Beneath the fainted illumination of chandlery, Mr. Hendrickson traced the final lines of his note.

Gently stroking his nose bridge, fatigue clouded his expression. The flood of obstinacy, the pride that he showed to intimidate Lord Shiva, depleted. Only remain its dried trails, the severe headache, and the blurred red vision.

Unable to fight back, whimpers forcibly opened his lips. However, he didn't have the luxury of acting on his pain. The time is flying by, soon this place will be discovered by the city watchmen.

Marduk surely won't tolerate Nicolai's accidental sneak peek. It is an offense against the protector of the city, a crime in the ruling class's eyes.

Lost in Shiva's ulterior motive, Nicolai couldn't brush the persistent query from his head. Did Shiva trick him to look in that direction on purpose or it was a miss calculation?

Anyway, he must change his location fast.

Knocks on the room door initiated Nicolai's routine of preparing himself for the move. Only minutes later, his heels struck the staircase, walking down. Soon the reception of the guest house was in front of him. Passing the note to the attendant, he sought the workmen whom he hired and tasked to move his things.

Most of the transfer passed smoothly, his baggage packed inside a well-protected carriage. One last piece and the job will be finished.

Pleased, Nicolai breathed relief when the shadow of the final piece appeared out the guesthouse gate. Yet with every inch entering his visual field, the edge of his satisfied face darkened. Until it turned completely gloomy.

How could they dare to handle a painting without properly covering and securing it? Those workmen had no experience maneuvering artworks.

He advanced, shouting at them: "Stop… Stop…" Sharp tone denounced a strong vexation. His cane hit the ground several times, validating the irritation. "Put it down, go and bring something to cover it and ropes to secure it."

It was the time of daybreak; the sun has yet to show its radiance. However, the flocks of leaked light preceded to announce its incoming. The large street was vacant, at most, some people scattered here and there. Caring about their own business.

The emptiness made Nicolai's loud voice reverberate, disturbing the silent harmony of the dawn. even alerting the dead.

The curious eyes loomed from every corner. Some seeking clarification. Some preying after a farce, or a quarrel…

Recognizing the blunder, he lowered his head, dwelling, fleeing the meddlesome glances. His eyelids slid on the gloss black eyes; covering them with a dash of shame.

What's wrong with him lately, his actions strayed far beyond the path of graciousness and well mannerisms?

Unfortunately, the place. The timing didn't allow Nicolai to reflect on his recent bearing.

In the end, his attention was swept by a strange, overwhelming presence that approached without his awareness. Both of his hands gripped the head of the cane. Without lifting his head, half-opened eyelids, his black irides slid to the right corner. Scanning.

Maybe he was overly vigilant…

The path that stretched open to the end of the average eyesight, nothing alarming, roamed it.

Heedless, he collected the weight of his body, then left toward the unprotected painting. The neglected frame inclined on the Blue garnished tall well. A stranger from the back advanced blocked Nicolai's vision.

Alertness screamed down Nicolai's spine. One person? From where did he come? One person, it's not quite the threat… Maybe...

Mr. Hendrickson's reasoning inside his head as well as an attempt to cool down his alarm. His eyes sailed silently, meticulously scoping him. Either curiosity or an intended disturbance brought this person here.

The physical structure of a male, shyly drawn under a black, long cloak. Nicolai rubbed his eyes, again and again, in disbelief. Was he hallucinating? Was he just that tired, so now he was seeing things?

Unbalanced steps rushed near the painting. Shoulder to shoulder, he stood next to the stranger, separated by only the air, looking at the painting yet seeing nothing.

Stealing side glimpses, Nicolai, the way he used to do, failed to gauge on Rokah any kind of emotions.

This one beside him appeared different, more intimidating, more enigmatic, and somehow painfully mature. As if he turned into another person.

What interesting rapid progress… Maybe because he succeeded in killing a person, the butler. It's strange how the mere taking of a person's life can change people.

An effortless smile parted his lips, shattered the gloomy ice. Rays of his hope shone. He wondered; if Rokah is here, then Savannah must have reached Babel.

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Cheerfully, he signaled to the workmen to stand aside. Postponing the painting covering, offering Rokah's intense observation, for a sufficient time.

In reality, he was waiting for a remark, even less, for Rokah's face to make an expression. Perhaps astonishment, displeasure, even curiosity will do. Anything will be informing, satisfying. Or so he thought.

