Sam

“No pressure, no obligations. Remember, this is a safe space. Just see where the date takes you.” The show host told the participant as people were taking place.

He looked smart, a bit cliché, even as friendly as he could be. He was a little too chatty, which wasn’t always to Sam’s liking, but it was normal for a host. Sam was pleasantly surprised that, for this kind of reality show, the crew was not as pushy as he imagined. His sister had been pushier when she signed him up and insisted he give it a try. At least he tried.

The crew was one thing, meeting people another. The cameras, with their millions of hidden viewers, didn’t help. Sam wasn’t sure if he should play a role or act naturally. He didn’t know which would be more appealing. Did they want him to be entertaining, or would they find him entertaining just as he was? His biggest worry was coming off as a creep. Were there cultural taboos he should avoid on a reality show like this? Any unspoken rules he was missing? Should he avoid the cameras when he had nothing to say, or would they just edit those parts out? What if he took too long to get to his seat? The makeup wasn’t too bad, but the lighting was intense and the temperature was far higher than he had expected.

He smiled at the crew as they bustled around him. A young man with grey hair greeted him. Sam returned the greeting before realizing the crew member was motioning for him to come closer.

The man informed him that the cameras were already rolling and that he could head to his table whenever he was ready. Sam asked for confirmation, and when he got it, he simply walked to his table. That was what he was here for, after all.

He sat down to find his blind date already there, along with a bottle of wine. She wore small golden crescent moon earrings, each adorned with tiny, convincing imitation diamonds. The reflections from the gems cast faint rainbows along the edges, tinting the gold. The earrings were delicate, carefully aligned to resemble a waxing crescent, whether symbolic or simply stylish, he wasn’t sure. They matched her dark navy-blue shirt, which was patterned with golden crescent moons. She paired it with medium-brown trousers, and a matching blazer rested on the back of her chair.

Sam thought he had targeted the right amount of smart looking outfit in comparison. He was wearing comfortable clothing with a simple black suit, a vivid blue shirt and discreet light bulb pin to add a small detail. She was pretty and smiley. The main visible difference was that she was definitely more sportive than him, her short sleeves revealing well sculpted muscles.

Overall, Sam realised she had two legs, two arms and two ears, like any human. He took a deep breath and finally sat in front of her.

She was still smiling. Sam smiled back.

“Sam,” he let slip before correcting himself. “Sorry, I should’ve asked first. What’s your name?”

“No, no obligation,” she reassured him.  “My name is Scarlet. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too. I like your matching shirt and earrings,” Sam said, hoping it wasn’t out of place. After all, a compliment like that should work on a date.

“Thank you. I love your lightbulb pin. Is it linked to a hobby or your work?”

“Not really. I just love it. It’s to give people an idea of who I am,” Sam joked.

His date seems to like the pun, as she nearly laughs. Or maybe she was restraining herself.

“What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a physiotherapist.” Scarlet responded distantly. “And you?”

“I correct people.”

“As a teacher?” She asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No, I’m a proofreader for a publishing house.”

“What sort of things do you correct?”

“Anything they send me, as long as it’s in English, Chinese, Korean, or Japanese.”

“That’s an impressive number of languages.”

“Thanks,” Sam said, his tone shifting slightly. “Though, to be honest, my Korean’s a little rusty. Like…if someone sent me a cookbook in Korean, I’d probably have to double-check some ingredients. I don’t want to accidentally turn sugar into…salt.”

Scarlet blinked, clearly unsure how to respond, so he added, “I mean, not that I get cookbooks often. Mostly it’s novels. Or academic papers. But not, like, fun academic papers, even if they sometimes are. It’s a lot of citations. And… footnotes. That’s a lot of checking whether references have already been translated well or need adjusting because of cultural differences. Sometimes the footnotes end up quite… long.”

He stopped, realizing he’d been talking a bit too much. He had been quite long. She tilted her head slightly, her smile soft but unreadable. The pause stretched just long enough to be felt.

Finally, Scarlet broke in. “Footnotes sound…important.”

The silence returned, thick and heavy as a barrier.

She leaned back in her chair, sipping from her wine glass. She tried to be subtle, but he caught it. Her eyes flicked toward the host, silently questioning him. Her expression, barely perceptible, betrayed a trace of concern.

