Rayman props down on is bed and reclines until his back hits the bed. He then closes his eyes and releases an elongated sigh. His phase one of the plan has been completely ruined.

He had drafted everything, from the timing to the last word of the conversation, all to no avail.

In his mind, he had seen himself materializing on the front steps of the Ayats' house and ringing the doorbell. Mrs Ayat would open the door. Rayman would greet politely with salam and she would reply. She would stare at him for a couple of seconds until a look of recognition crosses her features.

"Rayman." she would say. "My dear boy, it's been so long!"

"I came back to the city and thought I should visit." He would say, plastering the charming smile he had practiced over two dozen times. "I hope you have been well, Auntie."

"Alhamdulillah. Come in, come in!"

Mrs Ayat, being a gregarious lady, would usher him to the living room or the dining room or the kitchen and make them a pot of tea or coffee as they engage in a steady chatter that would involve mundane, innocuous topics like work and family. During the course of their conversation, he would casually ask about Wissam's sister and, if he's lucky, she'll be home at the time and Mrs Ayat would call her, unless she appears on her own accord.

The last time he had seen her was when the investigation on Wissam's disappearance was being conducted. A little brown-eyed hoyden, her brother would call her. Tomboyish, for he sometimes caught her in her brother's T-shirts when he would drop by. Wissam used to be insanely protective of his sister. Rayman, among all his friends, got to see her the most. Privilege of being the best-friend, he surmised. She would be in her early twenties now. What would she be like? He had entertained himself trying to envisage her appearance and personality. Spindly and awkward? Demure and comely? Tanned and sporty? Lumbering and clumsy?

Rayman had pictured himself talking to her, laughing occasionally as one of them jokes or recalls a hilarious memory. He needs to make a good impression because he wants them to be friends. Very good friends. If he can establish that relationship, the rest will be easier.

Now, forget being friends when he had landed himself in a job as her professor. Not only that, but he had stumbled upon her while being completely ignorant of her identity. The introduction phase of his plan simply shattered the moment he took the stapled sheaf of papers and read the name on top. No, it actually shattered way before that.

They were standing right outside her place.

"Do you know the residents of this house? The Ayats?"

"Oh yes. Very well, as a matter of fact."

Rayman chuckles sarcastically. He couldn't even grasp onto the hint. He must've looked like an utter idiot.

She didn't turn out bad looking, he could give her that. Those earthy brown eyes are just like Wissam's. Another obvious hint he had missed. He cast his mind back to this morning when she and her friend helped him in the hallway and then the joke she led at his class. Maybe being her professor isn't such a bad thing. They will be able to run into each other more often.

________

Yusha

Inside the cylindrical elevator, I click on the top left button and I'm whisked up with terminal velocity. In about a minute, the elevator announces its arrival on the eighteenth floor with a soft ping.

A disembodied voice says," Door opening."

I get off and walk straight towards my futuristic new bachelor pad. The advanced biometric facial recognition system identifies me as I approach and the front door clicks open without me having to lift a finger.

In the foyer, I'm greeted by Eris, acronym for Ever Reliable Intelligence System. She's my AI housemate who follows requests, responds to questions and, in hours of need, proves to be an excellent listener and confidante. At the moment, the semi-circular monitor that is her face shows a pair of blue crescent moon eyes, telling me she's happy to see me.

"Sup, bud?" I say, slipping out of my shoes and leaving my socks on. My room is a flight of stairs away but I decide to I take a detour to the kitchen first, loosening my necktie on the way. I grab a bottle of mineral water from the fridge and down it in one go.

The steps illuminate from underneath as I ascend to the second floor. In my room, I deposit my coat and tie on the king-sized bed and work my way down my shirt buttons en route to the en-suite. Fifteen minutes later, I'm padding out of the walk-in closet dressed in slacks and tee and mussing my damp hair.

"Eris, put the AC on 65, please."

My room is dimly lit. I touch my finger to the option for the curtains on the control panel installed into my bed's headboard. All at once, the mechanized blinds collapse, unraveling floor-to-ceiling windows and a panorama of the nightscape beyond.

Watching the city from here, so high above and away from the eyes and ears and voices of people, brings me some semblance of serenity. The glass panes vaguely reflect my room, and out of all the things, my eyes locate and focus on the framed photo sitting on my nightstand.

Prying my eyes away from the photo, I settle down on my altwork station and pull up the ZIP file on my computer that comprises of all the data I was able to compile on my sister's case thus far. Over the years, I've perused these documents so obsessively I can recite them off the top of my head.

