Searching (Radiance)

[Olivier de Volthström]

Olivier found himself in Moscow before the new year. He had spent some time at the range, preparing for his tournament in January. He knew his talent, but he also knew practice was important. Olivier was also considering a proper move to Moscow. For what he was spending on rooms in the Radiance, he might as well find his own place. He looked over at his bow case and smiled. Archery was always something that brought him joy. He was both sad and not to be in Moscow instead of Zurich during the holidays. He guessed he could find his way back to Zurich if he needed to. If he did, it would be to see Elin. He hoped she was doing well, but despite loving his parents, he really wasn't in the mood to argue with them right now.

He pulled out his computer and began to browse the web. Olivier was looking for something new to do. His typical marks were fine and were already funding many projects. He couldn't explain it. There was something that just drew him to take what unethical wealthy corporations didn't need and give it to the ones they hurt. There was the thrill of risk added with the joy of helping those who truly needed it. Part of him disliked the anonymity, even as he understood it. 

It was mostly the same stuff. He noticed that Kael Vayron, an archery rival was throwing some shade at him in the public sphere.  He was saying his immense success was due to him being a Volthstrom. His PR team would take care of it. There was nothing to worry about there. He was just mad because he was going to lose in the upcoming tournament. But there was a post that caught his eye.  The poster had sent a few out.  It wasn't a name he was aware of.  Whoever it was was likely new. But the post spoke of bravery. He opened his messaging and sent a message to the poster, encrypting it of course.

---

Olivier spent a few more hours in his room before heading downstairs to the bar. He was tempted to send Carter, his cousin, a message to see if he wanted to get together.  They at least got along. Of course he didn't know how much Olivier argued with his parents. They hadn't spoken for awhile, but Olivier wasn't looking for any specific company tonight. He just wanted a few drinks before he turned in for the night. 

The bar as pretty high class. He expected no less at Radiance. He went to the bar and took a seat. "A Negroni, please," he asked the bartender. The bartender brought his drink and he took a sip. He'd play it by ear. Maybe he'd socialize, maybe he'd message Carter, or maybe he'd just have a few drinks and then turn in.

[Adrian Kane]

Once word reached him that another Volthström had taken rooms at the Radiance, Adrian sent a brief instruction through the staff channels. He wanted to know the moment Olivier Volthström made himself available. Until then, he settled at a corner table in the lobby bar, posture relaxed, attention elsewhere only in appearance.

He saw Olivier the instant he entered. Adrian lifted two fingers to the host and murmured a request. In five minutes, come interrupt me, he instructed. Any reason would do. High-roller guests often required careful tending, but Adrian was not here to entertain. He was here to observe, and if need be, to disengage on his own terms.

His suit was chosen with care. Five pieces, tailored close without ostentation. The waistcoat was cobalt blue, rich enough to catch the light without demanding it, paired with a deep red tie knotted with a double Windsor. It was the sort of attire a Volthström would respect, even approve. Adrian’s presence filled space as it always did, broad-shouldered and immovable, yet as he rose and approached, there was nothing predatory in his manner. This was not a confrontation. It was a courtesy, offered with purpose.

“Mister Volthström,” Adrian said when he came within view, his voice measured and calm. He inclined his head just enough to acknowledge standing without surrendering it. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Adrian Kane. I own the Radiance.”

He let the words settle before continuing, gray eyes steady on the man before him, already reading posture, breath, and silence alike. “Is everything to your liking this evening?”

[Olivier de Volthström]

Olivier was aware of the approach. Archery required discipline and observation. He was, however, surprised at who it was. He had heard the name of course, but had never met the man. He certainly hadn’t expected Adrian to personally greet him. Adrian wore a fine suit - fine enough to impress royalty. Of course that was probably part of it. The Volthströms were damn near royalty in their own right.

Olivier stood after Adrian introduced himself, an act of politeness. He wasn’t displeased, and with the exception of it being the owner of the hotel himself, he hadn’t been surprised to have been approached by someone to see how he was liking the hotel. The Volthström would have garnered attention. As he thought about it, it was likely a Carter and Guillame were staying here as well.

”Mr. Kane,” Olivier said with a smile and an offered hand. ”It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Olivier looked around taking in the lobby bar and finery in appreciation. ”The accommodations are nothing short of amazing. Rooms are comfortable, staff is polite, and this.” he said, raising his glass. ”Is the best Negroni, I’ve ever had.” he placed the glass back down on the bar, not taking a drink in a move of politeness. ”It’s the best I’ve seen.” In his travels he had seen a significant number of high class hotels. He wasn’t be facetious.

