جميع فصول : الفصل -الفصل 60

The afternoon sun slanted through the dusty windows of the training hall. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, old canvas, and leather. The ceiling fan clicked lazily overhead, but it brought no real relief. Kai stood silently by the ring. His movements were stiff, his gaze grim. Aria was already waiting by the ropes, adjusting her wraps. She glanced at him with a half-smile. “You won’t surprise me twice with the same body shot,” she teased. “That’s not the goal today,” Kai replied, though his voice sounded harder than usual. Christopher, the coach, watched them with arms crossed. “Start slow. Breathe, head, focus.” His words landed like orders. Aria slipped between the ropes, Kai following her. For a moment in the ring, it felt like old times: two friends who had trained together for years, almost like siblings. The first minutes began as light sparring. Aria was fast, agile, unpredictable; Kai countered with precision and discipline. His punches weren’t strong—he

The morning crept slowly into the apartment. Through the gap in the curtains, a faint, golden light trickled across the floor, illuminating the half-empty glass on the coffee table, the crumpled blanket, and the TV screen, which had switched itself off sometime during the night. The silence of the room was broken only by the low, monotonous hum of the fridge and the occasional faint noise of the city outside beginning to stir awake. Kai woke slowly. His neck felt a little stiff, his shoulders tense, as though he had slept in an awkward position. When he tried to move his arm, he felt something soft and warm weighing on it. He looked down slowly, and that was when he saw Aria. She was curled up halfway onto her side, asleep against his chest. The sleeve of her pink sweater brushed against his T-shirt, and beneath the hem of her shorts he felt the warmth of her thigh. Her slippers had slipped off sometime during the night—one lay beside the couch, the other had slid under the ta

Dawn was still asleep when the black private bus slowly rolled out through the garage door. In the workshop-scented half-light, the engine’s soft, steady purr filled the space like the patient breathing of some great animal. The dark windows of the body reflected the neon strips like mirrors; on the side of the bus, a discreet, barely visible emblem: no flaunting, no fanfare. Exactly what they needed. Christopher was already standing on the ramp, a thermos in his hand, the kind of morning grimness on his face that only eased when work was about to begin. Dániel Barta was on the phone at the gate, folders pressed against his chest; his voice was mechanically calm, with those hard, matter-of-fact expressions behind which you could hide a whole vault’s worth of law. “The track is clear,” Chris called down when he saw them. “We sealed the back exit, the windows in the house next door are dark. You’re good to go.” Aria stepped out of the elevator with a backpack and a light sport

They meet in a small conference room two floors above the gym. Neutral carpet. Glass wall with a pull-down shade. Bottled water lined up like props. No cameras. Phones face down. Christopher sits at the head of the table, arms folded. Kai to his left. Aria across from him, ribs still taped under a plain hoodie. Daniel takes the spot by the door, tablet open, documents queued. He doesn’t ease into it. “Short version: silence isn’t working. The photo’s down in most places, but the story isn’t. Every outlet is filling the gap with whatever sells. We either keep chasing takedowns for a week, or we define the narrative in one move.” Kai: “What move.” Daniel looks at Aria, then back to Kai. “We lean in. You two play couple. Controlled reveal. Then we put a wall around it.” Christopher exhales. “Absolutely not.” Daniel doesn’t flinch. “Hear me out. Right now the market is uncertainty. Paparazzi get paid because nobody knows what you are. If we convert uncertainty into a set

Studio, before nine a.m. A sign on the door: Green Room. Inside—two chairs, a small table with water, tissues, no decor. The makeup artist powders for two minutes, a mic is clipped to the collar. The producer brings a printed list of questions, a “Final” stamp in the corner. Daniel scans it, compares it to his own copy. “An extra question got added,” he says dryly. “At the end of the third block. It wasn’t on the list.” “What is it?” Aria asks. “‘What would you say to those who call you a gold-digger?’” Daniel reads aloud. “Problematic. If you refuse, it sounds like guilt. If you answer, you feed it.” Kai’s jaw tightens. Christopher looks at him. “Breathe,” he says shortly. Kai inhales for four, holds for four, exhales for four, pauses. Twice. His shoulders lower. “If it comes up, I’ll stop it,” Daniel adds. “It’s a recording, not live. They’ll cut.” In the studio space: three cameras, lighting grid, red tally light. The host arrives with a professional smi