Across the hall, standing exactly twenty-four meters away, a figure leaned against a column like he belonged nowhere and everywhere at once.
Subhash.
The glass of wine in his hand tilted lazily. His gaze, dull and uninterested, drifted between the chandelier and the corpse.
He wasn't horrified.
He wasn't curious.
He was just… tired.
Tired of white men falling like broken idols, and everyone pretending it was a tragedy.
To him, General Albert Hall wasn't a victim. He was a Kaurava in a red coat with white skin—another face of empire, another self-declared king sitting atop a throne built from other people's silence.
The girls beside him—draped in jewellery and falseness—flinched at the scene.
But Subhash?
He took another sip.
He didn't smile. He didn't frown.
He simply watched, like a man watching a storm he'd seen too many times to fear.
"One Kaurava less," he muttered under his breath.
"Now, let's see if God plans to kill Duryodhan next."
---
Back at the body, Isarish knelt again, slowly, his gloved hand hovering just above Albert's lifeless face—studying every detail with surgical interest.
The posture.
The outstretched hand.
The untouched glass.
The performance of grief.
Then, without a word, he moved lower—his hand slipping into the pocket of the General's pants with practiced ease.
And there… something waited.
Something soft.
He pulled it out gently, eyes narrowing as it unfurled in his hand.
A short crimson silk ribbon, trimmed with gold thread, lay folded like a secret waiting to be whispered.
Faint golden letters were stitched across its length:
"El Rey del Mundo – Habana, 1899 – Edición Privada."
His breath caught—not in shock, but in the thrill of confirmation.
This wasn't just a death.
This was a message.
He was about to tuck it away when the sound of heavy boots echoed through the marbled floor.
"Apologies, dear friends... even in my own party, I arrive late."
The voice rang out from across the grand staircase.
All heads turned toward the man in the long navy coat—Mr. Carlson. No smile. No show. Just presence. His eyes were unreadable.
The governor.
The chess player behind polished glass.
And now—the late General's host.
He strode in with a cluster of bodyguards, his entrance subtle but commanding—the kind of silence that follows someone used to owning every room he enters.
In that second—while all eyes turned—Isarish quietly slipped the ribbon into his coat pocket.
Carlson's boots slowed as he approached the corpse. For a moment, he didn't speak.
He simply looked—down at the lifeless body of a man who had once admired him the most.
His voice was calm, serious, and cold.
"I'm sorry for this incident," he said, each word deliberates.
"I promise you all… we will find the truth."
Then, still staring at the body, he spoke without turning:
"Come to my office, Isarish. I need you there—now."
Isarish stood.
He stepped back from the corpse without a word. But just before turning, something caught his eye.
He glanced down.
The shoes.
Polished leather. Imported.
And near the soles—barely visible beneath the body—a faint smear of soot, almost imperceptible.
Embedded within it, very, very tiny pieces of red leaves—so small they could've passed for specks of velvet… but they weren't.
Isarish said nothing.
But he didn't forget.
He turned, and followed the voice calling him into the next move.