As the evening drew to a close, the Prominent Seven began distributing their business cards to the few individuals who had managed to pique their interest. John looked on, pitying the artists who clutched those cards with eyes full of ambition; he knew their expectations of finally soaring high would soon be crushed by reality.
The host, Elena, seemed happy to cast courtesy and convention to the wind. Rather than maintaining the expected reserve—treating every guest with equal, measured interest—she praised Jonathan Maurice’s painting to the skies. Even as she lowered her voice to ask him to illustrate the cover for her work-in-progress, her enthusiasm was palpable. She remarked that his unique ink technique, blended with his raw creativity, would undoubtedly meet her expectations for the story’s visual soul. Finally, she suggested he and his wife stay an extra day so she could discuss her vision in detail.
Heading back to his cabin, John fell deep into thought. He suspected the Maurices had known all along they would be staying longer; otherwise, why would Mr. Maurice have been so reluctant when John advised his wife to get a tetanus shot immediately? John couldn't shake the feeling that their extended stay wasn't as simple as illustrating a book cover.
Elena had gone out of her way to broadcast the arrangement to the guests departing the next morning, flaunting her favoritism when she easily could have kept it quiet. To make matters worse, Jonathan's painting wasn't even that impressive. John bristled at the memory of the last gathering, where some jerk had mocked Alistair, calling him "uncultured" simply because he didn't grasp the "artistic touch" of Jonathan’s stupid painting.
If anyone on this entire yacht was cultured, it was Alistair. He was the type of person who never hesitated to do the right thing, even when the personal cost was high.
He could have turned a blind eye and moved on, but he didn't. He was caring, honest, and gentle—he was Alistair.
After everyone had retreated to their cabins to rest, Elena walked the yacht alone, binoculars slung around her neck and the same notebook she had been writing in all day clutched in her hand. She strolled through the open decks like a century-old ghost scouting the manor where it drew its last breath, searching for anything new to shatter the long-standing stillness.
But there were no ghosts in the real world. There were only humans, swimming in the filth of their own desires—be it wealth, power, authority, or the twisted "entertainment" of holding another human's lifeline. To grasp the fate of a creature on their own level filled their tanks of superiority, keeping them fueled until the novelty dissipated. Eventually, controlling even one person at a time wasn't enough; the tank had to be constantly replenished, lest the void within them enlarge, reminding them of how lowly and un-special they truly were. They refused to spare even those who simply desired a calm life—people who weren't entirely free of ambition, but who refused to obsess over it to the point of grinding another's face into the mud.
Elena stood on the sun deck, enjoying the night breeze. She raised the binoculars to scan the distance when the sound of approaching footsteps caught her attention. Turning around, she found herself mere inches from the captain’s face.
"Is the puppeteer having trouble sleeping?" Razel asked.
She pushed him away slightly and leaned back against the railing, her eyes tracing the clear sky. "Razel, since when have I ever given you the impression that I am approachable? Keep your distance. Your intimidation tactics will only serve to reduce your bonus."
Razel swiftly denied the accusation. "Intimidating you? Me? I was just trying to be friendly. But since being nice isn't my strong suit, I suppose it didn't come across as intended. My apologies. Though, I’m not the only one benefiting from that bonus. My crew will become... disobedient if their money is compromised."
Elena cut him off, her voice remaining calm and steady, treating his veiled threat as nothing more than a feather drifting through the air. "I am paying for a service. If it is not executed in full, then the full price will not be paid. As for the bonus, it is a reflection of my goodwill, granted only if I am satisfied. Don't get ahead of yourselves. Prove your efficiency, and you get your bonus. It is as simple as that."
Razel rolled his eyes. He simply couldn't fathom her twisted idea of entertainment. Why lose astronomical amounts of money playing mind games instead of just enjoying her wealth and traveling the world? Playing the potential corpse, the detective, and the criminal all at the same time sounded exhausting. His brain ached just dealing with her schemes. He couldn't wait to get the job done and retire to a comfortable life. Best of all, he was pulling in money from multiple sources for basically the exact same mission; things couldn't be better.
Following her gaze up to the sky, he failed to see anything special about it. "The ocean is calm tonight," he said. "I hope you have a good night's sleep," he added, before slipping away into the shadows.
"Calm, huh?" Elena thought. "I can't wait for it to turn enraged."
She rubbed her neck, soothing the strain from staring upward for so long, and turned to head back to her cabin. But just before closing her door, she paused, raising an eyebrow at the light seeping from under John’s door.
By morning, the yacht had already docked in the port of a different city. Alistair woke up early, planning to take a walk to enjoy the fresh morning air and pick up a few things before returning. His ultimate destination was the capital, which the yacht would head toward after the artists disembarked following breakfast.
As he stepped onto the gangplank, he was straightening the tiny wrinkles in his waistcoat. His pocket watch was on full display, its chain looping from a coat buttonhole to his pocket, when he suddenly froze at a touch on the nape of his neck.
Elena, whom he had informed of his little promenade the night before, wanted to tag along. She adjusted the back of his collar, which had folded upward, and patted his stiff shoulder.
"Good morning. Will it be troublesome if I join you?" she asked. Her usual beaming smile was absent, replaced by a relaxed expression floating across her haggard face.
Alistair responded only after taking a deep breath to calm his racing heart. She moved as silently as a cat; she had startled him so badly he nearly tripped off the gangplank.
"Good morning. It has been a long time since we spent any time together. I'm happy you asked."
He stepped onto the wharf and extended his hand to her. She reached for it but didn't let go immediately. Instead, she walked beside him just like they used to back in the day, when she would sneak him out for walks to skip the extra classes their parents forced upon them—all in the name of making them competent enough to represent the Hudson main branch.