The silence in the condo was no longer the peaceful, sanctuary-like stillness Markus had cultivated for years. It was different. It was heavy, hollow, and somehow pointed. After stepping out of the shower, Markus didn't immediately head for the door. Instead, he found himself wandering.
He checked the kitchen island—no half-eaten skewers. He checked the bathroom sink—no stray droplets of expensive facial cleanser. He even found himself opening the utility closet, as if a six-foot-tall Prince might be hiding behind the vacuum cleaner.
He didn't know why he was doing it, and he cursed himself with every step, but he couldn't stop. He was looking for a ghost, a trace of the "nuisance" that had spent seventy-two hours turning his orderly life into a chaotic, sandalwood-scented puzzle.
Finding nothing but his own dark, minimalist furniture, Markus felt a surge of irritation that tasted like battery acid. He grabbed his keys, slammed the door hard enough to rattle the frame, and drove to BGC.
Kian's condo was the opposite of Markus's brutalist sanctuary. It was bright, filled with art, and usually smelled of high-end cologne and fresh espresso. When Markus barged in, he didn't offer a greeting. He simply walked to the oversized refrigerator, snagged a cold canned beer, and collapsed onto Kian's ivory leather sofa.
"I'm using your TV," Markus grunted, clicking the remote until the bright, frantic colors of an NBA replay filled the room.
Kian, who was sitting at a nearby glass table scrolling through a tablet, didn't look up. He merely arched an eyebrow, a small, knowing smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "Help yourself, Markus. My home is your home. Apparently."
One hour passed. Then two.
Markus sat like a statue of granite, his eyes fixed on the basketball game with a ferocity that suggested he was scouting the players for a high-stakes heist. He didn't move except to tilt the beer can back or to occasionally let out a huff of breath that sounded suspiciously like a growl.
Inside his head, a war was being waged. Ask him. He's the one who brought the brat here. He's the only one who knows where that blonde idiot went. Ask him.
But every time the thought reached his throat, his pride—a thick, unyielding wall of scar tissue and ego—slammed the door. He had spent his life needing no one. He wasn't about to start by asking about a pampered fugitive who had vanished in the middle of the night.
Three hours in, Kian abandoned his tablet. He walked over to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of vintage scotch, and turned toward the sofa. He had watched Markus stare at the same screen for 180 minutes without once mentioning the literal elephant not in the room. Kian knew exactly what Markus wanted.
He knew where Jake was. He knew why Jake had left. But Kian was a man who appreciated the finer points of psychological warfare, and he was, quite frankly, bored.
By the fourth hour, the sun was casting long, dramatic shadows across the BGC skyline. Markus was on his fourth beer, and the basketball game had looped back to the beginning.
Kian finally broke the silence. He stood up, stretched, and walked over to stand beside the sofa. "Markus, it's been four hours. You've watched the Lakers lose twice. You haven't checked your phone. You haven't mentioned work. You don't even like the Lakers."
Markus didn't blink. "The defense is interesting."
"The defense is terrible," Kian retorted. "Usually, you come here, you tell me about a shipping delay, you drink one coffee, and you leave within twenty minutes. Why are you still sitting on my sofa, buddy?"
Markus tightened his grip on the beer can. The metal groaned under the pressure of his calloused fingers. "Maybe I just missed you, Kian. Is it a crime for a man to want to hang out with his oldest friend?"
The sarcasm was so thick it practically dripped onto the carpet. Kian let out a sharp, amused bark of a laugh. "You missed me? Markus, you once went six months without answering my calls because you said my 'energy was too high.' Now, suddenly, you're a social butterfly?"
"I'm enjoying the AC," Markus muttered, his eyes narrowing at the screen. "And your beer is better than mine."
Kian sat down in the armchair adjacent to the sofa, leaning back and crossing his legs. He watched Markus with the predatory patience of a cat watching a mouse that had nowhere to go.
Markus felt his pulse spike, but he kept his expression as flat as a desert floor. "Stop staring at me, you're not a Missy."
They sat there, two men who had known each other through the darkest and brightest times, engaged in a silent standoff of pride. Kian knew that if he just told Markus where Jake was, the tension would break. But he wanted Markus to say it. He wanted the man of stone to admit, just once, that he cared about something fragile.
Markus, on the other hand, was prepared to sit on that sofa until the upholstery rotted before he would admit that his condo felt like an empty tomb now.
"You know," Kian said, him smirking in silence, "The airport is very busy this time of day. Lots of private hangars. Lots of black SUVs. Very easy to get lost if you don't have the right... protection."
Markus's jaw worked, his teeth grinding together. He wanted to grab Kian by the collar and shake the information out of him. But the wall held. "Fascinating. Remind me to check the traffic report if I ever care."
The afternoon turned into early evening. The lights of the city began to twinkle outside, mimicking the restless energy in the room. Neither man moved. Neither man spoke. They're just testing each other's patience.
Kian sighed, realizing this could go on for days. Markus was a man who had survived a prison cell; he could win a sitting contest. "You're really going to do this, aren't you? You're going to sit here until the sun comes up rather than ask me one simple question."
Markus shifted, his eyes finally moving from the TV to the window, watching the planes descend toward the horizon. "It's a good sofa, Kian. I might stay for another four hours."
Kian shook his head, a mix of admiration and exasperation on his face. "You're an idiot, Markus. A colossal, stubborn, magnificent idiot."
"And you're a chatterbox," Markus replied, his voice quiet, his ego still standing guard over a heart that was silently screaming for a location.