Chapter Text
"Zandik?"
Truly, there was nothing quite spectacular in Fez-Kinara that evening—the prestigious Sumerian dining establishment located on the edge of Yazadaha Pool, offering magnificent views on its clear blue streams upon catching the reflection of the moon and the street lamps, alongside the lush garden in its surroundings.
“He is a… spectacular fellow, I must say. Although…” The knife held in Iqbal’s hand sliced through the tenderloin of medium rare—showcasing the plump pink of its inside that burst with juicy, buttery goodness as it stabbed by the fork.
“Although one must behave very keenly towards him.” He continued, hovering the meat near his mouth. “A man with an inhumane level of genius, I'd say. It is truly a surprise that his name isn’t attached to any ‘theory’ or ‘hypothesis’ out there. Surely with that brain, he must be capable of being a founding father of a newly found concept.”
Feofan stared at his own reflection on the cup of steaming tea that—amidst wafting the heavenly smell of Sumeru rose directly into his nose—failed to spark any optimism he should have had upon listening to Iqbal’s admission.
“Keenly?” The Chairman of Northland Bank, finally, raised the cup to his mouth. “Care to elaborate?”
Iqbal—his long-time trading partner who controlled the vast majority of the region’s gemstone market—swallowed his buttery steak before answering. “I have never met the fellow myself, you see. But if the words are right, then... Zandik isn’t the suitable business partner you’re looking for.”
The banker arched an eyebrow. “I am confident that I have my own advisors and strategists should I ever need one.”
“Blah, listen to yourself, would you?” The bald man snorted. “None of this would ever happen had you listened to me years ago; not to overwork yourself and your pitiful lungs. Now, I could never accept the fact that you, my dear Feofan, are desperate enough to plan a partnership with that mad scientist!”
A small smile bloomed on Feofan’s lips. His gloved fingers gripped tightly on the cup’s handle—each amethyst stone of his rings glimmered under the chandelier’s light.
“If you allow me, my dear Feofan, I can recommend you some trustworthy doctors-“
“Iqbal.” Feofan sighed, the ceramics clinked as he put down the cup into its plate. “In the span of five years, I have had arrangements with doctors all around the world—the pinnacle of medical geniuses and their acclaimed ‘state-of-the-art’ technology—none of them are compatible with me.”
“No doctors would ever be compatible with a patient that insists on working in the very first morning after their surgery, Feofan.” Iqbal shook his head, leaning back on the chair. “Look at you now! The richest man in Snezhnaya! The top one percent in all of Teyvat! Surely a little rest won’t hurt, ya akhi.”
A small chuckle trembled from the chairman. “Enough for the flattery, my friend. Now, tell me more about this fellow.”
Iqbal took a small sip of his coffee, calming himself before merging into the topic again. “Do remember that none of these are my words…” He feigned a cough. “He has always been eccentric, that Zandik. The only flaw on his academic record was him being expelled, but if we talk about research and experiments—he excelled in all those fields.”
“His exclusion is the very result of the excellence in his study, I assume?”
“Correct!” The jewellery businessman snapped his finger. “Now, as a scientist, he is known to cross the boundaries that no one ever dared to get close. He… removed the line between science and humanity, if you get what I mean.” Again, he faked a cough. “The result is… impeccable, in its literal, yet materialistic definition. The investment always returns in billions of Mora.”
Feofan drummed his gloved finger on the table. “Now, tell me again why this genius, clearly profitable man is struggling to find an investor?”
“I told you, akhi, he’s risky!” Iqbal loosened his tie slightly, clearly growing impatient with the banker’s purposeful act of ignorance. “Ask yourself! You own a bank! Would you fund someone that could destroy your reputation in one night? If the government and public catch wind of his questionable method of achieving medical success, the graph in your portfolios would sink lower than your life expectancy!”
Feofan bit a laugh at his friend’s offense that—amidst his stern voice and serious warning—managed to sound almost comically theatrical. Sumerian men were really expressive and warm, much to his liking.
“Can you speak louder, my brother?” The Chairman teased. “I almost can’t hear you.”
