom. My face is swollen and red, but cold water splashes will fix that. I have some experience in this field. I used to look like this every morningforthat one month. Then I locked down my emotions, until they were forcibly freed yesterday. I take a deep breath. I’m feeling better now. Mornings are always good.
