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Timi pulled both legs to his chin, a sudden lightness to his once heavy limbs. “Unfortunately, Uncle hated exploitation even more than confrontation. He gave them an ultimatum. Us or none of us. While they argued, he dragged me out of the function. T'was the last time he visited any of them.”

“The articles said he was so family oriented,” Hulk said. “Never missed a family function until his death.”

“His younger sister, the barrister, handled the press,” he scoffed.

“Uncle cherished his sanity and privacy.

Had no social media account. Hated taking pictures.

That painting over there, I had to snap with him a couple of times to make him relax and get a solo shot where he wasn't looking like Anini who just realised the camera was a broke bastard.”

Hulk studied the portrait. “I don't think you did a very good job.”

He couldn't stop a chuckle from escaping this time. “No. No, I didn't. Someone generated an AI image of him with a smile. Never seen anything more horrendous.”

“It's called artificial for a reason.”

Another silence stretched between them, comfortable and surprisingly calming, that Timi, no longer able to keep it locked in anymore, found himself murmuring, “I killed him, you know?”

Hulk's eyes sought his, but he said nothing.

Timi looked away from the steady gaze before he lost his nerve.

“He video-called me two nights before his death, telling me he may not make it to my award night.

And you know what I did? I fucking whined about him not loving my job.

I wouldn't even have acknowledged his presence, since he hated the fanfare and cameras.” He tried breathing through the growing tightness in his chest. “Thinking of it later, I should have been more tactful. Knowing the kind of father I have…had, I should have waved off his excuse like I always did. Told him I also hated award nights because of the heat and the crowd. But I just wanted...you know...just...”

He started when warmth enclosed his hand. He stared down at Hulk's larger palm patting his, waiting for that cold, slimy feeling he always had when strangers touched him, but he remained numb.

“You were the son he wanted you to be, and he was the father he longed to be,” said Hulk. “Neither of you could have done anything different. If you must assume a god-complex and blame yourself for something you had no control over, find something more compelling. Even if it achieves nothing.”

He may have worded it differently, but it was still the same clichéd attempt at comfort from people who didn’t understand pain. He thought the man would be more attuned to realism than idealism. A disappointment he had no business feeling added to a growing irritation.

He removed his hand. “How intuitive.”

“You're angry? Good. Channel it into something worthwhile. I allowed mine consume me, and here I am, shaking at the sight and smell of death.”

And Timi's grouchiness disappeared. “You’ve killed someone too?”

Hulk shook his head. “My guilt isn't as dramatic at yours. But I have it, nonetheless. Death is an end to most people, but it was a beginning for me. And not of something pleasant. You're at the point where I once was. It might not be an end for you, but you can make it a pleasant beginning.”

“Are we on the same planet? ”

Hulk leaned towards him, voice dropping as if no other ear deserved his words. “When your private life becomes food for the internet, hunt down the caterers and starve the diners. Then, prepare a fresh menu if you're so generous.”

Timi's heartbeats picked up speed. This thought had been at the back of his mind.

If he couldn't brave his past, then maybe he could brave his present.

Do something for once about his slanders.

Act rather than react. Expose the offenders.

Punish them. Clear Uncle's name from the source.

Assuage this soul-crushing guilt. Do one last honourable thing as Timi Lawson that he could be proud of in his memories.

Sporax Media, and his major suspect. A devious echo with his ugly stick.

Timi had assumed he would come for him, forgetting his evil ingenuity.

He'd hit Timi where it hurt the most, while holding back the one thing that could drive the last nail into the coffin.

Brilliant. So fucking brilliant. He couldn't wait to crush him.

At least before he got crushed in return, Uncle Jude would finally rest in peace.

He glanced at Hulk, a huge part of him itching to share his convictions. Which was absurd. He'd always felt like the island no man was, and Hulk worked for the man who may be behind his misfortune.

As if reading his mind, Hulk spoke up. “Agu contacted me this morning. He asked me to spy on you.”

Timi went still. A tiny part of him had hoped he was mistaken. Agu was dangerous, yes, but he'd seemed to genuinely care for him and Uncle Jude.

“And what did you say?” he asked through the bitterness corroding his tongue.

“Didn't give him an answer.”

“Why?”

“Cause it's easier to accept after, than rejecting, and later seeking to accept.”

To control his emotions going haywire, he leaned towards the anemones flanking the herringbone patterned pathway and pulled out a couple of stems. Emerald Vaults were mandated to supply fresh flowers fortnightly for as long as he existed. He could pull as many stems as he wanted .