I'm perfectly aware that my fixation with my sister's death is purely emotion driven, for the world I cared about stopped at the tip of my nose the minute Yamira's lifeless body had been claimed to be found. They say time heals wounds, but the only ones who use this hackneyed phrase are really those who never cared deeply enough. Overtime, I learned to embrace the pain which blossomed after Yamira's death, like it's my only link to the world, and it showed it's merits in the form of worldly success and prosperity. I continue to chase the two things that never appealed to me - power and publicity - because I was reared with the mentality that, as long as you've got these two items in your possession, the rest will follow.

Yamira had made a hobby out of smuggling things into my bedroom. That's how I sometimes ended up stealthily perusing the pages of a book not part of my regular lessons. It's how I happened to learn about the five stages of grief. I knew precisely what I was going through after Yamira died and made no effort to fight it. My mind understood I had to ride out each phase if I was going to move on.

The unsalvageable hours after hours I spent in my room, occupying a small space and not moving an inch, like a bird bewitched, staring blankly and registering nothing. The nights I endured resenting my every intake of breath while my sister rested six feet under. The gulf of loneliness, the hollowing sensation like moths eating away inside me, that came with losing the one family member who ever acted upon the relationship without making me feel burdened.

"I think the theatrics have gone on long enough. Time to get back to the grind." My father had said, without preamble, on the second day of his eldest child's burial and the second day I hadn't graced the dining hall with my presence at mealtimes.

Here's where my parents were polar opposites.

My mother was always super chill with what her children were up to. Sometimes it's as if she doesn't even remember she's married. She left the whole parenting shebang to my father. Under a maternal sense of responsibility, she had only checked up on me once after the funeral proceedings.

My father, on the other hand, was controlling personified. Under my his austere supervision I felt tethered to a stopwatch. From the moment I woke until I retired to bed, my mind went tick-tock tick-tick. Mealtimes, school, private tuition, homework, extracurricular, sleep- it was a monotonous loop, and I was like a toy on clockwork. My father, hell bent on my well-rounded education, was convinced that if I followed his instructions with military precision I was on the path to incredible things. And falling sick was unacceptable. If I did, it's due to an error on my part. That somewhere, somehow, I did something wrong. The consequence of a job mishandled.

If, someday, someone discovers my entire life mapped out on a stack of plotting paper- down to the number of minutes I should spend in the restroom per day- believe me, you wouldn't see the barest traces of surprise on my face.

It might have been because I was possessed by grief that I felt a little less intimidated by him in that moment.

"I can afford to skip school. I'm ahead in every subject." My voice was hoarse with disuse and my throat clogged emotions.

"And what, pray tell, do you plan to accomplish staying couped up in your room? Here, let me guess: mop yourself to sleep onto to wake up and do it all over again. Now you see why I don't coddle you and smother you with affection. Other than making you vulnerable, it's pointless in every practical sense." He said not unkindly. "Some lessons are best learned through experience, and this one teaches you why you shouldn't tie your happiness to mortal things. Time's not gonna start flowing backwards, your sister isn't coming back. As disappointing as your behavior has been of late, as your first time being under this sort of distressing circumstance, I've made allowances for you." The domineering puppeteer that he is, it was a feat, in and of itself, that he was capable of showing leniency at all.

Acknowledge my great benevolence, was what he meant.

"However, this is the extent of it. If people see how easily you get overpowered by emotion, you'll be a fast target of manipulation. You'll look at me- look at your mother- and you won't see us grieving, but we are. And you're our son; the next in the line of succession. From now onwards, I'll expect you to handle unfortunate news with similar grace. You're going back to your usual routine tomorrow and that's the final edict. Is that clear?"

They've neglected Yamira almost all their lives. What difference would it make to them now that she's gone? I managed the herculean task of responding calmly, despite the rush of white, hot rage through my veins.

"Yes, sir."

"Also, it goes without saying, you'll make time in between your regular study sessions to get up to speed with all that you've procrastinated these past few days. You might think I'm being harsh now, but you'll thank me later. Goodnight, son."

He called me his son, but treated me like a project. And every resource expended on me is an investment for a higher return. He had been an advisor, an instructor and an investor. But a father? Hardly. He didn't love me. He loved the idea of who I would be someday. I would be a masterpiece. My prodigious son, he'd say.

"You're glad she's gone." The accusation came unshackled from my mouth just as he was about to leave. "It's good riddance you're masking, not grieve."

"Not to speak badly of your beloved sister, may her soul rest in peace, but I don't deign to deny that she was a foolhardy, greedy and an unappreciative girl. Yamira had, all but the entirety of her life, been commandeered by her heart into ill-conceived choices which have embarrassed our family. Yet I've been patient. I could've thrown her in an asylum if I wanted - in truth, I've been tempted to quite a few times - but I believed after a couple of mistakes she'd see sense. She was a Zaber, after all. It's a pity one of those ill-conceived choices killed her before her life could take a turn for the better. I take no pride, none at all, in knowing that my own flesh and blood had lead such a meaningless life. Such a taint in the family tree."

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