[Jaxen Marveet]

Zoë Marveet

Zoe had chosen her seat at random. The corner of the lobby bar offered a polished mirror behind the shelves and a long view of the room without placing her at its center. She sat angled slightly away from the room, one elbow resting lightly against the bar, a Negroni cupped in her hand as if it were something precious rather than merely familiar. The deep red caught the light when she turned the glass, and the scent of orange peel rose each time she lifted it. It was her favorite.

She wore black, as she often did, but not in mourning. The jacket fit close to her frame, its shoulders traced with intricate silver embroidery, crystals, and stones that caught and fractured the light like frost on dark glass. The detailing flowed down her back and arms more art than ornament. Her hair was cut short, roots dark but dyed pale, almost white under the bar lighting, and held back by a slim black band. When she turned her head, sharp eyes lined in dark makeup took in everything without seeming to linger.

Zoe listened, not overtly, to the conversation nearby. She had learned long ago that attention was most effective when it went unnoticed. She heard Adrian introduce himself with the authority someone accustomed to owning rooms simply by standing in them. She heard Olivier Volthström (oh, la la, a Volthstrom) respond all measured and polite.

She took a slow sip of her drink, the bitterness grounding her as she let the conversation wash over her senses. Adrian’s voice carried intention beneath courtesy. Zoe knew the type. Her adopted father, Scion had taught her to recognize them, if not always deliberately, but the disappointing thing about his adopted daughter was that she usually didn't care about powerful people.

Few people understood why Scion Marveet had taken in a child who bore none of his blood. Fewer still asked her directly. At family gatherings, speculation always followed, drifting just out of reach. Zoe had long since learned to move through it without breathing too deeply. She was Marveet in name, in loyalty, in practice, even if some part of her always felt just a step aside from the center of the circle.

Perhaps that was why she listened so well. It made her curious, and conflict made her uneasy. Her gaze flicked none too subtly toward Adrian and Olivier, mostly curious, and half-bored.

"The Negroni's are good," she agreed, throwing a wink at the bartender when he was complimented.

[Adrian Kane]

Adrian’s handshake was firm without challenge, the gesture practiced and sincere. Praise, when honestly given, was a thing he never hurried past. He inclined his head slightly at the compliment, as though acknowledging a shared standard rather than claiming sole credit.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Adrian said, and this time there was genuine satisfaction in his voice. He turned just enough to catch the bartender’s eye, two fingers resting lightly on the bar. “See that Mister Volthström never has to ask,” he added quietly. “A Negroni, whenever he likes. His preference.”

The bartender nodded at once, already moving.

When Adrian returned his attention to Olivier, his posture was more relaxed now. “We take our bar seriously here,” he continued when a new voice spoke.

Adrian’s eyes found the nearby woman almost without his meaning to look. She sat with the ease of someone who belonged wherever she chose to sit, her black jacket traced in silver that caught the light like fine filigree. The Negroni in her hand mirrored Olivier’s, the same dark red glow, lifted with familiarity rather than indulgence. She had been listening, he realized. Not rudely. Just social in the way of bars.

When she spoke, it was with an offhand warmth that suggested neither interruption nor apology, merely inclusion. Her accent was clearly Russian, and he placed her immediately as Muscovite. Adrian’s was clearly British, while Olivier’s was much more European.

Adrian smiled at her compliment, surprised despite himself. He did not recognize her, which was rare. Faces like hers tended to come with context. Wealth, certainly, but not the careless sort. Her clothes spoke of lineage and labels, and of a family whose name did not need to be displayed to be understood. Nouveaux riche, certainly.

He shifted, opening the circle without hesitation.

“Then I’m doubly pleased,” Adrian said smoothly, the practiced charm of the hotelier settling into place as naturally as his suit. ““Adrian Kane. I’m glad our bar meets your standards as well. Is this your first time here?”

There was no appraisal in his gaze beyond courtesy. He noted her youth, her poise, the intelligence in her eyes, but felt no pull beyond professional interest. Some people were beautiful in the way architecture was appreciated, but not desired.

He glanced between her and Olivier, the moment now broader than he had intended when he first rose from his seat. It occurred to him that this, too, served the business.

[Constantine Harroway]

Constantine Harroway had not yet become a fixture of Moscow society.

