For the old couple, dinner with Blair had quickly become their favorite pastime. Each evening, she worked at a humble chicken restaurant filled with her lighthearted chatter and stories, each one somehow more unexpected than the last. Blair had an effortless way of making them laugh; whether she was bragging about her mischievous cat, Chuchu, or recounting the latest trouble he’d caused, her tales were endlessly entertaining.

She had a knack for veering from humor into unfiltered curiosity in a way that only she could pull off. But tonight, instead of launching into her usual stories, she seemed wasn’t in her spirit and out of nowhere; she launched a very sensitive question.

“So... what does it feel like, knowing your time is, well, coming up?”

They had nearly choked on their dinners, torn between amusement and shock. Yet, they couldn’t help but laugh—she had a way of making even the bluntest of questions silly.

The husband patted his chest, wheezing with a mixture of shock and laughter.

*Cough* Cough*

“Mercy! You nearly end our time!”

The wife, catching her breath, chuckled with a confident smile, “Young lady, we may be a bit... seasoned, but let me tell you, a soothsayer once told us we’re destined to live to a hundred!” She exchanged a proud glance with her husband, who nodded in agreement, both clearly taking the prediction to heart.

She raised her hands, smiling sheepishly. “Is there a way to cope with the fear of death?” She shrugged awkwardly.

The couple’s laughter faltered. The husband set down his fork, his expression shifting to one of caution, while the wife’s confident smile faded into a worried crease. They exchanged a quick glance, and the unspoken concern flashed across their wrinkled faces.

The husband leaned forward slightly, his voice low and serious. “You’re not… you’re not sick, are you? Or—” He hesitated, his gaze narrowing. “You’re not running from a loan shark, are you?”

The wife reached out, placing a hand on Blair’s arm, her expression a mix of concern and curiosity. “Dear, are you feeling alright? You can skip your next part-time job, and let’s talk about it.”

Blair’s eyes widened, surprised by her own question as she recognized its sensitivity. She hadn’t intended to raise any alarms, and the gravity of her words struck her as she observed their concerned expressions. She laughed nervously, attempting to lighten the mood. “Oh, no, no! I’m not sick,” she assured them, waving her hands dismissively. “In fact, according to my last check-up, I’m so healthy that I could probably give birth to a dozen kids if I wanted to.”

The couple exchanged a surprised glance, and Blair seized the opportunity to steer the conversation toward humor. “Really, I was just curious. I had been studying medicine before switching to business, so I missed out on all the significant discussions regarding the study of death and the psychological mechanisms for coping with it.”

The couple’s expressions softened, their initial concern transforming into warm, reassuring smiles. The wife gently took Blair’s hand, patting it with a firm yet gentle touch. “Well… to tell you the truth, Blair,” she began, her voice steady, “even at our age, the thought of dying still makes us scared.”

The husband nodded, gently squeezing Blair’s hand in reassurance. “So, instead of dwelling on it, we focus on the present and what we have right now,” he said, his tone light yet filled with wisdom. “We live each day as if it’s a gift—and believe me, we’ve discovered that an hour can be worth a whole day’s memories if you truly cherish every second of it. Sometimes, a year feels like a decade.”

He smiled tenderly, glancing at his wife with a fondness that had clearly shared for decades. “We’re grateful for every single morning we wake up together and get to breathe, to share another day.” He looked back at Blair, his smile deepening. “That’s our secret, you see. Appreciate each moment, and… well, we don’t feel as old anymore.”

Blair felt a warmth spread through her, a sense of calm she hadn’t expected to find in the presence of the elderly couple who radiated overflowing love.

“Remember this, Blair,” he called her name earnestly, a warm smile on his face. “The bravest person isn’t the one who is unafraid of death, but rather the one who fights to live, no matter how tough life gets. Mortality becomes truly beautiful when you learn to value life and embrace it with determination.”

Blair stood up abruptly and moved behind them, wrapping her arms around their shoulders in a tight embrace. “You two,” she said in a cheerful tone, “make me want to live a very long time!” Her beautiful face radiated joy and gratitude.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The wife patted Blair’s arm affectionately, leaning into the embrace. “Oh, my dear, that’s the spirit! Live a long life and give us a dozen grandchildren,” she said, her voice filled with delight.

————

The bright moon hung low in the night sky, full and bright, bathing the rooftop. Its silvery light brushed every surface, from the rough concrete beneath Spencer’s shoes to the metal railing he leaned against.

The moonlit backdrop highlighted his silhouette. His sharp jaw clenched tightly as his dangerous amber eyes darted to the door, anticipating for it to open, and saw Blair walked in.