Sam let his fingers move restlessly under the table, each one tapping against his thumb in sequence. As expected, the moment had turned awkward, quickly. Index, middle, ring, Pinky and back ring middle, index. She was good-looking, and it was only the beginning. Maybe, he hasn’t fumbled it already. His fingers accelerated, forming hidden circles. People could call it “playing” with his fingers but that was not a correct term. This always helped Sam focus. He needed to find something to come back with. They have barely exchanged. She is a physiotherapist, maybe she would want to talk about it? Or maybe not, your work is not always what you want to talk about outside of it. People often judge and compare when talking about professions. A compliment on her look would be redundant or cliché. A simple question about family? That would be more talking about other than her. A question about hobbies is fine, unless they are totally alien to him, in that case that…

“Are you okay?” Scarlet leaned forward, trying to catch his eyes.

“Yes, sorry.” Sam responded with a smile to avoid the subject. Hopefully for him, their starter was arriving. “Let’s see what these restaurant stars are for!”

She turned back to see the waiter approaching with their food. But just as he passed the table beside them, he let the tray drop and lunged at Sam with a kitchen knife. Scarlet grabbed the wine bottle and deflected the attack with surprising reflexes. Glass and metal clashed twice more as she parried his strikes. On the third attempt, the blade nicked her fingers, a drop of blood splashing onto the carpet. Scarlet countered, forcing the waiter’s knife to end his course stuck in the table. He tried to free it but that wasn’t a fast process. Seizing the advantage, she swung a powerful vertical strike. She would have shattered his arm if he hadn’t yanked it away in time. Instead, her bottle smashed against the table’s edge, sending shards flying. The lonely blood stain has now disappeared in the red sea of wine.

She had a weapon. He didn’t. Scarlet didn’t wait. She went full rage on him. But he was fast. In a single breath, he sidestepped and took a fighting stance. His foot struck her shoulder, then her elbow. Pain jolted through her arm, and her fingers went numb, the broken bottle slipping from her grip. The waiter went for a front punch directly in the face. She booted the tray from floor to mid-air and used it as a shield. The assailant blew on his knuckles to calm the pain. Scarlet lunged at him. He tried to catch her with his other hand, but she slipped on his side. With her uninjured hand, she yanked at his apron strings and spun around him. In one swift motion, his wrists tangled in the fabric, the loose ends flying upward. The two locked eyes. Satisfaction facing rage. Above them, the ceiling fan caught the apron’s trailing fabric and yanked the waiter clean off his feet.

Thirty seconds. Sam was locked in the observer seat, as lost as the rest of the restaurant guests. The back door burst open. Another waitress and a kitchen clerk entered the scene with clear intent to succeed where their colleague failed.

Scarlet glanced at them, then at Sam.

“Are you okay? We need to go. Now!” She ordered, pulling him by the arm.

She tugged him so abruptly he nearly toppled over, the chair’s front legs lifting off the ground. To keep himself upright, Sam lurched forward, slamming into the table. Plates, glass and ice cubes tinted as they shook.

Other clients glanced up, startled by the sudden commotion. The waiter behind Sam instinctively moved to catch him. He bowed and formulated a thousand apologies for bumping into Sam’s chair. Then he hurried back into the kitchen, head down in shame. Clearly, it wasn’t his day.

“Are you okay?” Scarlet repeated, still seated.

She exhaled slowly, as if holding something back. He had missed something. Sam scanned the room. Wine bottle, fancy restaurant, filming crew, a small plate with a cold starter. Nothing seemed out of place. As he was still looking around, he simply nodded to respond. Everything was fine as far as he knew.

His date leaned back. She observed him, then looked away for what felt like an eternity. Sam was locked. Many subjects came to mind, many questions, but none seemed to want to surface. She looked him in the eyes. He avoided it.

“Maybe this was a bad idea,” Scarlet muttered, standing up to grab her jacket.

“I’m sorry. I hope you like the wine at least.” Sam offered weakly.

He looked at the filming crew trying to get what to do. But due to the spotlight it was hard to guess who to look at. They were all a bunch of immobile black silhouettes at best.

“Don’t worry.” She said will adjust her small pouch. “It’s not you, it just is.” She added a hand on his shoulder.

3 seconds touch, simple, calculated or not, it was professional. She left quickly.

No one told him to leave. Around him, other guests continued eating and chatting, as if nothing had happened. The cameras were still rolling. The food was there, so Sam picked up his fork and took a bite. One fork was enough to get a third of the white pâté ball in front of him. It was cold and fishy, literally fishy. The waiter told them what it was when he served it, but Sam couldn’t remember. Fish was not Sam’s favourite, but it was well cooked and original. He didn’t mind it.