Iqbal closed his mouth shut, glancing at his surroundings—suddenly being hyper-aware of the rising pitch of his voice. Fortunately, it was the Fez-Kinara. The sight of obnoxious business magnates indulging in their heated conversation was not rare in the slightest. There wasn’t any shift in the air to indicate that Iqbal’s words could be heard by an unwanted party.
“Anyway…” The Sumerian sighed. “I know you have a line of top advisors. But please, listen to me as your friend. Please just have a little mercy on your poor body and choose the safest doctor out there. Or…” Iqbal glanced at Feofan’s rings. “Go have children already, brother. You’re not getting younger. At least when death comes, you can give all of this fortune to your wife and kids.”
“Haha, no one wants to wed a sick man, Iqbal.” An amused, genuine laugh accompanied the banker’s sudden withdrawal from his seat. “Well then, our time this evening is an immense pleasure, as always. You are one of the friends I trust so dearly, Iqbal, but I’m afraid I must withdraw myself early.”
He walked towards the man’s chair as Iqbal rose. They bid a goodbye with a warm embrace, accompanied with a few firm pats on the back.
“Welcome to Sumeru, Feofan. I hope you have a nice stay.”
“Do you have the documents I asked for, Svetlana?”
“Yes, sir. I retrieved them from Lord Sangemah Bay this afternoon.”
The elevator ride to the thirtieth floor of Al-Azarzaray was silent—supposedly so, considering the highest floor of the country’s most expensive hotel could only be accessed by a few individuals. The small metal box that rose into Sumeru’s skyline was filled with three Snezhnayans.
The chairman leaned his body on the sturdy surface of the elevator’s window, sighing deeply, ignoring the view that justified the hotel’s outrageous price. He pinched the bridge of his nose, loosening the coiling tension. In front of him was Svetlana, his primary assistant. Standing beside her was his personal bodyguard, Dmitri, a man made of pure muscle and a whole head taller than his employer.
“The secretary of Doctor Zandik called for confirmation upon tomorrow’s meeting, Sir. Do you wish to proceed?” The faint, machine hum of the elevator was swallowed by Svetlana’s sharp, regal feminine voice.
“Yes.” Feofan’s only answer was a short, raspy one. “Have you read the documents?”
“I have, sir.” Svetlana replied. “There are few points I wish to further discuss with you regarding the liability of our potential partner.”
Ding! As the metal door opened, Dmitri took the first steps, ensuring the corridor to the presidential suite was free of any lurking dangers—a handsomely futile act, considering how Al-Azarzaray itself was wrapped in ironclad security. The two remaining Snezhnayans only moved after Dmitri stepped outside of the box.
“Save it for tomorrow, Sveta. Have a good evening.” Feofan pat his assistant firmly on her lower back— close to her butt—before walking past her towards his suite.
“You too, sir. Have a plentiful rest.”
Except, the only plentiful thing was the papers he had to read, zero for the rest.
Now, one in the morning, Feofan sat still on the Athelwood desk. A dim, amber light of the study lamp shone upon the documents, highlighting every page and the words imprinted. The exalted, rich flavor of Sumerian tobacco burst inside his mouth, while the thick cigar rested idly in-between his fingers. Right beside the neat stacks, was a cup of black coffee—harvested from none other than Sumeru highlands.
Ah, this country and the spectacular complexity of their produce. His cigar, for instance, was made from government-protected designation of origin to ensure its quality, tie to a specific region, and traditionality of the production method. It tasted heavenly and authentic—far smoother, more scrumptious than hundreds of other brands of cigars he had tried before.
“Zandik…” The name was released as a mere huff of the smoke.
Page 6. […] Expelled from Sumeru Akademiya. Continuing his research in an unknown underground lab […]
Page 25. A witness reported to the police regarding a human experiment conducted in one of Zandik’s labs. In the next day, however, they went missing and the evidence had been tampered with, with no clear indication of the suspects and reasonings behind. The police had pursued the case, yet the witness was never found.