The city had not decided what to do with him, and so it lingered in that liminal space between fascination and indifference. That suited him just fine. Before he even crossed the threshold of the Radiance, two women on the street had recognized him, breathless with delight. He gave them what they wanted without hesitation. A smile flashed quick and bright. Mock kisses thrown into the cold air. Hands lifted to form a heart, exaggerated and theatrical. He stayed until their laughter settled and their photographs were secured, then slipped away with a grin still lingering on his lips.

Yes, he was a global sensation. A reality-romance darling, beloved and dissected in equal measure. But Moscow had deeper appetites. He would earn her attention in time.

The night had drawn him here for reasons both practical and curious. A companion club was slated to open beside the Radiance, and its owner had been meticulous in outlining the unspoken rules of proximity and power on their neutral grounds. Constantine had then decided to see the place for himself. Rules were always more interesting in practice than in theory.

Inside, the Radiance greeted him with warmth and gold-lit elegance. He shed his coat and revealed an ensemble that balanced defiance and refinement with effortless confidence. His trousers were tailored but fluid, dark velvet catching the light with each step. A silk blouse lay open at the collar, its pattern a subtle riot of jewel tones, softened by a fitted jacket cut sharp enough to remind onlookers that elegance need not apologize for whimsy. Rings glimmered at his fingers, layered and unapologetic.

Constantine chose a table with a view of both lobby and lounge, a cosmopolitan glowing pink-red in his hand bright and tangy. He drank slowly, not for the taste but for the ritual, eyes drifting as he watched the invisible currents that bound people together.

Threads were everywhere.

Golden strands twined faintly between many souls, some bright, some so thin they were nearly gone. An older couple passed through the lobby, their thread short and braided, heart to heart, worn smooth by decades of shared life. The fire between them had burned long and steady, now reduced to embers that still gave warmth. At the bar, a man and woman locked eyes, and a brilliant cord flared between them, sharp and hungry. It snapped just as quickly when another woman arrived, wedding band gleaming. The man rose at once, thread recoiling back into something dull and dutiful as he followed his wife away without a backward glance. Hotels were marvelous places for such things.

Then Constantine noticed the absence.

One man in the room bore no threads at all. None of lust. None of affection. None of rivalry or hatred. He was a clean break in the tapestry, a deliberate void where something should have been. Constantine glanced toward him more than once over the rim of his glass, half expecting the pattern to correct itself.

It did not.

When the man finally rose and approached another guest at the bar, Constantine straightened, interest sharpening. Even now, as they spoke, nothing formed between them. No spark. No pull. It was as if the world itself had declined to comment.

His gaze flicked again when a woman joined them, blonde and composed, dressed fabulously. Surely now, something would flare. Three attractive people in close proximity rarely left the threads unstrung. But again, nothing.

No threads bloomed. No cords stretched or tangled. The three stood separate, complete unto themselves, like stones resting side by side rather than pressing together.

Constantine’s amusement curved slowly, delighted and intrigued in equal measure. How very strange indeed.

[Olivier de Volthström]

Adrian's response was what he had expected. A slight nod to acknowledge the compliment, which was genuinely given. He nodded in thanks after Adrian spoke to the bartender regarding his beverage of choice. The offer for getting one whenever he wanted was appreciated even if it wasn't needed. Free drinks were hardly ever given out without something expected in return. Casinos often did it, but it was because intoxicated people gambled recklessly. It could be simply for the compliment, or Kane could be making an investment of sorts. It didn't bother Olivier either way.

The voice of a woman broke in, agreeing with his assessment on the bar's negronis. Olivier's gazed turned to see a woman, dressed fashionably in black and silver with short blonde hair holding a glass that mirrored the one in his own hand. She had been listening and that wasn't a surprise either. People in bars tended to do several things; drink to forget, socialize, or observe. Sometimes they did multiples of those. The last one was why secret business was never done in bars.

Adrian invited her into their conversation with a shift of his feet. Olivier took her in the way he would anyone else, a glance to note what he could note. She was young, wealthy, and likely from a prominent family. Olivier knew the game, even if he didn't particularly enjoy playing it. What brought her here could be a myriad of things. The fact they had the same drink seemed coincidental, but he always wouldn't have put it past his mother to find some woman to order the same drink as him in an effort to get him to consider being with some woman. Even if he wasn't attracted to women, he could tell she was pretty enough. His mother still hadn't given up hope for him, but he doubted this was some conspiracy anyways.

"Olivier de Volthström," he introduced himself with a nod and a glass raised in an introductory toast as he turned to lean on the bar, accepting the woman into their conversation.