The second bite showed him he had been a little ambitious dividing his plate into three. He didn’t want to slice it again. He opened wide and gobbled a mouthful to finish it. His table neighbour nudged her bag with her foot. Unbalanced, a book tumbled out. Sam bent over, picking it up to hand it back. The woman, bored, Asian, probably older than him, had a striking red streak in her mid-length, straight hair. It was surprising as the red was vivid and still dark. It faded perfectly in the rest of her hair but at the same time stood out. Was she another participant?

He nearly choked when he tried to gulp and speak at the same time. Once the irritating lump of food finally made its way down, he handed her the book.

“You dropped it.” He managed to articulate.

“Thanks.” She said as she put it next to her and not back in her bag.

They both glanced at the empty chairs in front of them.

“Is she gone gone?” The lady asked without mincing words. She spoke fast, straight to the point.

“Yep,” Sam admitted as directly. “And yours?”

“He barely showed up. Went to the toilet before sitting down, and that was… an hour ago.” She checked her watch, unimpressed. “When did yours leave?”

“Not long after that, but at least she sat down. It was just before the starter. I mean, we had the starter served, but she left before eating. Anyway, she’s gone gone. That’s pretty clear.”

“At least she had the guts to sit down. Mine just bailed.”

“Do you think they’ll send other participants to us?”

“I’m not sure. We’re probably not a priority anymore. But I came here for dinner, and I plan on enjoying it.” She simply stated. “Let’s do this properly. I’m Motoko. You?”

“Sam. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too.” She extended her hand for a handshake.

It could seem formal, and it was, but for some reason it seemed natural.

Sam’s eyes drifted to the book Motoko had set down beside her. The worn spine caught his attention, and he tilted his head.

“Your book, is that Story of Your Life? They adapted it into a movie, right?”

Motoko looked up, her lips curling into a subtle smile. “Like many books, but yes. The Arrival, the movie. They didn’t do too badly with it, but the story has a depth the screen just couldn’t capture.”

“I haven’t read it,” Sam admitted. “But I watched the movie, and liked it. More depth than I was expecting at first. Interesting and complex.”

“It is, but that’s the point. You’d like it if you’re into sci-fi with a twist,” she said, resting her elbow lightly on the table, steering the conversation with a natural ease. “What about you? What have you been reading or watching lately?”

“Actually, I just finished the third Dune book,” he said, absentmindedly picking at his napkin. “But I needed a break. Those books are dense. And I love them, that’s not a problem, but sometimes you need to come up for air. I’ll continue the series. So, to change, I got myself a copy of Cloud Atlas.”

Her eyes lit up. “Now that’s ambitious. You went from layered political drama to… layered timelines? You’re a glutton for complexity, aren’t you?”

Sam chuckled. “Yeah, maybe. I guess I like books that make me think. What about you? Do you have a favourite author?”

Motoko leaned back thoughtfully, her hand lightly brushing the edge of her glass. “Nobody in particular,” she said, a slight shrug accompanying her words. “I prefer stories that make you feel like you’re looking into a mirror, whether you like the reflection or not.”

“Interesting way of putting it,” Sam said, genuinely intrigued. “I like good reflection too,” he said. Before he could elaborate or confirm if his joke landed, their main dishes arrived, the smell of freshly cooked food filling the air. Motoko flicked a glance at the empty seat across from Sam, then back at him. “Would you mind if I joined you? Sitting alone is a bit… tragic.”

“Not at all,” Sam said quickly, gesturing toward the chair. “Please.”

She slid her plate and book aside, settling into the seat with a grace that seemed almost practiced. “Thanks. So… do you always abandon mid-date, or is tonight a special occasion?”

Sam chuckled, caught off guard by her bluntness. “Honestly? First time for me. You?”

Motoko raised an eyebrow, her expression somewhere between amused and exasperated. “I will be lying if I said I haven’t had my fair share.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Sam said sympathetically.
“Don’t be. Their lost, not ours!” she declared theatrically tapping the table lightly with her fist for emphasis

“What led you to Cloud Atlas? Was it the movie?” she asked while picking some carrots.

“Strangely, not because of the movie. I saw it ages ago, several times, actually. But I’m trying to write a novel. Sci-fi, obviously.”

