I learned a while ago that fully unpacking is a waste of time. I never stay put for long. There’s no point settling my body when my mind refuses to do the same.
I let the targeted jets of the shower work my muscles, easing some of the constant tension for as long as I can without wrecking my routine, then I turn it off.
I step out and finish my morning routine before leaving the bathroom with a towel wrapped around my waist. I stop at the only section of the closet that’s even minimally occupied and dress, following the same monotony as always: suit trousers, shirt, shoes, belt—tie and jacket later.
The office attached to the bedroom is my next stop. I switch on the lights and step into the near-sterile space. Gray walls and black furniture dominate, but it’s not like I care. I power up the three monitors on the main desk and sit, starting my daily briefings.
The first—always—is my channel with Thomas, the English investigator, the one who’s come closest so far to real information about Nina’s whereabouts, even if it’s led nowhere but dead ends.
She vanished.
No credit card use. No movement in her bank account. No contracts in her name for almost four years. The last activity in her account—or her mother’s—was days before they disappeared, years ago. Nina and her mother planned everything. It’s as if they turned to smoke.
Thomas’s daily report tells me nothing new. No news. I move on to Alberto’s report, the Portuguese investigator. His words seal a decision I’ve been circling for a while: I’m firing him.
Despite his reputation, he’s never delivered anything of real relevance in the two years I’ve employed him. The other four investigators working Nina’s case haven’t given me more than crumbs—but at least they’ve given me something.
Email by email, I read through the updates, already concluding there’s nothing new when a small note at the end of the last message catches my attention.
I’m following a lead. I may have new information tomorrow.
My body reacts instantly. My heart slams into a rapid rhythm. Cold sweat coats my skin seconds before the breathlessness hits.
I squeeze my eyes shut to ward off the dizziness I know is coming and start clenching and releasing muscles in alternating groups, managing the tingling sensation spreading through my limbs.
I control my breathing, refusing to focus on the sensations tearing through me. It will pass. And it does. It takes nearly thirty minutes for any trace of the episode to fade, but after years, I’ve learned how to handle them. I’ve accepted them.
I read and reread the note that triggered it. Guttierre wouldn’t say that unless he was truly close to finding something.
The upside of expensive professionals is that they don’t do anything beyond their job. None of them send filler to justify their fees. They don’t need to. Neither do I.
I close my inboxes and pull up the 3D map of Khione, where Nina’s steps in the week she left are traced in detail. No newdata has been added since yesterday, yet I study it for the same amount of time I do every day.
I see nothing I haven’t seen for nearly four full years—the last time the simulation received any update. Next come the photos—not the ones that started everything, but the earlier ones.
Photos of Nina’s life, from childhood to adulthood. I linger on the girl with huge blue eyes before moving on to the very thin, slightly awkward teenager.
Then the cheerful, intensely dedicated university student. One screen jumps to her academic record before my gaze returns to the photos and finally reaches the woman I ran into that Christmas night.
The first image is from that very night—the same one published in the paper the next day: Nina and me, in the association’s garden. I stare at it for a long time. I always stare at all of them for a long time.
The alarm goes off, telling me the entire morning has slipped by and it’s time to head to the export company. I stand, scan the screens once more for any last-minute updates, and shut them down.
My twisted stomach refuses food. After an episode, eating is always hard. I head back to the closet, knot the tie, shrug on the jacket, and leave.
I ride to the office in the back seat. I lost my taste for driving years ago—and not only that. Even working feels like a waste. Anything that isn’t searching for Nina feels like time stolen from that purpose.
“Good morning, Mr. Nero Zanthos,” Icarus greets me as I enter my office, coming in behind me. “Shall we review your agenda for today?” he asks. I draw a deep breath before agreeing, even though every instinct says no.
“Yes. But before that, I have two tasks for you.”
“Of course, sir,” he says, standing by my desk as I remove my jacket and hang it on the rack.
“I need a new apartment,” I tell him. “And a new investigator. I’m replacing Alberto.” Icarus nods without question. Years have made him efficient—and far less emotional.
“Regarding the investigator—any preference for nationality, or a prominent name in the current field?” he asks.
“See if there’s a former Scotland Yard agent available.”
