Evening at the CBI headquarters. The city lights outside the windows are already twinkling, and the bullpen is nearly empty. The dim glow of desk lamps and the soft hum of computers create a serene atmosphere.

Patrick stands by the glass wall, pensively turning two keys in his palm. One of them bears the Bugatti logo and feels heavy and cold. This morning, Lisbon found the car in the garage and could barely hide her shock when she told him that the model hadn't even been released for sale yet.

The second key is simpler, but it unlocks a two-storey penthouse in the city centre. The minimalist design offers a breathtaking view of the bay. As Van Pelt quietly informed him, the price tag clears half a million.

These two gifts are the culmination of a series of surprises. It all started with chocolate, just a box left on his desk without a note. Patrick chuckled and ate a couple of pieces. Then came gardenias, his favorite flowers, the ones he hadn't bought for himself in years. Then a suit of soft wool in a deep burgundy shade, fitting him perfectly — as if a tailor had taken his measurements while he slept. After that, a case of single-malt whisky — exactly the brand he sipped only on the quietest evenings, when no one was watching. And finally, all his debts vanished. Mortgage, loans, even minor fines — simply wiped out, as if they had never existed.

Patrick is no fool. He pieced the puzzle together long ago. There is only one person who knew him back then, twenty years ago, when they sat in a dingy bar drinking cheap beer. Back then, Patrick, young and cocky, taught a young Christopher how to read people, lie with finesse, and sense weakness. Back then, Christopher was just an ambitious kid with bright eyes, asking too many questions. Patrick answered carelessly, never thinking where it would lead. Then their paths diverged, and he almost forgot that evening ever happened.

But Christopher did not forget. He became what he became — wealthy, powerful, with a past that no one knows anything about. And now he has returned. Not empty-handed, but with a message spelled out in expensive things. Patrick understands: this is not merely gratitude. It is an invitation. An invitation to remember, to come, to ask face-to-face: «Why?»

There is a strange mix in Patrick's chest — curiosity, a flicker of unease, and something warm, almost forgotten. He is not offended; he is even slightly flattered. Someone spent so much effort just to surprise him. Someone remembers him better than he remembers himself.

Patrick smiles faintly and slips both keys into his pocket. He doesn't reach for his phone, doesn't search old contact lists. Some invitations are not meant to be answered over the phone. He has a feeling that Christopher is counting on him to show up in person — and that the real conversation has not even started yet. The game is only beginning, and Patrick has always had a weakness for a good mystery.