“So, more for inspiration and research,” she nodded.
As they ate, the conversation flowed easily, Motoko leading with questions about his thoughts on science fiction, stories with non-linear narratives, and how books like Cloud Atlas seemed to blur the lines between past, present, and future. At one point, she set her fork down, a thoughtful expression crossing her face.

“Funny, isn’t it?” she said, her tone suddenly quiet, almost cryptic. “How one moment can change the course of your day. Or your life.”

Sam paused mid-bite. Her words had struck a chord he couldn’t quite place. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “I guess it’s all about timing, right?”

“Exactly.” She smiled faintly, like she knew more than she was letting on.

She was playing something. Teasing him?

As they finished their meal, Motoko glanced toward the exit. “How about we continue this over coffee? And I mean away from all… this. Especially the cameras. There’s a café just down the street. My treat.”

Sam hesitated, suddenly self-conscious. “Sure. We should warn the crew.”

Motoko raised an eyebrow. “Okay.”

Sam was called by nature itself. “Just let me run to the restroom first… and I promise I’ll come back,” he joked, standing up.

Motoko laughed, shaking her head. “Good. I’m going to see the host. But I’m not waiting an hour like last time.”

As Sam headed for the restroom, he glanced back. Motoko had already picked up her book again, flipping through the pages like this was the most natural thing in the world.

Somehow, despite the chaos of the evening, she’d made everything feel… okay.

The young man returned, struggling to hide his smile. The restaurant was quieter now. Some clients, and perhaps other participants, had already left. He stopped by his table to grab his jacket and check he hadn’t forgotten anything.

“Are you okay?” Scarlet asked, watching him. “You practically ran off.”
“Yeah, I just needed to grab my… jacket.” Sam hesitated, surprised to see his original date came back.
No, that wasn’t the most disturbing part. She was sitting there, waiting for him, expecting him. Her smile seemed warmer.

“You came back?” he asked, confused.
Scarlet tilted her head. “You were the one who left the table. I never moved.”
“But… you left before the starter.”
“That was ages ago. I just went to the restroom. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Where is Motoko?”

“Who?” Scarlet frowned. “Is she part of the crew?”
“No, she was a participant like us. She sat right next to me. She took your seat.”
Scarlet’s expression didn’t change. “Sam… we’re the only participants.”

Sam looked around. No reaction from the filming crew. What else to expect? They were filming their animal documentary like creeps from afar. He hasn’t pulled his jacket back and already the atmosphere was hotter. The restaurant was trying to boil them at the same time as their lobsters.

“My last joke was playing a little on both of our loser’s fate, but she seemed to have enjoyed it. She couldn’t just have left.” He tried to argue.

Scarlet stood up and put her hands on both his shoulders. Even if the intention was good, the touch stimulus was too much or not enough. Motoko couldn’t have gone far away. The door was just there and the crew next to it. Sam tried to cool down. Scarlet was not a bad person, but where was Motoko?

“She was maybe just another client. Where was she seated?”

“She was just next to us …”

Sam stopped. There was no table. It was and always had been an aquarium. She sat there. But there had always been twenty-six exotic fish and two turtles, none of them eager to make room for a dinner guest.

He scanned the nearby tables. Empty. Too far. She wasn’t there. He moved across the room. An Asian woman with a red streak in her hair, hardly someone you’d mistake for anyone else. Ducking past a waiter, he stepped into the next room. Both rooms looked very similar. That was logic. The walls, tables, and the rest of the décor all matched perfectly, adding to the strange, nagging sense of déjà vu. Nothing stood out, no details fixed themselves in his memory.
The mingling scents of various dishes blended into something indistinct, neither pleasant nor unpleasant, just there. The restaurant wasn’t particularly crowded. Sam counted twenty, maybe twenty-one, remaining clients. But none of them resembled the woman he was looking for.

The only place left was behind two glass doors. The balcony. She had a cylinder and a small packet on her bag. Sam could see it clearly now. Maybe she was simply going outside to smoke. That was clearly the side of a cigarette box.

The air was so fresh it basically sucked Sam outside. Nobody was eating here. Nobody was here. A stupid idea to come out without a jacket. Smokers might endure it for a quick cigarette, but Sam? He wouldn’t last long. Silence. Cold. The solid weight of the stone balustrade beneath his hands.
He exhaled slowly. What was he even looking for?

The scene was solemnly lit by a timid moon. Clouds emerged from the land in a slow-moving sea on land. The trees and rare buildings added texture on the grey decorum. The wind blow was accompanied by an artificial waterfall next to the balcony. It covered Scarlet that was closing the door behind her.

