Chapter 1

I come from a world of art.

I live in a universe of shapes, colors, and forms. We all do, as the matter a fact, but I'm one of those people who see their reality through a pair of abstract glasses, which allows me to analyze every space, every object, and every individual, into lines, geometric shapes, and organic shapes.

Did I just say I see my reality that way? I'm sorry for misleading you. I also hear, feel, smell – yes, I even taste my reality in abstract forms.

I'm an interior designer. My name is Eduard Clare.

Not many costumers share my unique taste. Even less of them are able to afford my services, and even less of them are interesting enough for a sociopath such as me to spare them a sketch. And still, you see, I'm a very busy man. I work for over 18 hours per day. I barely have time to breath, not to mention sleep or eat – and still, I'm also very satisfied. I love what I do. I don't need anything else in the entire world, besides of my art.

After finishing a big project, one of my favorite things is to let myself pass out on the simple, straight-lined couch in my office, while the last thing I see before I drift to sleep is the big bright pictures of the clean lines I have created.

And this is actually the point, where my story begins.

"Mister Clare?" asked the pleasant voice of my secretary – a broad oval echo with an amorphous under tone. "I know you don't want to be disturbed at this time, but you have a call from a very important Mitchell's client."

Mitchell is considered as my main "rival". I really have no idea why, and I couldn't care less – all I know is that usually, Mitchell's client have a good, clean delicate taste, even though the sorrowful weakness for light and shadow games.

"Pass me the call." I've answered, even though I wasn't sure I can actually speak in a coherent manner.

There was a silence for a few seconds, and then "Good afternoon, Mister Clare."

The voice felt like a never ending spiral, arching gracefully around my ear before entering my mind, and then bursting in tiny drops of a soap bubble.

"Good evening." I've answer, too tired to let the inspiration show herself in front of me.

"My name is Ishtar Crawley, how do you do?" she waited for a few seconds for me to answer, and then carried own without sounding embarrassed at all. "My brother and I are the owners of Crowley's delicatessen; it’s a small ring of 6 restaurants throughout the world, meant for a very specific group of people… We've been planning to open the seventh one, and I was hoping… well, so far we were with Mitchell, and he's really great and all, and my brother is in really good terms with him… really really good terms… I actually have been hoping to make a difference, something new, something fresh, something… Mister Clare?"

"Yes?" I've asked. I knew this rhythm. Most of my clients sounded just the same.

"For a moment there I thought you've fell asleep… could I set an appointment? You could see the current design of the restaurant, and maybe even – " suddenly something changed about her voice, the softness in it became so elastic and hypnotic it almost made me wake up at once "try our food, I believe it would really inspire you, well, it inspire me…"

I've stopped for a moment to think about the last time I actually ate a meal for the sake of enjoyment, and not to just fuel my body. I actually couldn't remember it.

"Mister Clare?"

"Yes, why won't set an appointment with my – "

"I would actually rather to set it with you, if you don't mind." She said at once. Something felt wrong, a disharmonic triangle in a full circles composition, tense, density? No, some kind of mystery…

"Alright."