Evening. The sunset was burning against the background with the brightest shimmers of the color of pitaya and mango, fading into the blue of the approaching night. Secondo was spending time in the limo. This night he was not surrounded by models, no music was playing, as if they were going to a parade in Rio. He was just driving from the ministry. Damn it, his limo had not seen someone's inadvertently left thong for a month. And all because of one woman. He courted, showed signs of attention, and she continued to treat him like the moon to the sun - slipping away as soon as he appeared on the horizon. Secondo adjusted his watch, then his cufflinks, pulled up his sleeves, anything, just not to pick up a shot from the minibar. There was a dark, reserved, Lenten Catholic air about the Satanist, and he didn't like it. It felt like the first time Secondo had gone so long without drinking or gettin' laid. When he arrived, he got out of the limousine, dismissed the driver and sighed, clicking his Zippo, lighting a cigarette.