24991119 | 1935
The Fullerton By the Bay | Marina Bay | People’s Republic of Singapore
1° 17′ 06.0000″ N
103° 51′ 06.1200″ E
Evening settled over the Bay, a velvet shroud.
The streets and boulevards began to fill up as people left their offices and towers.
Executives on their way to private rendezvous.
Mothers hurried home; fathers hurried off to fetch their children from tuition.
The young and the old, winding down for the day.
Conversations, phones and chatter flooded the pristine city streets.
The air warm with a trace of salt, jasmine, and the faint electric hum of the city’s data arteries.
The hotel stood against the bay, a palace of glass and steel, glowing neon blue beneath floodlights.
Lovingly and diligently preserved, its architecture untouched by time.
It survived the Fall.
It stood unchanged since the twentieth century.
Inside the lobby, she waited.
Shirley Tempess looked out to the bayfront.
She watched the sunset in the horizon, past the glass and steel pane.
Where she stood, idle and bored, the few passers-by were utterly transfixed on her.
She was a sight to behold.
Spellbindingly beautiful, her beauty ethereal and delicately mysterious.
She wore Vesperé – the signature piece by her friend étienne - the Parisian atelier’s liquid red silk with a slit that whispered up her thigh, molten fire in the twilight.
It clung to her, accentuating her shape.
Her hair was fashionably swept up and pinned in asymmetric coils with adorned hair-pin, its chromatic gems catching the chandelier light like spun obsidian.
Finery glittered at her throat and wrists, diamonds set in platinum, she picked them up that morning at Celestin Haute Joaillerie, much to the quiet satisfaction of Marius Celestin, who had been telling her for years that the piece would ‘look good’ on her.
A gossamer scarf framed her shoulders, fragile as morning mist.
The scent of white lotus and night jasmine clung to her as a shroud.
Soft, dangerous, unforgettable.
A haunting memory that faded with the morning.
She noted one bellboy staring particularly hard, who hastily looked away when she turned to him.
Too young to hide it.
Another paused mid-step, forgetting the guest luggage in his hands.
An older gentleman was stealing glances, much to the chagrin of his female companion.
A couple waiting for valet service whispered to one another in hushed tone.
Men glanced. Women assessed.
Eyes drawn to her, moths to flame.
She did not return a single gaze, but her lips curled slightly in amusement.
She watched the numbers blinked on the descending elevator.
Footsteps approached.
Polished leather, measured and audible.
She turned to regard the hotel manager.
He smiled and bowed slightly.
“Miss Tempess, I presume?” he said with the polished Old-World accent.
“Yes,” she said with a slight smile.
“Welcome to the Fullerton by the Bay,” he continued, “we were expecting you.”
Shirley chuckled languidly, “have you now?”
The manager’s expression flickered, surprise.
But he recovered quickly, with polite neutrality he continued.
“Mr Wei-Clarke has reserved the entire rooftop for tonight.” The manager continued politely, “may I have the pleasure of escorting the fine lady?”
“The pleasure’s mine.” Shirley replied smiling, “please.”
The elevator opened with a chime.
“Please follow me.” The manager said, holding the doors open.
She moved past him toward the elevator, hips swaying, her heels clicking against the marble in slow, precise steps.
Her scarf brushed her bare shoulder like a kiss.
The doors closed and the elevator ascended.
“Have you a pleasant flight?” the hotel manager said.
“Uneventful,” Shirley replied.
A moment passed.
“I trust you enjoyed yourself at the La Nuit des étoiles Voilées?” he ventured lightly.
Shirley’s lips curved.
“A gala is a gala,” she said, smiling. “étienne simply dresses it better.”
He laughed softly, the polite kind reserved for someone far above his pay grade.
“I subscribed to the La Gazette Métropolitaine,” he said. “Madame étienne’s collection was… most exquisite.”
“Ah, you noticed.” Shirley inclined her head.
“You wear her well.”
“étienne has her moment.” Shirley smiled.
The elevator continued its smooth ascent toward the Lumen.
As the doors chimed open, he stepped aside and held the door with a courteous half-bow.
“The view over Marina Bay is especially beautiful this evening,” he said. “Enjoy your evening, mademoiselle.”
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“Thank you, Pierre,” she said as she moved past him, the faintest brush of silk and perfume.
The manager’s expression flickered.
Surprise.
She stepped into the Lumen.
The Lumen opened before her like a floating pavilion of glass and amber light.
Warm lantern-glow washed across the polished stone, softening every edge, turning the rooftop into something suspended between water and sky.
The pool stretched beside the deck in a long, perfect line.
