Page 101 of Dalla's Royal Guards

The man tilted his head slightly, a breath of a sigh escaping his lips.

“Harlem Jones,” he said.

Kramer frowned. “Am I supposed to know who that is?”

Harlem smiled faintly. “No. But I thought you might want a few answers before you die.”

The glass slipped slightly in Kramer’s hand. He set it down on Doris’s letter, spilling scotch across the paper.

He opened his mouth—money, he could offer money—but Harlem spoke first.

“My life began over three thousand years ago,” Harlem said, his voice low, rich with the weight of time. “I’ve served kings and killers. I’ve built empires—and helped destroy them. I’ve seen the worst… and sometimes the best… of what humanity offers.”

Harlem turned his head then, locking eyes with Kramer.

“The world changes. The powerful rise and fall. But some… some men…” He shook his head. “Their greed rots everything it touches.”

Kramer’s throat closed. He rasped, “Why me? I’ve lost everything. I’m powerless.”

Harlem’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Because you harmed someone I care about. Dalla Bogadottir.”

Kramer surged forward, desperate now. “I can change. I can fix this! Just give me—give me the power! Immortality! I swear—I’ll use it to do good!”

Harlem lifted Kramer’s glass, swirling the amber liquid with quiet finality. He brought it to his lips, took a small sip, before he studied the liquid inside. He sighed as he placed it carefully back on the table.

The silence stretched between them.

Hope clawed its way up inside Kramer’s chest.

Until Harlem shook his head.

“That’s the problem,” Harlem said softly. “You’re willing to do anything.”

Kramer stared, bewildered.

Harlem turned, walking toward the door with a calm, deliberate grace.

Kramer lurched to his feet. “Wait! Are you still— Are you still going to kill me?!”

Harlem paused, his hand on the door.

He glanced back once, eyes glinting in the dim light.

“You’re already dead. You just don’t know it,” he said.

And he was gone.

Kramer stood frozen, his heart hammering painfully. Minutes passed. The city glimmered indifferently beyond the window.

Slowly, he sat down.

He distractedly reached for his glass of scotch. He had to wrap both hands around it to keep from spilling the liquor. The warmth of the scotch slipped down his throat and pooled in his stomach.

“The man is a fucking lunatic,” he mused, staring out at the lights of the city.

He laughed—a broken, hollow sound that grew louder, harsher, until it echoed off the high ceiling.

He tipped the glass again and relaxed back in the chair.