Page 30. […] Secured a Liyuean tycoon named […] as his investor, continuing to establish partnership with Bubu Pharmacy. In their short-lived years of working together, the pharmacy reported a record-breaking profit over the last decade, mainly due to the highly-effective substance created by Zandik, which is marketed under the name of […]
Page 31. […] However, both the contract and funds were terminated when Zandik got another lawsuit regarding the usage of rare and prohibited material. The allegations were never proved, but it resulted in confiscation of his lab in Liyue.
“Haa….” Another stream of smoke billowing in the air.
The thin, metal glasses easily slid down from his face; the trembling fingers put it down on the table. Feofan stood up, slowly walking towards the wide, panoramic window of his suite where the expense of Sumeru City stretched beneath his stature; an elegant blend of traditional grandeur and modern high-rise structures, with the streetlamps resembling a sky of artificial stars from thirty stories above.
Except, to his tired and poor-sighted eyes, the view was nothing but a sea of blurry dots—soft, glowing circles of colourful polygons that further enhanced the dizziness he suffered. Except, to his weakly-beating heart, no sight could ever grace him with the joy of being alive anymore. All that he knew, that every breath he spent and every faint beat of his heart, were dedicated to his empire.
Northland Bank.
He established the institution out of pure spite to the Gods—for the single thin slice of mildew bread and plain warm soup at every dinner, just so he didn’t sleep on an empty stomach. For the dirty rags clung to his body, calloused feet, and bone-skinny stature that pick up trash for a living. For the kicks aimed at his stomach from the street gangster and shop owners. For the bed made of cardboard, and for the thin ragged fabric imposing as a blanket—offering a laughably zero protection against Snezhnayan winter.
Now, the entire world was at the mercy of his palm. One clench of his fist—and the world collapsed. A single lift of his finger—and the world shifted.
He had it all, yet he had nothing.
The money he thought could liberate the poorest boy in Snezhnaya—was the one that enslaved its richest man.
The Patriarch Mikhail of Snezhnograd—the man leading the country’s biggest religious institution—had seen the emptiness within him years ago, every time they had met in the palace’s biannual gathering. Through gentle smiles and polite pats in the shoulder, the Patriarch advised him to seek ‘meaning from the soul’ and not to focus on worldly, materialistic facets.
Whatever that meant, Feofan thought everything was too futile. The world kept on moving, yet he stayed still. He refused to seek any new meaning and joy in the comfort on his throne, secluded in an ironclad empire.
He did nothing to stop himself from drowning from countless paperwork and executive meetings.
Precisely because he knew that he was always destined to die.
“What do the advisors confer about this decision, Sveta?”
The Chairman sat inside the passenger seat on the tinted luxury sedan, as the car weaved through the afternoon traffic of Sumeru City. The assistant settled beside him, papers in hand, recounting the words written on the report. The majority of them, as expected, were not fond of Feofan’s risky step.
“And I do remember you have your own opinions, yes?” Feofan tilted his head slightly toward the secretary—a slender woman of breath-taking beauty, bearing the pride of classic Snezhnayan heritage; platinum blonde hair, skin as fair as its snow, piercing blue eyes.
“My opinions have been voiced by the contents of the report, sir. I have nothing left to say.” Svetlana threw a small, brief smile.
Well, even the chairman himself wasn’t quite sure of his choice—which was… rare, truthfully. A man of his position and power couldn’t afford such a mistake. One misstep, and his empire would tumble down. Even as the car drove closer to its destination, Feofan couldn’t shake the dread pooling on his stomach.
At last, Dmitri parked the sedan in front of a building located in the city outskirts. It was a laboratory of compact sizing—wide enough to conduct focused mid-scale scientific research and product development. Although, from the look of it, the laboratory was far from being properly-funded; paints peeled all over the wall, wild grass grew all over its yard, and the metal sign with rust corroding the text.
“Mr. Feofan.” A soft, womanly voice disrupted his observation as Zandik’s secretary greeted him. Both shook hands briefly. “Thank you for lending your time to meet us.”
Without further ado, they walked inside the laboratory—which was unsurprisingly empty. It was clean, sterile, yet the lack of human presence casted a looming eeriness. The sounds of their steps echoed amongst the quietness—of the secretaries’ sharp heels and Feofan’s own dull taps.