"Marvelous." Comporting as if they were strangers. The odd-colored eyes narrowed while they scanned Nicolai, head to toes, as if the latter was, also, a part of the painting. A tone dipped in genuine appreciation: "What an insightful depiction."

Startled, Rokah's comments cost Hendrickson several fake coughs. It sent his mind spiraling, embarrassing the possible unspoken meanings that drugged under those words.

What dwelled behind this antagonism, the coldness, they aren't strangers after all. Unless…. Could it be Rokah figured it out, the little trick behind the Crocotta permit? Is that why he chose the stranger approach?

Mr. Hendrickson extended the back of his hand, attempted to cover the smirk that sat on his lips without permission. Delight conquered his exhaustion. Joy bloomed over the ash of his humiliation and despair. He couldn't help himself but participate in the game.

"Yes, shame. It's not complete yet."

The other hand gripping the cane handle deprived side glances, searching for a reaction. It seemed for Nicolai, the self-loathing personality who he used to know had matured or at least improved.

He will be a quite good assistant when Savannah fulfills her promise.

"Really?" Rokah questioned as he strode closer, focused, examining each stroke: "Hum, it appears to me that the piece is finished," In the far above corner. His index pointed at the artist's signature: "Usually, the signature is the final touch an artist will add to his work."

Serious glares danced between the two like raging flames. Instinctively, Rokah was the first to pull back, for he sensed the dangerous heat that was about to explode.

"Probably the artist wished for it to have the impression of being incomplete." Pouring cold water, surprisingly, the desirable effect was achieved.

Nicolai pouted inwardly, debating: " If it was completed, then I do not think it looks like a portrait." Suggesting.

A gleam traced the interwoven odd colors, making them brighter. "You think it is a portrait?" Rokah, wide-eyed, retreated a few steps under Nicolai's watch: "The artist said he wanted to draw a portrait? "

Taking an inclusive look, he asked, staring directly at Mr. Hendrickson. "A portrait of who?"

Undeviating crossed inspection. Both of them face to face. For the second time, the air began boiling, not in anger, but confusion, puzzlement.

Lost, the hang of this game, Nicolai outlined a deep difference between the doctor whom he used to know and the one standing in front of him. In consequence, these questions remained unanswered.

" In my opinion," Rokah, by shifting his attention back to the painting, cut the thread of intimidation, again. He was the one in complete control. Yet the tension is still there. Unmelted: "The object of this portrait, maybe dead."

White lips, pale face, the blood withdrawn, responding to the sudden heart attack Nicolai experiencing at this moment.

What is this?

A threat…

The split-second slipped while Nicolai strayed, pursuing a solid ground. Rokah torrent carried on:

"When a man's legacy is dead, he dies with it. Hence the impression of an unfinished touch. You said this is a portrait, then it must be the portrait of someone with great influence since the artist compared his fall to the epic of Colossus." Silently, Nicolai listened, attentively. A solemn color ate through his delight.

"This is just my own impression, I may be right, I may be wrong. But I am certain that the artist wished for his aim to accept different interpretations. The extent of the hidden symbolism is confusing, contradictory. Is the one concerned with the portrait dead or alive? Who knows? And that's why it is a great painting."

How much Savannah puppet knew or learned… How much she had told him and why?

Rokah's head tilted toward Hendrickson. Aware of what he just stirred:" Excuse me, those are mere speculations from my part." He approached. Absurd self-assurance bounced from his determined gaze: "You have eyes of someone who thinks that he completely knows me." An obsidian cylinder seal planted into the forced open Mr. Hendrickson's fingers: "This is where you will find me if you wish to learn why you are getting blind. "

The newly manifested sunlight separated the two standing figures. Shrouding his frame to fit entirely under the black mantle, Rokah mirrored a flaring shadow. Before he retreated, a final gaze wiped the refined man in Victorian costume. His voice held a less stern tone: "Consider it an apology for being rude."

Locals emerged from their slumber. The street woke up, influenced by the dazzling sunrise.

Not letting the cylinder seal fall, nor securing it. Nicolai's fingers went paralyzed. Until his skin scorched by the garish light, he halted, motionless. His murky eyes pursued the retired shadow.

Akin to a mirage, the black mantle pulled away, insinuated between the tall buildings. Nicolai adjusted his hat, blocking the sun. Pondering, what just happened? Was he hallucinating? For he certainly was extremely tired.

The feel of the cylinder seal within his finger assured him. What he just experienced was beyond the grip of an illusion.