They were dominating the place. It was the kind of place you imagine a sanatorium to be built. That was the kind of place Sam visualised for the Reichenbach falls. The kind of place for emotions and theatrical thoughts. A caisson for reflection.

“That’s what you wanted to show me?” she asked, laughing nervously. “Bit of a cold move, but I’ll admit the stars are … something.”

Sam placed both hands on the cold stone balustrade. He looked up and, indeed, the stars were stunning. He couldn’t recognise any constellation. Not that he knew any. But still, that was a spectacle.

“You have quite a passion for the stars,” she observed, her voice calm, almost mesmerised. “And it’s contagious. Now I really want to watch Cloud Atlas now.”

Sam took a long breath. The rough stone pressed into his palms. He was glad he had brought her here. In the dim light, Scarlet could almost have been the red-locked woman from earlier.

“I’m hoping we will travel through stars during our generation,” she whispered to the valley as she joined him on the edge of the balcony.

She was wearing a fruity parfum. Inside, it had been impossible to notice it. Here it was part of the scenery. That was a strange choice, comparing to her moon style accessories, but once again, that too, echo what they were contemplating now. Her hand was close to his. Even in this dim light, he noticed faint scars on her fingers.

Without thinking, he grabbed her hand. He needed answers.

“What are there?”

“What an indiscreet question!” She pulled her hand away, clearly offended.
But Sam wasn’t buying it. He studied her from head to toe. She looked down, cradling her injured hand in the other.

“Long story,” she said. “Let’s just say I’ve seen things.”

“What things? I’ve seen things too. A lot lately.” Sam argued to try to confront her.

She was shaking. Was it cold or culpability?

“Let’s go back inside. I’m freezing.”

She stepped closer. Maybe to take his hand. Maybe for something else.

It was a reflex. He didn’t know what was going on.

He pushed her away.

She stumbled on something or just her shoes slide,

And went over the balustrade.

The light was dim.

The balcony was empty.

Sam leaned forward.

A gust of wind rushed past him. He felt nothing. No chill against his skin, no pressure against his clothes. The air itself seemed indifferent, as if it had lost interest in touching him.

The fall was silent.

The ground was at an uncertain distance. It stretched away, then snapped back, then stretched again, like a rubber band testing its limits

The world beneath him rippled, as though it hadn’t realised what it wanted to be.

Down below, crumpled and broken, she whispered her last words.

“…Are you okay?”

The wind howled. Then, an impact. A punch to the gut. He doubled over. His attacker stood in full black, head to toe, only their eyes visible through a slit in the mask. Sam was holding his abdomen on the verge of throwing. A sandal flew at terminal velocity, smacking the ninja’s face. He collapsed instantly, revealing another figure behind him, a giant woman, built like a tank, her arms as thick as Sam’s entire torso.

Scarlet yanked Sam back and delivered a powerful kick to the giant. The woman barely flinched. Her commando gear absorbed most of the impact, her reinforced arms preventing what should have been broken bones. But the hit still hurt!

Sam crashed into an underground seat. A train roared past on the parallel tracks, shaking their car. Flashing neon lights flickered overhead, casting everything in a sickly glow. The hard plastic seat pressed into his back. It was not exactly the ideal place to recover. The air was thick with sweat and adrenaline. Scarlet fought on, dodging and countering while Sam was rediscovering the burning experience of air. Her opponent shoved her back with a brutal palm strike, forcing her to stumble a few steps. The cramped underground car left her little room to manoeuvre.

She slapped Sam that spined under the hit. Lights flashed, tables, balustrade, stars, lines undesignable. He heard Scarlet charge back on the giant with a scream.  

Underground, fight, ninja, tried to reconnect Sam. Scarlet had style in her new uniform, but he was not as comfortable in his. They had been running more than his body was used to and they would continue. Survival first, rest after. On the other underground a guy was waving at him or maybe it was an Asian woman.

“When you … want. But now… would be great!” The guardian lady had difficulty articulating.

Sam came back to the scene. Scarlet was trapped, struggling to keep the giant’s arms from crushing her throat. Sam glanced down. He was gripping a taser. Hesitation flickered in his mind, but there was no time to think. He jammed the device into the woman’s side and hit the trigger. A blue flash turned into a small bacon smelly cloud. The giant convulsed. Scarlet used the moment to elbow and kick her in the solar plexus and finish with a two-hand hammer hit on the back of the skull.

