The night after Marcel’s message should have been silent, but it wasn’t.
Renzo dreamed of flashbulbs. Each pulse of light stole a second from his life and gave it back in negatives. He woke before dawn, heart slick with adrenaline, the taste of chemicals still ghosting the back of his throat. Beside him, Xander slept on his stomach, one hand open toward him like an unspoken promise. Sebastian was sprawled half across them both, hair tangled, mouth curved in a private smile even in sleep.
For a moment Renzo believed the quiet—their bodies tangled, the city holding its breath outside. Then he saw the envelope.
It lay on the table beneath the print they’d hung, deep burgundy velvet with his name written in gold ink: Vale. No address, no postmark. Just certainty.
He didn’t touch it. Not yet.
Sebastian stirred first, eyes half-open. “You’re staring at something.”
“The past,” Renzo said.
“Tell it to make coffee,” Sebastian muttered, sitting up.
Xander woke with the efficiency of a soldier; within minutes the loft smelled of dark roast and resolve. The three of them gathered around the table as if it were a boardroom for ghosts.
Renzo broke the wax seal. Inside—an embossed card. The Atrium, midnight. Come alone. The collector expects a masterpiece.
Sebastian’s laugh was quick, incredulous. “He sent this like he’s hosting a wedding.”
“Or a wake,” Xander said.
Renzo turned the card over. On the back, a single word, handwritten: Jules.
Silence widened.
“He’s alive,” Sebastian said quietly. “And still orbiting you.”
“He’s trying to warn me,” Renzo said.
Xander frowned. “Or lure you.”
Renzo’s phone lit again. A voice message, anonymous number. He pressed play. Jules’ voice, soft as remembered linen:
“I didn’t send that card. But go. You need to see what he’s showing. And don’t wear the ring. It gives you away.”
The message ended with the faint sound of a door opening, then nothing.
Sebastian exhaled through his teeth. “So, he didn’t send it but wants you to go. That’s comforting.”
“Jules never did comfort,” Renzo said. “He confessed.”
He pocketed the envelope. The decision had already made itself.
That evening, the trio dressed like a conspiracy.
Xander in charcoal, precise lines, no jewelry.
Sebastian in black, with a violet silk handkerchief that dared the world to look away.
Renzo in navy, the color of consequence, his ring left on the table beside his camera.
They reached The Atrium close to midnight. The building looked abandoned from the street—its windows blind, its door guarded only by reflection. But when Renzo pushed, it opened with a sigh.
Inside: candlelight, scent of old perfume, the echo of slow music.
A dozen people in masks shaped like half-truths. The theme was decadence, but the air felt like rehearsal for judgment.
Renzo felt eyes recognize him before faces did. Whispers followed his steps: Vale… he came… I thought he’d vanished.
At the center of the room hung a single frame draped in black cloth. Marcel’s exhibit.
Renzo’s stomach knew before his mind admitted it.
A man approached from behind—gray eyes, tailored velvet jacket, the kind of charm that rehearsed itself in mirrors.
“Mr. Vale,” he said, offering a hand. “I’m Stephan.”
The name was a chord struck out of future tense, but Renzo didn’t know that yet.
Stephan smiled. “Marcel sends his regrets. He couldn’t attend. I’m standing in—one collector to another.”
“Collector of what?” Sebastian’s voice came sharp behind him.
Stephan’s smile didn’t falter. “Of possibilities.”
He nodded to the veiled frame. “Shall we?”
Renzo stepped forward. Stephan pulled the cloth away with theatrical grace.
The photograph wasn’t one of the lost series.
It was the new print—the one Renzo had hung in their loft that morning.
The same composition, the same light—but different. In this version, Renzo’s reflection in the mirror wasn’t faint. It was crystal clear. And behind him, where the wall should have been, hung dozens of smaller portraits—his old work, his old body, his old trade.
A collective inhale rippled through the room.
Xander’s jaw clenched. “How did they—”
Sebastian’s whisper cut him off. “Someone broke into the loft.”
Renzo stared. His own eyes in the image were looking back at him.
Stephan’s voice, low and amused: “Authenticity sells. Marcel insisted the world deserved to remember.”
“You call theft remembrance?” Renzo said.
“I call it reintroduction.”
Sebastian lunged, but Xander’s hand on his shoulder kept the night from shattering.
Stephan leaned close enough for Renzo to smell winter and cognac. “The world’s memory is for sale, Renzo. You can either buy it back—or sign the next exhibit.”
Renzo’s voice came out steadier than he felt. “Tell Marcel he just bought himself an enemy.”
Stephan’s grin sharpened. “Then I’ll expect the pleasure of seeing how you plan to fight.”
He turned away, leaving Renzo staring at the photograph that had no right to exist. The cloth rustled back into place. The music resumed. No one looked at them directly, but everyone saw.
They drove home in silence. Rain chased itself across the windshield like an argument.
At the loft, the print on the wall was gone. Only the nail remained. On the table, the ring. It gleamed in the half-light, spinning slowly as if someone had just set it in motion.
Renzo reached for it but didn’t stop the spin.
“Now what?” Sebastian asked.
Renzo looked at the empty space on the wall. “Now we take back the story.”
Xander stepped beside him. “All of it?”
Renzo met his eyes. “Every frame.”
Outside, thunder rolled through the city like applause.
Next On Renzo: After Hours
A late-night visitor leaves a roll of undeveloped film on the loft steps. Xander uncovers a code hidden inside the negatives. And in the final shot—Jules’ face, reflected beside Marcel’s.
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