“Damn it, Blair!” he growled, gripping his phone so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

Spencer paced the rooftop, the frosty night air biting against his skin, but his anger kept him warm. He had been waiting for hours, staring at his phone, the messages and missed calls on the screen mocking him. He had been so sure that mentioning Diane’s name would spark Blair’s curiosity. It was supposed to be the perfect bait.

But no Blair’s shadow everywhere.

——————

Spencer sat at the far end of the pub, his demeanor a stark contrast to the fury that had consumed him just hours before. His warm undertone skin glowed subtly under the soft light of the pub, enhancing his refined appearance. The corners of his lips curved in an effortless smile, revealing just enough of his teeth to add a touch of amiable charisma. His eyes, which had burned with a dangerous intensity on the rooftop, now sparkled with warmth and an easy, disarming humor.

The bartender slid another drink, but before Spencer could take a sip, he felt someone settle into the seat beside him. He turned his head slightly, just enough to see the figure dressed in a long trench coat and a cap pulled low, obscuring his face.

The voice that followed was low, almost too quiet to hear over the hum of the bar. “Do you still have no information about the thing we are looking for?” The figure shifted slightly, turning toward him. His tone sharpened, dripping with disdain. “Seems the organization overestimated you.”

Spencer leaned back in his chair, one arm draped casually over the backrest, his posture relaxed and unbothered. A faint, amused smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he swirled his drink lazily. “Oh, I didn’t realize it was mandatory, Frank. I thought the organization sent me to the University of Uriel to play with a little brat and to study medicine as per my father’s request,” he said, his tone light, almost playful, as though he were recounting a dull anecdote.

Frank’s entire demeanor stiffened, the tension in his shoulders visible even through his coat. His gloved hand tightened into a fist against the counter, the sound of leather creaking faintly in the dimly lit pub. Slowly, he turned his concealed face toward Spencer; the shadows obscuring his expression, but not the barely controlled fury in his voice.

“You think this is a joke, Spencer?” he hissed, leaning in just enough to close the space between them. “Do you even comprehend what’s at stake? The future of the organization rests on this operation!”

The sharpness of his words cut through the low hum of the bar’s chatter, but Spencer didn’t flinch. Instead, he raised his glass to his lips, taking a slow, deliberate sip before setting it down with a soft clink.

“Relax, Frank,” Spencer said smoothly, his voice laced with detached amusement. “Don’t leash out your anxiety on me. One thing’s certain right now—no one has a clue where that damn thing is.” He tilted his head slightly, amber eyes glinting with a mix of defiance and measured composure.

Frank’s shoulders quaked with barely contained fury. The faint creak of his leather gloves as his fists clenched echoed like the tightening grip of a noose.

Leaning closer, his voice dropped to a venomous whisper. “Don’t you dare make fools of us, Spencer,” he snarled. “We’re not blind, nor are we idiots. We know damn well that another organization has been moving under our noses. You think we don’t know?” His voice dropped even lower, laden with bitterness. “They’re the ones who pushed Blair’s cousin from that balcony.”

Spencer’s expression faltered ever so slightly, the amusement in his gaze hardening into something sharper. He set his glass down deliberately, the clink against the counter echoing ominously.

“Interesting,” he said, his tone sharp and measured, each word carrying an undercurrent of menace. His smirk faded, replaced by a chilling stillness as his jaw tightened, the light in his amber eyes darkening like a predator’s gaze locking onto its prey. “But tell me, Frank—what makes you so sure about that?” His voice dropped, low and dangerous, as his friendly countenance dissolved into something far more primal, a murderous edge creeping into his expression.

He leaned forward. “Or let’s say you’re right with your theory,” he continued, “but what made you think I knew about it?”

Beneath the brim of his hat, Frank’s face paled, a bead of sweat sliding down his temple despite the pub’s cool atmosphere. His eyes darted briefly to the glass in Spencer’s hand, the deliberate clink still reverberating in his mind like a warning bell.

“Just wait,” he said, his voice low but steady, with a faint edge of defiance. “I will prove to your father that I was right about everything. Every. Single. Thing.”

He turned away sharply, his coat billowing slightly as he strode toward the exit. But the tension between his shoulders betrayed the fear coursing through him. Frank didn’t dare to look back. The memory of Spencer’s horrifying feature seared into his mind.

As he pushed open the pub door, he muttered under his breath, glancing around to ensure no one had followed. “That lunatic… he’s hiding something. I’ll prove it.”

Inside, Spencer watched him leave, the murderous intensity in his eyes slowly giving way to a faint smirk. “You are a lucky soul, Frank, if you won’t find anything,” he murmured to himself, his voice as smooth as the alcohol slid into his throat but laced with venom. “Or else I won’t have a choice but to kill you.” He murmured, his voice as smooth as the whiskey sliding down his throat, yet steeped in bitterness.