“’Took you ages!” Scarlet protested.

Sam wanted to argue, but he didn’t have a good argument, and guys were banging at the car’s door. A black-gloved arm smashed through the glass, fingers clawing for the handle.
“This way!” A man on the other train shouted, struggling to pry open the window.

“You told me it was a simple extraction! They are too many!” She shouted back as she grabbed Sam’s pants.

She threw him through the opening. The wind was deafening. The mysterious commando guy pulled Sam in the neighbour train. In a second, they would diverge onto separate paths. The horde of ninjas flooded into the old subway car. Scarlet planted both hands on the window’s edge and launched herself forward, straight into Sam.

He accompanied her into a spin. Halfway through, he nearly lost his balance but managed to steady them both. Now face to face, he asked the question burning in his mind.

“Who are they?”

“Are you okay? That’s just the new interior decorator,” Motoko said, still in his arms.

Her eyes were piercing his. She was trying to diagnose him. Behind her, the so-called decorator walked past with an amused smile, disappearing into the next room of The Beans.

Sam straightened her gently and shook his head. Then, without thinking, he pulled her back into his arms. They held each other in silence for a few seconds. Nearby, one of the many book piles Sam had been sorting teetered on the edge of a sofa. The Beans was supposed to be a library that doubled with a coffee place, a read and tearoom. Would people love it? Maybe! One of the books fell on the floor, waking up the married couple.

“We have stuff to do.”

“One more second. You smelled good today.”

“I smell good everyday” She teased him.

The cuddle lasted a few more seconds as requested, and she moved his hand to her belly.

“Have you thought about names?” he asked.

“Not yet,” she admitted, distant, like always.

She traced soft circles over his hand before slipping free. As she walked away, her long black hair swayed in perfect rhythm with her steps.

“What about Nemo?” he suggested as she moved behind the counter.

“That’s not a fish,” she playfully complained.

“No, he’ll be a captain” Sam countered, picking up the fallen book.

“Assuming it’s a he,” Motoko corrected with a smirk.

“Let’s say Nema if it’s a she or Nemi if it’s a they,” he half-jokingly advocated, pointing her with the tome.

“You are awful at this.”

“But you love it!”

“Are we sure of that?” she added looking away theatrically. “But seriously, we still have a lot to prepare.”

She fell back absorbed by the computer. On the side, her fingers went playing with her alliance. The Beans was a stressful new start for both. Sam knew it and more. They could make it work.  He grabbed her hand and her attention away from the numbers. He wanted just a few more seconds. Then he let her go.

He returned to his pile of books. One in particular caught his eye. It was an old, tattered journal with a crudely drawn ninja mask on its spine. The cover was blank, no markings, not even a title. Curious, he flipped it open.

A note fluttered from between the pages.

“Sam! The architect wants to leave,” Motoko called, but Sam barely heard her.

The same polite man from earlier walked past, wearing the same polite smile.

Sam picked up the note, his pulse quickening.

“You said they were the interior designer?” he told her, unfolding the slip of paper.

 Three words awaited him

“Are you okay?”

“You already know who they are!” Scarlet snapped, her irritation boiling over. “They’re ninjas, Sam. The bad guys. The ones after you. And stop staring at your hand like you’re high.”

Sam’s hand was empty, dirty but empty.

“They had been running for days, jumping from one hideout to another. Tension clung to the air like smoke. Roger was mostly silent. Scarlet mostly complained. And Sam? Sam was lost, period.

He was unshaved, smelly and exhausted. All three of them were.

“He needs to tell us now!” Scarlet argued, glaring across the rustic metal table at Roger.

Between them, a crumpled map lay spread out, covered in desperate marks, their trail of escape with too many hideouts crossed out.

“He barely understands,” Roger replied, “He struggles to follow but he will catch up.”

“He will be free if he gives it!” Scarlet countered as she outfaced Sam silent in his corner.

“He visibly can’t,” Roger defended him.

“Or doesn’t want”

“Look at him!” The mercenary gestured toward Sam, slumped in the corner, barely conscious.

“I’m.”

Indeed, she was. And that alone kept Sam silent.

“You want to resolve to torture? You think that will help maybe.” Roger tempted her.

“…”

“Do not even consider it! Damn, we can’t clash now! They will find us again soon, I do not know how, but they always do.”

