The air in The Elysian carried the faint scent of truffle oil and a smoky undertone from a fireplace tucked away in the corner. Thick, velvety drapes kept the cacophony of the outside world at bay, casting a sepia tone over the restaurant's leather seats and mahogany tables.
Averyl sat at a prime table, partially obscured by an intricate display of peonies and eucalyptus. He looked at ease but wore the sharp, predatory gaze of a man accustomed to missing nothing. His Rolex glimmered as he swirled his glass of 18-year-old Macallan, waiting.
His secretary, Sarah, bustled in, her face tight. "Sir, there's some information—"
"I'm in the middle of something important, Sarah. The art of relaxation. Heard of it?" Averyl interrupted, a smirk decorating his lips.
Sarah sighed, "There's a rather urgent email for you."
Averyl rolled his eyes theatrically. "Fine, tell the digital world I shall grace it with my attention later." He flicked his hand dismissively.
With a huff, Sarah retreated. Averyl's communicator buzzed almost immediately. A text from Archer.
"Stuck in traffic. Will be late."
Averyl texted back, "Shall I send the helicopter to airlift you out of your misery?"
Archer's reply was swift and to the point: "No."
Chuckles escaping his lips, Averyl swiped open his email app. As his eyes scanned the contents of the new message, his playful demeanor vanished. His eyes widened, his hand gripping his whiskey glass a little too hard.
"Sarah!" he barked, causing a waiter to drop a spoon on a nearby table. "Get in here, now!"
Sarah returned, her posture tense. "Yes, Mr. Averyl?"
Averyl leaned in, lowering his voice to a serrated whisper, "Find out who sent this email. Use any means necessary. I want a name, background, everything. Do it now."
The color drained from Sarah's face as she glimpsed at the screen. "Right away, sir."
As Sarah hurried out, Averyl took a deep, steadying breath. He downed his whiskey in one gulp, the liquid fire doing little to calm the storm inside him. He glanced towards the entrance, his thoughts racing.
Reid and Archer sauntered into The Elysian, the heavy wooden door closing behind them with a muted thud. The thick drapery and subdued lighting swallowed them whole as they shook off the vestiges of the outside world.
Sarah, her high heels clicking on the polished marble, made a beeline toward them. She managed a tense smile, her eyes scanning their faces for cues. Reid, the human lie detector, caught it.
"Hey, you look like you've just seen a ghost." Reid quipped, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinized her.
Sarah's lips pursed, a brief internal struggle crossing her features before she opted for discretion. "I think you'd better ask Averyl about that."
"Ah, okay. Don't trip!" Reid muttered as he moved on.
Archer simply nodded, his eyes locking onto Sarah's for a moment—long enough to make her shift uncomfortably. A yelp from behind them suggested that Sarah did trip.
The duo slipped into the private dining room, where Averyl sat behind a haze of elegant flora, his glass of Macallan perched at a precarious angle. Reid noticed immediately, his eyes latching onto the phone beside the glass. Its angle was all wrong, like a skewered chess piece—a dead giveaway that Averyl had received some sort of unsettling news.
Archer's eyes scanned Averyl from head to toe, pausing at the knuckles white from gripping the whiskey glass. Archer's lips thinned. It was a silent language both men understood: something was off.
Averyl looked up, his eyes brightening at the sight of his guests but not quite reaching his usual level of glee. "Gentlemen, your timing is as impeccable as this Macallan. Or almost. You are 35minutes late."
Reid pulled out a chair and sat, drumming his fingers on the table, flashing a sheepish grin. "It's all Arch's fault!"
"Of course, it's mine…" grumbled Archer.
Averyl laughed, but the sound was brittle. "I'd bet it is."
Reid leaned back, his eyes fixed on Averyl. "While we wait for the food… What's got you on the edge? Rough email? Slide into someone's DMs who you shouldn't have?"
Averyl leaned forward, his eyes narrowing, "why couldn't you wait till the end of the meal to ask this question?"
Reid shrugged, grinning. "It's why I'm so popular at parties."
Archer finally broke his silence, staring at Averyl as he spoke. "Is it a threat?"
The room seemed to grow colder, the weight of Archer's words settling over them like a thick fog. Averyl met Archer's gaze, unflinching. "Isn't everything?"
Reid's eyes darted between the two men. "Well?"
Averyl sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "It was a photo." With a few deft swipes, he navigated to his email and then enlarged the incriminating image before placing the device in the middle of the table.
"Or a few…"
Archer's hand met the table's surface in an instinctive but controlled motion. His fingers curled, exuding a restrained intensity as if he were a lion, paws ready to pounce. With a flex of his wrist, he rotated the phone to get a better view of the images. His brow furrowed deeply, wrinkles cutting through his usually stoic visage like fractures through ice. It was the look of a man who'd just added another complicated variable to an already unwieldy equation.