Shimmering sapphire catching the last breath of dusk.
Beyond the glass railings, Marina Bay unfurled in twilight splendor.
The skyline burned in gold and violet.
Towers catching the fading sun like polished monoliths.
The water below rippled with mirrored light, each wave breaking the reflection into trembling jewels.
Traffic arced across the bridge in slow ribbons of white.
It was a view accorded only to the elites, the powerful, the impeccably connected.
A city at the height of civilization.
Unconquered, unbowed.
Music drifted through the air.
Slow, curated, expensive.
She walked along the edge of the pool, the soothing beat of cascading water, towards the Lumen.
Her eyes rested on the man seated upon the lounge.
He stood up as she approached.
She gave the slightest smile.
Monaco came back to her in shards.
Champagne on a terrace above the sea.
The whine of F1 engines in the distance.
His hand upon the small of her back as they moved through the casino.
The suite they shared the night.
A bed, lavender and spice.
His mouth at her throat, teeth grazing skin.
By sunrise she was gone.
To her, it was a fling.
To him, it was a wound.
He had dogged her since.
Messages relayed through mutual acquaintances.
Invitations to galas and raves.
His name quietly appearing on the same exclusive guest lists.
Always watching her from a distance.
Watching her when she was in the arms of other men.
The Monaco Sovereign Cup.
The La Nuit des étoiles Voilées.
The Ascendant Winter Ball.
The Imperial Table of Ten.
She glimpsed him, even spoke to him twice.
Months slid into years.
The messages grew less persistent, but never stopped.
Then he heard she was in the city.
His people waited for her outside the Celestin Haute Joaillerie, extending his personal invitational for the evening.
Intrigued, or maybe bored, she accepted.
She spent the afternoon doing her hair, shopping at the affluent Orchard.
All of it with his money.
They dropped her back at her hotel for a change of clothes.
They waited on her idly downstairs to chauffeur her to the dinner.
He rented the sky.
She approached him without hurry.
He rose from the lounge and took her hand, brushing his lips over her knuckles.
“Shirley,” he said. “It’s good to see you again.”
His voice carried a trace of the Old World. Distinct still, despite dwelling in faraway Singapore.
The suit was midnight blue, immaculate.
The shirt white, no tie.
Cufflinks discreet.
Everything about him whispered class, status, affluence.
She let herself smile, small and amused. “Damian. I thought you’d be in Monaco.”
“Monaco is not the same without you,” he said. “But now, you are here.”
His hand slid lightly to the small of her back.
His fingers grazing bare skin with intentional intimacy.
He took her hand as if they had parted just yesterday.
The breadth of years and nations dissipated.
“You looked incredible,” he said, “a goddess.”
“I figure you should get something,” she smiled, “given everything you spent.”
That drew a genuine laugh out of him, low and pleased.
He released her hand and gestured toward the only table, placed between the infinity edge and accorded a breathtaking view of the bay.
“I thought we could talk a little more,” he said. “Since Monaco.”
“If I recalled, you weren’t too interested to have a conversation back then,” Shirley said, “eager to get to the better part of the evening.”
“You were bored,” he said. “But you weren’t bored when we were at the better part of the evening.”
“I was hungry.” She said flatly.
“Is that an invitation?” he cocked an eyebrow.
She leaned in then.
“I’m hungry.” She whispered huskily.
He smiled.
“Then let’s eat,” he said, and clapped his hands once.
A white-gloved butler emerged from the shadows.
He pulled out her chair with smooth, practiced choreography, as if he had rehearsed this moment a hundred times.
Beyond him, framed by a glass partition, she could see the kitchen —
quiet, efficient, a chef in immaculate whites plating something with tweezers under heat-lamps.
She sat.
The gown folded just right, the slit spilling just enough leg to be a promise.
The scarf slid down her arms and pooled around her elbows like water.
Damian took his seat opposite.
The butler poured water without asking, then stepped aside for a second attendant carrying a bottle cradled like an heirloom.
“’98 Chateau Margaux,” Damian said. “Took it off the block at the EUNESCO Heritage Auction.”
The butler eased the cork free with slow, reverent turns.
The scent reached her even before the first drop touched glass.
Old oak.
Dark fruit.
Deep.
Aromatic.
Historic.
“Authentic?” she asked, though she already knew.
Damian’s smile sharpened.
He watched her taste it, breath held in quiet anticipation.
She let the flavor linger before speaking.
“You have good taste.”
“I’m glad you find it agreeable,” he said, as the butler refreshed his pour.
She swirled her glass with studied indifference.
“That’s worth more than a flat.”
“Darling, I live by a seaside manor,” Damian replied, smooth as polished marble.