As they were arguing Sam took a moment to observe Scarlet’s back. She was intriguing. She had a mind and a physics that was something. What she thought of him was a mystery. Her moon earrings still captivate the young man, her bruises highlighting it. It seemed more like a stain.

Sam handed her a tissue.

“You’ve got something behind your…”,

Then he saw it. Not a bruise. Not a stain. A tattoo. A ninja mask.

“That’s just like if they got a tracker or a mole!” Roger admitted unaware of the realization that happened between Scarlet and Sam.

The warrior woman’s expression darkened, a shadow swallowing any trace of warmth.

“You were always too observant, Sam,” she murmured. “And you, Roger, too clever for your own role.”

Roger’s eyes widened in slow realization.

Too slow.

His hand shot toward the weapon at his belt.

Scarlet was faster. She drove her foot into the table, slamming it into his gut, pinning his hands beneath it. With a step back, she ripped the taser from Sam’s belt.

A spark. A jolt.

Metal table. Roger’s hand. Perfect conductivity.

The mercenary convulsed, his body seizing before he collapsed, motionless.

Scarlet turned to Sam. He was frozen, staring at her. His breath was shallow, his mind racing.

Their eyes met. For a moment, just a moment, her expression softened. Regret flickered in her eyes.

“I’m sorry!” she told, before knocking him out cold.

“Sorry about my colleague. Are you okay?” The detective… Peter… no, Peralta, enquired, his breath reeking of coffee. He was nice and calm, unlike his younger partner.

“I didn’t touch him! He slipped!” Detective Diaz contested.

“I think someone punched me.” Sam dazed out.

“Nah, it was merely a breeze,” Detective Diaz muttered, slapping the dazed man on the back of the head.

“Were not doing that Diaz”

The mentor looked bored with his partner’s antics. Sam knew they couldn’t do anything monstrous, but he was still shitting himself. This detective Diaz was terrifying. He could certainly knock down a couple of ninjas with his bare hands.

“No, we won’t do anything else. But if our dear suspect wants to keep his mouth intact, he should start using it now!”

“That’s enough! Drop the bad cop good cop trope. We’re not in a TV show!”

“Besides, I’d like to respond, but I’m not even sure what happened,” Sam admitted.

They were on the other side of the metal table. Sam didn’t know if it was safe to touch it. He kept his hands on his legs. Maybe it made him look more suspicious, but it felt safer. He was jumping from looking at one detective to the other.

“You pushed a woman to her death, that’s not nothing.” Detective Diaz calmly repeated as he sat down.

“I think that was an incident,” Sam said.

“You think?” the old detective asked. “That’s vague.”

“That was an incident. I just met her, just had met her.” The young man argued.

“Why push Motoko while you were matched to another contestant?”

“Scarlet” Detective Diaz corrected, scrutinising any microreaction from Sam.

“Wait! What? I thought Scarlet died!”

“Stay with us, man. Motoko died.” Diaz snapped at him. “Asian, red-locked lady, with the Arrival book? That doesn’t ring any bells?”

“Yes, but she was not the one that fell.”

“So you chose Scarlet. That’s your version of the story. Hard to contest what we observed. You chose Motoko.”

“No assumptions, please.” Detective Peralta corrected. “We still don’t know if he chose her.”

“But we know he was looking for her.” Diaz contested.

“Indeed, other witnesses said you were actively looking for her. Why?” Detective Peralta asked gently, while Sam tried to avoid his oddly patronizing stare.

“She just left. We were going for coffee,” Sam recalled.

“So you knew her. Were you two close?”

“I think… we had something.” Sam admitted, as lost as he was horrified.

“Are you okay?” the lawyer asked sharply, adjusting her vintage mustard suit. “That’s all we’re asking. My client is not here to discuss those kinds of personal details anymore. Will you sign the agreement?”

Sam looked around. The room was as welcoming as a police interrogation chamber, its walls adorned with a large portrait of the lawyer. Her painted gaze was just as judgmental as the real one sitting across from him. In front of him lay the saddest papers of his life, a pen resting beside them.

He looked at Motoko beside him. She looked healthy. Warmth radiated from her. Love, but also betrayal. She absently traced the outline of a ghost ring on her finger. He had lost them. Why choose someone else? He searched for her eyes, but she avoided him. Motoko stayed rigid in her seat, refusing to meet his gaze. He couldn’t meet hers either.

He was too warm in his suit, too formal, too ridiculous, too drenched in sweat.