He plucked and flung till he could ask mildly, “How did you figure out it was him?” The flowers’ sweet mist overriding the sour taste of death and betrayal.

Hulk watched Timi's fingers as though fascinated. “I suspected once the news got out and Nejeere, uh, told me about your letter. His call confirmed it for me.”

The letter. He'd forgotten about it. He dropped the stripped stems to the carpet grass. White, red, purple, blue and yellow dotted the surrounding grounds. He didn’t mind. Another special package perk: daily maintenance of the Lawsons' vault.

If only he could clear Uncle Jude's name in one sweep.

“You work for him,” he pointed out.

A darkness shadowed Hulk's face. “I can't stand bullies.”

And all his life, very few words had sparked this level of reassurance and camaraderie those four words brought him.

A pang hit his stomach, reminding him he hadn't eaten since yesterday. He should dismiss Hulk. Whatever had to be done, he had to do alone. But when he got up, he found himself saying, “You hungry?”

”Yes,” Hulk said.

Timi chose pork braised rice with hot and sour soup, while Hulk settled for a simple fried rice and chicken soup.

They sat facing each other in Timi's self-appointed alcove at Haitang Palace, a pink plum blossom canvas wall art surrounding them.

The golden ambience, enhanced by the Meranti wood furniture and accent lighting, and the low TV noises, never failed to create the sense of anonymity he appreciated when eating out.

And right now, there were four other diners present.

All foreigners who didn't give a shit about local celebrities and their online baggage .

Hulk dug into his food, completely unselfconscious.

It wasn’t the first time Timi would sit with his assistants at a table, but it was the first time he wasn't stuck with a nervous mess, too star struck to eat comfortably.

Hulk ate decisively. Like eating was a task he had the responsibility of seeing to the end.

Each spoonful at equal measure and a quiet, controlled chewing.

They ate in silence, except for a few interruptions from the manager, who wanted to know if they were satisfied with the service. Hulk frowned as Timi dunked his rice in chili sauce, and Timi had to mock his bland palate, because what was food without tongue-scalding, eyes-watering pepper?

Paper. It was paper.

“People eat pepper because they're lonely,” was Hulk’s prim response. “The plural of spouse is spice, in case you aren’t aware.”

Timi scoffed, tickled by the easiness of their interaction. “Joke's on you. Nejeere says loving me is choosing insanity.”

Hulk had then given him a look, dropped his spoon, and gone on a psychoanalytical tirade that had Timi finally begging him to shut the hell up. Unable to reconcile him with the aloof man he'd met at FENDI.

By the time they were done drinking their third order of smoothie, the sun had spread itself thin amidst noctilucent clouds, and Timi couldn’t recall when last he ate so heartily.

At the car, he collected his key from Hulk.

Somehow, somewhere during their outing, the world as he knew it had disappeared.

The crushing feeling that sat on his chest like an inselberg had eased to a chlorite.

Not one thought of his large supply of Belvedere Vodka filtered through.

He'd even laughed without feeling like he was killing Uncle Jude all over again.

Nejeere's boyfriend could make a cool friend, if Timi was into that.

“Thanks for the meal,” Hulk said.

“Thanks for…the company,” he returned.

A brief silence ensued. Hulk’s presence was the comforter he had unknowingly cocooned himself in, and the open night sky had yanked it off, baring now their actual dynamic .

He cleared his throat. “You should, uh, never psychoanalyse anyone ever again. Not everyone can live well knowing they’re a depressed, love-repelling, fearful, lonely, tenacious, self-sabotaging, delicate flower.”

Hulk’s shoulders visibly relaxed. “Not just any flower, a daisy,” he replied. “Because you know, when your morning sun comes, you'll open up like—”

Timi waved him off as he slid into the driver’s seat. “Please, no more. My ears are bleeding.”

“I've also never psychoanalysed anyone before. You'll be my first guinea pig.”

Timi caught himself before a smile pulled his lips apart. Being the man’s first anything shouldn’t give him this satisfaction. He started the engine and lowered the window. Hulk had moved towards the shrubs, hands in his pockets, watching steadily.

Timi cleared his throat again. “Resume at the house. Nine o'clock. Lateness won't be tolerated.”

Hulk’s mouth slackened, then he caught himself and nodded sharply. “Noted. See you tomorrow.”