"Jeez, Archer, smile, would ya? With that face, you'll scare away all the potential suitors," Averyl tried to jest, though his voice was tinged with the undeniable unease that colored the room.
Archer rolled his eyes—an almost theatrical gesture for him—but the concern remained, etched into the corners of his eyes and the lines of his face. He glanced at Reid, as if transmitting a complex matrix of questions and suppositions through that singular look.
Reid seemed uncharacteristically introspective. His fingers were lightly pressed against his lips, forming a steeple of contemplation. His eyes wandered to some unfixed point on the ceiling, perhaps seeking divine intervention or at least a clue from the cosmos. He finally broke the silence, filling the room with his lilting tone, "You know what would really complete this Sherlock-and-Watson tableau? Food. I'm starving."
Averyl chuckled, "Well, of course. I've already placed my order and they should be coming soon."
Archer merely shrugged.
No sooner had the words left Archer's mouth than the door to the dining area glided open, revealing Chef Marco and his entourage of culinary disciples. Marco was a large, expansive man whose girth seemed less a testament to indulgence and more an embodiment of his boundless zest for life. His bandana was tied with an artisan's care, and his mustache could have easily inspired a Renaissance painter. His eyes sparkled like two caramelized sugar crystals as he took in the room's atmosphere.
Following Marco were the waiters, uniformed in the stark contrast of white shirts and black trousers. They moved with the discipline of monks: silent, reverent, and wholly committed to the sacred doctrine of gastronomy. Each waiter carried a tray that was a veritable tableau of culinary art. Sushi rolls with glistening ruby-like tuna; slender strips of yellowtail adorned with finely chopped jalapeños; plump, garlic-sauteed shrimp resting atop a bed of linguini.
Reid's eyes lit up as if he had just discovered a lost manuscript by Freud, a guide to the human soul via the alimentary canal. "Well, would you look at that! Gastronomic divinity in the flesh! Or should I say, in the fish? Let's dive in. We can chew and deduce at the same time, can't we?"
As utensils met fine china and flavors engaged taste buds, the atmosphere began to subtly shift. Even Archer's posture seemed to relax, if just fractionally. Reid picked up a piece of tuna sashimi with his chopsticks, holding it aloft like Exhibit A in a courtroom drama.
As the last delicate bites of sushi disappeared from their plates, Reid pushed back in his chair and assessed the table like a battlefield post-skirmish. Satisfied, his eyes lifted to meet Averyl's. "Is it gluttonous to say that round two wouldn't be the worst idea right now?" His eyebrows rose in that charismatic way, the quirk of a man who knew the contours of human motivation as intimately as a chef knows spices.
Averyl looked incredulous, his eyebrow arching upward, a feat that seemed equal parts disbelief and parental concern. "Were you raised by wolves? Have you been starved?" He threw a reproving glance toward his brother. "Archer, have you been neglecting to feed Reid?"
Archer didn't even blink, but his eyes communicated a vast, articulate defense. Then he actually spoke, a rarity that was like capturing a lunar eclipse on camera. "I cook three meals a day. He eats like he's carb-loading for a marathon he never runs."
Reid grinned, not the least bit chastised, his hand casually rubbing his belly. "Ah, the satiation of the senses, the belly full of a banquet worthy of Roman emperors. Isn't life grand?"
Averyl raised his eyebrows again, a mirror image of earlier but with a new shade of skepticism. "If you're so full, why the push for more sustenance?"
Reid looked at him as if he'd just questioned the value of love or the importance of oxygen. "Because, some opportunities for gustatory delight cannot be passed up!"
Both Archer and Averyl looked at each other, their eyes a mixture of consternation and fond resignation. They were as different as night and day, but their brotherly dynamic was a universe unto itself. It required no translation. With a sigh, Averyl picked up his phone and placed another order.
At the same time, Reid had swiped on his communicator, pressing a few words in and sending them out to someone. Archer lifted an eyebrow but simply sipped more from the alcohol in his hand.
A few minutes later, the door swung open, and the same phalanx of waiters glided into the room. This time, they were minus their ebullient chef. Reid's eyes lit up like a child who just caught sight of a long-anticipated birthday present.
The waiters approached, their trays laden with new dishes: mini lobster rolls, sliders crowned with truffled mushrooms, and plates adorned with dim sum that looked like tiny works of art. Just as they were about to set the trays down, Reid raised a hand like a conductor pausing an orchestra.
"Ah, hold up. Would you mind keeping those plates airborne for a moment?" Reid's tone was tinged with both curiosity and playfulness. "You see, I'd love for someone to narrate my epicurean journey. What's a meal without a story, right?"
One of the waiters, a young woman with a shy demeanor, hesitated. "Um, sir, we do have other tasks, and—"
But Averyl cut her off, his voice carrying a level of authority that silenced any protest. "It's fine. Please stay." Given his status as a VVIP, the waiters had little choice but to comply. Their eyes widened slightly, and their postures stiffened with a mix of obedience and deference.
