LAWRENZ TYBALT POINT OF VIEW
THE SOUND OF MIDNIGHT. LIKE A MUSIC OF WOLF AND THE MOONLIGHT
I wrote a letter to bid farewell to Nurse Sarah, thanking her for the care and understanding she had given me during my recuperation. It was just a small piece, yet sincere, for it showed all the rapport that had been built up through the period I spent in the hospital. There was questioned sadness mingling with determination while setting out into unknowns, as I placed it on her nightstand.
Leaving the hospital and the warm presence of Nurse Sarah, I took a leap of faith to Hong Kong, where East meets West; a metropolis bristling with skyscrapers red-upright from ground level and hidden alleyways that smell like secrets in the fragrant harbor wind.
In everything I packed in my suitcase, my mother's face kept popping up. "Son. Where are you?" My anxiety seemed to make her voice very true to me, a frequent token of the love that associates with me through turbulent times. "I am leaving, Mom," I tried drives home the reassurance but in the easiest of words. I needed her to believe that I could find my way forward into the uncertain path ahead.
My phone beeped with a message just then: go to Macau. Somehow, this message conveyed nothing at all, besides locations and time. Being essentially a city of bright casinos, Macau is that kind of place that comes to life over the course of the night. It was an improbable destination but held the promise of answers—or probably more questions.
I walked the neon-lit, jam-packed streets of Macau with a sort of electrical charge coursing through me and an uneasy jitter of nerves in my stomach. Everything about this city pulsed, though beneath the surface, one got the impression that so much was happening that you didn't see.
With this line of advice, that night, I was walking the dark alleyway off the main drag where shadows seemed to dance with secrets. Standing there with senses taut, not the slightest feeling of who or what to expect had come to mind.
Footfalls behind, I wheeled to face a figure coming out of the dark-a bearded and shadowed man. "Lawrenz," he greeted, low-voiced, familiarly accented.
"Who are you?" I asked, tension tightening my voice. I instantly remembered what had happened the previous night, that it had been with a stranger from the park, and reached to feel the figurine in my jacket pocket.
"I'm one who can help yer," he said mysteriously, jerking a bit further with a gesture toward me into the hatchwork maze of alleyways. I followed in his wake, my heart pounding with anticipation and apprehension. "I'm Yozo, don't worry I will lead the way."
Upstairs, we threaded our way through the serpentine passages and through a door that was completely concealed by the tapestries, coming finally after many turns to an invisible door with only a minor symbol upon it—a spade crossed with a dagger. On this, the man knocked twice in some sort of prearranged beat, and perhaps the rhythm echoed through the night's stillness.
The door creaked slowly open and the narrow stairway was revealed, disappearing into the murk of darkness below. The man motioned for me to precede him in. One simply could not but help feel a little bit leery for the simple reason that I had no idea what was waiting there in the dark. So, only curiosity and the desire to carry on one's path slowly and cautiously drew me into its unknown, depthless recesses.
A murmur of laughter increased, the music grew gayer and louder as we reached the bottom of the steps, blending with the clinking of glasses and the shuffling of cards. We had stepped into an underworld—this was a secret casino, alive and busy with high-stake games and murmurings.
The air was electric, charged with a mix of anticipation and secrecy. Brief flicks of eyes logged my presence before returning to their games—statement of my presence, yet revealing nothing. The man beside me steered me through the maze of tables and patrons until we were in a corner secluded enough that a figure awaited.
"Welcome, Lawrenz," the shadowy figure spoke from the dark; the owner of this voice was obscured by the dim light. "I've been expecting you."
I swallowed, and weight came to rest heavy on my chest. "Who are you?" I wanted to know again, barely above a whisper.
At his hatch, a chair magically appeared—an invitation to sit and join in a game that would seal the next chapter in the journey. "I am the one to answer your questions," came the enigmatic reply, "but first, let us see what fate has in store for you tonight. Anyway, I am Raze Orange."
As I sat down, the figurine seemed to grow warmer in my pocket; it was as though it knew this moment was one of decisiveness. I didn't know this game I was going to be playing had stakes higher than anything I could ever have imagined, and I was going to be finding a key to very many secrets that had plagued me for years in this secretive casino.
The next I knew, hardly believing my luck, I was standing on this magnificent chartered yacht with its mysterious owner for a benefactor. So there I am, out of place amidst all this opulence around me: polished wood, gleaming chrome, and luscious leather upholstery. With the serene coastline of Taiwan to the port side, the yacht knifed effortlessly through the South China Sea, drawing closer to the neon-lit horizon of Hong Kong.
I watched the sunset, with an orange and gold blaze across the deck; the deck chairs had long shadows, while the crew moved with practiced precision. In the sea breeze, there was a sense of anticipation, mixed with that salt tang from the ocean, so different from the sterile air of that hospital room, reminding me there was a greater world out there beyond my recent ordeal.
The lights of Hong Kong appeared as night began to fall: that sprawling tapestry of skyscrapers which seemed to be lit from the darkening sky. The boat pulled shoreward to a private marina where a severely chic black car awaited me. Such a contrast to the rugged coastline and huge South China Sea we had traversed.
I alighted at the pier, where a receptionist stood wordlessly, ushering me into the backseat. The car threaded through the labyrinthine streets of the city, and the skyscrapers loomed above them like titans of the night. Neon signs flickered and cast momentary shadows on the tinted windows.
The side entrance was way out of the way in some alley. I rolled down my windows, stepped out, and just inhaled the crisp night air. The city was alive beneath my feet. The man—silent by design, not much for speaking—said more than a mouthful just by his presence. His gesture presented a tall, lean speedboat, its sleek lines rising and falling gently with the tide in the embrace of the harbor.