“What’s your decision?”

Sam started breathing with difficulty.

“I can’t… I don’t understand.”

“I think you do!” Detective Diaz said, from the shadows of the interrogation chamber. “We found something on her.”

From the darkness, his hand slid forward, gripping an old, tattered journal. He slid it across the table toward Sam. He hesitated before daring to tilt his head, observing the spine.

The room felt colder than ever, yet Sam couldn’t breathe. He was burning up.

“You already know what’s on it.” The detective stated with no trace of doubt. “And you know what’s inside too.”

The pages were dark with frantic scrawls, fragments of thoughts, unfinished sentences, a chaos of words that twisted in every direction, both figuratively and literally. The syntax unravelled, wild, uncontrolled, limitless. Thoughts mixed and blurred. Words, graphs, drawings, words, if, else, then, or, maybe, so…

The detective stopped on a double page with Sam’s name on it and something else under it.

A small line barely visible.

It was not words, it was a message.

It was just for him.

He heard her read it.

“Are you okay?”

Scarlet emerged from the darkness, pressing him deeper into the chair, as though the seat itself wanted to consume him.

It was her. Sam knew it. But the black fabric mask concealed her face. The eyes behind the mask. Motoko’s. Her voice, unmistakably hers. And yet… she was Motoko. He knew it.

She leaned in, red-streaked hair slipping past her face.

“You’re not guilty, Sam. But you’re not innocent either. We’ve seen your file.”

Motoko threw a bunch of photos over the cryptic journal.

“So, who?” Scarlet asked.

There were portraits. Faces familiars. Motoko and Scarlet mainly. Then other faces shifted. Sometimes them. Sometimes him. The waiter. The host. The sound technician. They kept coming with no intention to stop. The flood of faces pulled Sam under, drowning him in familiarity and confusion. Other women, some men, some other, some unidentified, some portrait, group pictures, family, home, scene. Can people swim through that normally? Is it something they normally do? There were so many of them with Sam alone, so many of Sam happy, so many of Sam sad, so many chaotic, so many serene.

He couldn’t fight anymore.

Sam blinked.

When he opened his eyes, harsh fluorescent lights bore down on him, glaring with an almost aggressive intensity. He squinted and sat up straighter.

Around him, the sounds of bustling crew members filled the room. Cameras were being dismantled, cables dragged across the floor, muffled instructions echoing back and forth. The reality TV host, impeccably dressed and wearing a practiced smile, approached with an outstretched hand.

“Well done, Sam,” they said warmly, their voice as polished as earlier. “Thank you for participating. You gave it your all. Maybe next time.”

Sam rubbed his temple, disoriented. “If you say so.”

The host laughed lightly, but their eyes searched his face carefully, as if gauging how much to ask. “The date ended, Sam. You did great. These things aren’t about finding the perfect match. It’s about learning more about yourself.”

Scarlet emerged from the back of the crew, her smile kind yet distant, as if she’d already compartmentalised the whole evening. “You’re sweet, Sam,” she said, her tone genuine but tinged with finality. “But… I’m not sure you were really with me.”

Her words sent a ripple of déjà vu through him.

The host patted his shoulder. “She’s got a point, you know,” they chuckled, tapping their temple. “You spend a little too much time up here. Sometimes, we let our minds run away with us. But that’s okay. It’s all part of the process.”

Sam nodded absently, unsure what to say.

“Just remember to come back to reality once in a while!” they added before walking away.

Scarlet gave a small wave before vanishing into the crowd, dissolving into the chaos of moving crew members. Within moments, it was as if she’d never been there at all.

Left alone amid the now-dismantled set, Sam sat quietly, trying to piece together the evening. Awkward, once again. Nevertheless, the host had a point. Maybe Sam could learn from this. Maybe next time, with another Scarlet or Motoko, things would be better.

With a shake of his head, Sam stood and stepped outside. The crisp night air wrapped around him, sharp and grounding. He wandered aimlessly, his thoughts a kaleidoscope of fragmented moments, shifting and slipping through his grasp.

As he passed a brick building, graffiti caught his eye. A ninja mask was painted onto the wall in bold, black lines. It was simple yet unmistakable.

He paused, staring. For a fleeting moment, he could swear he heard it whisper: “Are you okay?”

Sam blinked, inhaling deeply. Then, exhaling slowly, he turned and walked on. A quiet calm settled over him.

For the first time in a long while…

He was okay.

He wasn’t afraid.