Reid grinned, looking utterly pleased. "Ah, democracy in action. Or maybe it's more like a benign dictatorship. Regardless, please proceed with the culinary exposition."
Archer watched, a slight curl of amusement at the edge of his lips. Averyl chuckled, shaking his head at the spectacle but also savoring it like one of the night's many fine wines.
The first waiter, a tall, sinewy man with a chiseled jawline, sported a subtle tattoo peeking from the underside of his sleeve. His eyes were like black ice, unreadable yet striking.
The second, a young woman with dark curls tumbling over her shoulders, wore her professionalism as visibly as her ruffled blouse. Her face was a still pond; even her eyeliner refused to quiver.
Third was a middle-aged man, salt and pepper at the temples, who carried an air of experience like a well-worn locket. His facial expression, though composed, had lines at the corners suggesting decades of suppressed laughter or perhaps silent grief.
Next was another young woman, petite, with her chestnut hair swept up in an elegant bun. Her eyes glinted with a mixture of excitement and fear, as if each tray she carried weighed as much as her hopes and fears.
Finally, a young man in his early twenties, radiating nervous energy, as if standing still was a task requiring his utmost concentration. His face was a billboard of emotion, every thought broadcast in high definition across his youthful features.
Reid scanned each waiter from head to toe, his gaze lingering deliberately on their hands. Satisfied with his quick appraisal, he pivoted his attention back to the brothers. "Gentlemen, shall we continue our exploration into the sordid underbelly of anonymous photography?"
Averyl frowned slightly, his eyes flickering between the waitstaff and his brother. Was this a moment for discretion or confrontation?
Archer was the picture of nonchalance, leaning back into the plush upholstery, swirling a goblet of Bordeaux. The man could practically subsist on the nectar of grapes, given the reverence in his gaze as he inspected the wine's legs.
Seizing the opportune moment, Reid gracefully slid his chair between Averyl and Archer. This position afforded him the best vantage point to observe the waiters without appearing overtly suspicious. Leaning toward both men, his voice barely above a whisper but tinged with sly mirth, he inquired, "Gents, feel like elevating this meeting to a more intimate setting? Perhaps in one of those themed love rooms in your illustrious hotel, Averyl?"
Archer's eyes met Reid's, a blush staining his cheekbones a shade darker than the wine he was sipping. True to form, he offered no verbal reply but continued to nurse his drink, a private acknowledgment encapsulated in a single, deliberate sip.
Averyl chuckled, his eyes narrowing with a blend of curiosity and the slow kindle of a thrill. "Why not? If you're promising an evening as intriguing as this dinner, then I have a Japanese Zen suite that would serve us just fine."
Before they could delve into logistics, Reid directed his gaze upward, locking eyes with the young man at the end of the waiter formation—the one whose emotions were an open book. "How about it, then? Think Mr. Mysterious Email would like to join our soiree?"
The room froze, each individual grasping the weight of Reid's words. Averyl's eyes widened just a fraction, re-calibrating the gravity of the moment. Archer set down his wine, his posture shifting imperceptibly— shoulders tensing, eyes sharpening.
The young waiter met Reid's gaze. A flicker of something crossed his features. Was it recognition? Fear? Only Reid caught it, but it was enough.
Reid's grin widened as he sauntered over to the nervous young waiter, the one whose face was an emotional Rolodex of barely concealed anxieties. Plucking the dinner plate from the waiter's trembling hands, Reid set it back on the table with calculated flair.
"What's the matter, buddy? You look like you've just been invited to a tax audit," Reid quipped, studying the waiter's jittery hands.
"What are you talking about?" The waiter's voice wobbled like a beginner tightrope walker.
With a soft, almost seductive touch, Reid took the young man's hands into his own. "How long you been in this line of work?"
"I've been here for a few weeks, but I've been a waiter for some time now." His voice carried the taut edge of a poorly strung violin.
"Is that so?" Reid cocked an eyebrow, his eyes scrutinizing the waiter's hands. He leaned back into his chair, drawing a ripple of tension through the room. "See, someone who's been a waiter for as long as you claim would have a nice little callus right about here." He pointed to a specific spot on the palm. "Yours is more over here, suggesting a different type of repetitive motion. Say, maybe something you'd get from operating a camera?"
The waiter's eyes widened. He attempted to retract his hands, but Reid held them gently, almost intimately. "I only joined because this is a five-star restaurant and, well, tips are good—"
Reid chuckled. "Tips are good, especially when your primary guest is Averyl here, who's been frequenting this place lately, am I wrong?"
The room felt like a vacuum, sucking away the waiter's denials before he could form them.