"Your pass," simply, he said, as though he'd known the questions churning in my mind. I didn't hesitate but jumped right on the speedboat to feel its thrum of engines under me as we cut through the harbor waters, leaving the lights of Hong Kong behind.
The ride was quick, and we just kept losing the skyline until finally reaching some plugged-away cove off the city, like some secret entrance to another world. At the forefront of this canopy of twinkling lights, I found myself; and therefore, before one mansion, a commentary on wealth and power, its silhouette the most imposing against lush green hills.
It was in front of me that the door, inlaid with all the fine patterns and ornaments, swung open. A servant welcomed me and escorted on either side, standi ng corridors of priceless works of art and priceless pieces of furniture. Every step seemed to ring huge history and secrecy, whistling out the hidden truth yet untold, yet to be heard or discovered.
Then I entered a lushly furnished study, where the figure of authority and mystery was waiting for me. His eyes were sharp but impossible to read again. "Welcome, Lawrenz," he said in a modulated voice reverberating with shades of power and mystery. "You came searching for answers. This night, you shall find them."
I fell into the inside of a stuffed armchair, the little figure in my pocket, and braced myself for any revelations that may come, knowing the road to truth was a dangerous one but pacing my thoughts about the secrets that had taken me here.
As I sank back into the plush armchair of the opulent study, encased by floor-to-ceiling enticingly and the artifacts of antiquity, a sense of awe met me, fused together with a sense of unease. The man greeted me, sitting across from me at a grand chess table; the ivory- and ebony-carred pieces sparkled under soft, antique lamps.
"You have come for answers," he repeated in a deep, modulated tone. "But first—a game."
I turned to face him, taken aback by this apparent digression. "Chess?" I said again, frowning in my bewilderment, thinking something as insignificant and detached as a game of chess seemed out of place in the high stakes intrigue that had brought me here.
"Yes, chess," he said reassuringly, a smile barely breaking across his features. "A game of strategy and foresight, and a game that carries with it weight and consequence with every move."
I was cut two ways, not understanding clearly his intentions. Chess for me was something quite usual—only a game for reasoning and calculation. Yet in this context, it sounded like some kind of test—a test of wit, resolve, and perhaps even trustworthiness.
"Very well," I said cautiously, and sat down across from him. The chessboard lay in between us, the subtle and carefully carved pieces awaiting their urge to battle. I made the first move, a careful space-clearing job designed to probe his defenses.
He moved fast, yet every move was assured and made with a deliberation that seemed to speak its own meaning; and with every movement across the board, what had at first appeared strategy unfolded to be, on one level higher, an insinuating dance of pawns and knights, bishops and rooks, mimicking back the labyrinthine complexities of this clandestine world we lived in.
The talk went on between us as we played, lulled and risen—trivial and momentous. He spoke of making alliances in the shadows, of powers unseen but all too tangible in their effects. I listened intently, as though every word were charged with a significance that reached far beyond the checkered board.
Hours slipped by in that hushed study: only the soft click of chess pieces and murmurs of voices in quiet conversation. Yet in every move, I feel the weight thrown at this game: unspoken agreements, silent challenges, implicit trust—all this and so much more that bonded us into this dance on this tightrope.
That was the game of my life, one which peaked after a series of calculated moves and strategic sacrifices. At that stage, it was a case of the noose tightening on me, for my options narrowed down with every move. His relented pieces went ahead accurately, closing in relentlessly on my king.
I looked at the board: my mind racing to find a way out of the trap. Yet the more I looked for a way to win, the more aware I became that the outcome had been decided long, long ago—certainly before the final move was played.
"Checkmate," he said, low and without a speck of triumph or malice. I rose then, my eyes locking with his—admiration and resignation washing over me. This game had been a test: a test of my mettle, my resilience, and my ability to navigate treacherous waters in his world.
"You played well," he conceded, his sincerity-reaching tone only going to slightly irritate the fact. "But the real game is just beginning."
I nodded, for in his words lay some truth. More a metaphor, the chessboard was an in-depth machine of alliances and rivalries that defined our reality. I began to see implications of our encounter—not just some answers but revelations of the intricate mechanisms of power and ambition ruling our lives.
"And now," he went on, his face impassive, "we shall discuss what comes next."
With the last move in the chess game, something had ended with it in the atmosphere of that luxurious study. There was a thickness created—anticipation and unspoken questions all over. The mask of calm authority over the features of the man opposite talked in modulated tones.
"Now that the game is over, let us speak of why you are here, Lawrenz," he began, his voice deep and heavy to set the mood for what was about to ensue in a place like this. "That box there, with the kryptonite on top—it holds a truth long kept hidden."
It was the person whom I looked at purposefully before measuring the words he held with the feeling of pronounced caution that screamed in my head. There was this figure in my pocket that seemed to bristle with energy that it did not know it carried, calling to me as reminders of the mysteries that lay within that box.
"What do you intend to do with it?" I asked, being really careful with my words. The man eluded an answer to such a question; his agenda was still behind sealed doors, veiled by curtains of intrigue and power.
He gave me a thoughtful look through his piercing stare. "What happens now all depends on you, Lawrenz. You can open the box and follow through with the consequences. .. or just walk away, leaving the facts buried."
Heavy with implication, his words hung there, in the air. Opening the box would irrevocably change my life's course, plunging me deeper into a world fraught with danger and deceit. But the pull of uncovering the truth—the answers that for so long now had not been forthcoming—was too strong.
"Wait there's more. I have this," I show the gift from Dash Armeda, the figurine of horse. "The play is not over yet, Mr. Raze Orange."
"Yeah, because now we both have a white and black horse, Mr. Tybalt." Nick Gregory grinned at me with the confidence that he is sure he can beat me this time.
"You lose when we are in grade school remember Nick?" I grin at him.