Their glasses met with a crisp, precise chime.
She leaned in just slightly, lips grazing the rim of her glass, voice a smoke-soft whisper:
“Are you planning to take me there?”
“No.”
She tilted her head, the ghost of a smile on her lips.
“Why? She’s home?”
“I have somewhere else in mind,” he said softly, “more suited to your… exquisite taste.”
She leaned back, enticing.
“I’m hungry.”
He smiled, snapping his fingers.
24991119 | 1956
Suburbia Hab-Block 76 | Kowloon | Hong Kong Free Port
22°19′30.00″ N
114°10′37.00″ E
Rain hammered the rooftops upon uneven corrugated sheets.
The raindrops drumming on tin and rusted guttering, pinging off every surface with a hollow metallic rattle.
Thunder rumbled; lightning flashed.
The tropical downpour was relentless.
The whole block sounded like a dying engine refusing to stall.
Kurt watched the rain pour as he stood beneath the overhang of a sagging awning.
He took a long drag of his soggy cigarette, cupped between his soaked gloved fingers.
A glow of ember.
Smoke drifting upward in thin, stubborn spirals before the rain shredded it.
Neon from the sign above him flickered in sickly strokes of blue and pink, drenching his black trenchcoat in pulses of cold light.
He checked his chrono.
He flipped his phone.
One line.
Geo coords.
No signature.
He stared at the screen for a few moments.
He switched to another thread, typing in a crisp message.
He waited a few moments.
No reply.
He took another drag.
Rainwater trailed from the uneven awning, gathering upon the lowest point before sliding off in slow droplets.
No reply.
Nothing to add.
He exhaled.
A long breath, smoke mingling with the steam rising from the street’s heat-slick asphalt.
He slid the phone back into his coat pocket.
A scooter engine backfired somewhere down the alley.
A woman shouted from a high window.
Somewhere deeper in the block, a child cried once, then stopped.
The world continued without comment.
He checked his chrono again.
Quarter off the hour.
A voice crackled in his ear.
Comm-check.
“You’re in position?”
Way ahead of you, boss.
“I’m going in.”
You sure about this? Intel’s solid?
“One way to find out.”
He stepped off the curb.
The rain swallowed him whole.
He discarded his rain-doused cigarette.
A few meters ahead, an unattended ramen stall sagged under the storm, plastic curtains flapping with each gust.
Bowls sat abandoned on the counter, broth diluted into pale water by rain, noodles swollen and limp.
Steam had long since died.
On your left.
Kurt did not slow, but his eyes picked up the movement.
A girl, no older than six, crawled out from beneath a leaning awning.
She half-carried, half-dragged a toddler on her hip.
A child. No threat.
“I see her.” Kurt whispered back, the rain drowning out his voice.
Bare feet splashed through puddles as she reached the counter.
She set the boy down near the uncollected bowls.
The boy immediately dug both hands into the nearest bowl, scooping grey noodles and scraps of meat into his mouth with frantic hunger.
She watched him eat, stomach hollow, lips pressed tight.
Boss. What are you doing?
He whistled.
A soft, low note.
The girl froze.
Her eyes flicked toward him, cautious, feral.
She pulled the boy closer, ready to run.
Kurt didn’t move.
He simply extended a hand, palm open, fingers holding two worn ￥100 bills between them.
No words.
No gesture to come closer.
Just an offer.
The little girl set her baby brother down and approached in slow, tiny steps.
Her pace cautious.
Kurt lowered his hand to her height as she neared.
She stopped.
He stood, unmoving.
She snatched the money, fast.
Clutching the money, she retreated, slowly.
Kurt watched her go.
“Thank you, mister,” she whispered in a voice hoarse from hunger.
He nodded once.
She bolted back to the stall, tugged her brother along.
Kurt watched her.
The little girl went straight to the automated dispenser, flickering but functional.
She slid one of the notes in, her hands trembling.
A sweet chime.
A bowl of real noodles slid down the chute moments later.
Steam rising into the rain like hope escaping.
She took the bowl before the loose change.
Kurt watched as she sat down with the boy.
He watched her dig in.
He watched her offered the best bits to her overjoyed baby brother.
He watched her until he was satisfied that she ate too.
They stuffed every bit, wasting nothing.
Boss.
Kurt turned away.
“Keep an eye on them.” he said into his piece.
Gotcha, boss.
The stairwell beside the stall led upward into darkness.
Cracked concrete slick with rainwater and mildew.
Rusted pipes throbbed overhead, pumping the rainwater towards the drainage. .
Flashing signs flickered.
He climbed the stairs.