Reid continued, now leaning toward Averyl, "You see, the intriguing photos you received today, well, it's a work of art. Same shirt, same room you're in. The droplets of water on the glass even suggest it was just snapped after the rain. But our young friend here forgot one little detail. You see, we had some sun-induced fog roll in, right after the rain. The atmosphere would've made any photo slightly hazy, almost ethereal. Yet your photo was sharp as a tack."
The waiter began to protest, "A high-end lens, like a Canon EF 85mm f/1.4L, could capture a—"
Archer interrupted, his voice colder than a Siberian wind. "We never once described the photo's appearance. So how would you know what kind of lens would produce that particular effect?" He put his wine glass down. "A Nikkor 24-70mm f/2.8 could've been enough for a shot from that building across the street, don't you think?"
A soft chime from Reid's communicator caught his attention and he grinned.
Reid stood, his eyes sparkling with the thrill of the hunt. "You live in that building, don't you?" He gestured through the floor-to-ceiling windows toward a taller structure adjacent to the one they were in. "Great vantage point to keep tabs on Averyl's comings and goings."
"I… no, I don't…!"
"Ah," Reid wiggled his finger, "lying's bad for you. I had Sarah check in on the records of the staff. Apparently, there were about 10 new staffs that had joined a week after Averyl started frequenting this place. Out of the 10, 4 lived within 1km radius of the restaurant and had specifically moved nearby for this job. A deeper dig and guess what! Your address is in that building."
For a split second, a look of defeat washed over the waiter's face. It was quickly replaced by a forced veneer of indifference, but everyone in the room had seen it. That momentary lapse was an admission, one that no amount of denial could erase.
Averyl looked at his brother, then back to Reid. His stern face was now hardened with resolve, but his eyes—those subtle mirrors of emotion—betrayed a tinge of something else: a newfound respect for the audacious Reid. He had just peeled away the layers of a mystery that had shrouded their evening, and in doing so, uncovered more than just a disingenuous waiter.
Archer, the stoic guardian of fewer words, offered Reid a nod. A simple action, yet in the emotional Morse code they had developed over time, it spoke volumes. Reid understood it as both an acknowledgment and an endorsement.
"Why? Were you planning to add blackmail to your resume, or is stalking more your speed?"
Reid interrupted, taking the liberty to answer for the young man. "Oh, I'd bet a bottle of your most expensive wine that he had a 'thing' for you, Averyl."
Caught off guard, the waiter sputtered, "No, I—"
"Save it," Reid waved him off, his voice tinged with amusement. "Get on with your apology, already. Not to me, though. Aim it at the VVIP here."
Shifting from one knee to the other on the luxurious carpet, the waiter dropped his head. "I apologize, sir. I—"
"Didn't know what you were getting into?" Archer chimed in, his voice icy. His eyes hadn't moved off the young man since he'd been unmasked. "My brother moves in circles you can't even fathom. What made you think he'd ever be interested?"
The young man's cheeks flushed a shade that would make a beet proud. Reid couldn't help but smirk as he addressed the other waiters who were in the room, frozen like porcelain figures. "You lot, off you go. Unless you want to stay for the unfolding drama—which I assure you, will not be paid extra."
One of the smaller waitresses, her eyes wide like saucers, cautiously asked, "What about the food, sir?"
Reid's eyes twinkled. "Dig in, darling. I couldn't possibly eat another bite. Consider it hazard pay."
Averyl, finally weary of the theatrics, clicked his communicator. "Sarah, would you come in here, please?"
A young woman burst into the room, her eyes taking a millisecond to assess the situation. Clearly a pro. "Is he the one?" she inquired, eyes darting from Reid to Archer and finally settling on the kneeling waiter.
Averyl sighed, "Yes, good work Sarah. Do as you see fit."
Sarah huffed, her expression a mix of resignation and annoyance. Swiftly and effortlessly, she hoisted the young man to his feet. He let out a surprised gasp, his body nearly levitating from her grip. "What the—"
"Sarah's Ability is enhanced musculature," Averyl interjected, his eyes meeting the young man's. "I'd highly recommend against attempting an escape. It wouldn't end well for you."
Sarah grinned, her eyes locking onto Reid. "I'll bet you're the one who figured this all out, huh?"
Reid chuckled. "Guilty as charged. But I couldn't have done it without my moody yet surprisingly eloquent sidekick here," he pointed a thumb at Archer, whose eyes responded with a rolled expression that was worth a thousand words.
"Seems like a perfect team," Sarah noted, hoisting the struggling waiter effortlessly towards the exit.
"As they say, it takes two to tango," Reid called after her, "but in this case, the dance floor's a little crowded. We might need to cut some folks out."
Averyl shook his head, his posture finally relaxing. "You sure do have a way with words, Reid. And with trouble."
Reid grinned, his eyes alight with mischief. "Just for the record, it was you who attracted this!"