“He’s inside.” She said, nodding quietly to the their potential investor before opening the double door of Zandik’s office.
The first impression was quite unexpected, it seemed.
Feofan had seen the doctor’s facial appearance from Dori’s report; a man with blue hair and sharp features. Truly, perhaps it was the red eyes that bewitched people into thinking Zandik was a madman because—in his entire lifetime of meeting countless people, from the dirt poor to the filthy rich—Feofan never saw a pair of irises as taunting as them.
Moreover, Zandik’s entire stature was quite surprising.
Feofan himself was a tall man—taller than average even in Snezhnaya, home to many refined and military-trained men with toned, practiced bodies that flaunted other nations in Teyvat. The doctor, however, surprisingly had a similar build to him. The actual gap between their height was miniscule, so insignificant, and could easily be mistaken as men of equal statuesque.
The banker rooted on his place—on the office’s threshold—as Zandik turned his body around to face.
“Chairman.”
There was a subtle hint of mockery in his voice.
It was entirely a biased conclusion that Feofan couldn’t prove. Yet, somehow, he refused to believe that it was a mere innocent greeting. The calling was smooth—too assertive for someone who met the Chairman of Northland Bank for the first time. Those business magnates, conglomerates, tech billionaires—all of them have the same polished, filtered behaviour upon facing him. Zandik proved himself as a maverick for not following the same unspoken manner.
“Ah, just to spare myself some embarrassment—I apologize for the lack of a better environment for our supposedly intimate meeting today, Mr. Feofan.”
Zandik, a smile on his face, stepped closer to the man. His long white coat swayed against the air at every movement. A short nod to his secretary and she withdrew from the room, leaving only the two men and Svetlana alone.
Feofan cleared his throat, extending his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Zandik.”
“Likewise.” He took the hand and shook it firmly.
“Do you have any objection if I include my secretary upon today’s meeting?”
The striking red eyes scanned the entirety of Svetlana, before landing back to Feofan’s purple ones. “No, not at all. Please, come inside.”
The office was modest—viewed from Feofan’s regal standard. Just a decent square-shaped room, enough to host a large working desk and its chair along with several guest sofas. Three dark wooden bookshelves bonded to the wall, imposing every furniture with their looming height. Several tubes and vials lined up neatly above his desk.
“Shall we?” Feofan began the meeting as he sank into the sofa. The secretary sat beside him, notes in hands.
Zandik nodded, settling himself comfortably on the seat right across. Fingers intertwined together, eyes boldly pierced straight at Chairman’s, seemingly unfazed of any social and financial barrier that existed between them. Not that Feofan was fond of any man-made construct, but he would be lying if Zandik’s stare didn’t summon a hint of uneasiness inside.
“Mr. Zandik, I have read your proposal, and I couldn’t shake one question out of my head. Why…” He leaned forward. “… Do you want to establish a hospital?”
The doctor arched an eyebrow, bemused. “I am a licensed physician, Chairman. I, too, am a scientist. I was confident I put that point in the first page-“ His words faltered when Feofan raised a single finger.
“Mr. Zandik, let us not waste each other’s time. This meeting is grounded by the very fact that I have conducted my research about all of your… achievements in the past. That, naturally, includes the reason as to why you have been struggling to find an investor in the past two years.” Feofan crossed his long legs, leaning backward. “I don’t doubt your capability to thrive as a scientist, I doubt your incapability to stop.”
Then, something unthinkable happened.
A laugh. An unrestricted laugh blooming from the doctor. Never, never, in the entirety of business meetings he had attended, that he met someone this unhinged—so unhinged that he didn’t even bother to cover the laugh, and that his eyes kept focusing on the banker. Outrageously bold. Unorthodox. If Feofan was a man of inferior confidence and lesser status, Zandik’s action would surely earn him a nice punch on the face.
“Well then, Mr. Feofan…” As the laughter subdued, his smooth voice resonated in the office once again. “Allow me to ask you a question. Why…” He leaned forward, mimicking the gesture. “… Did you even consider a proposal from an unrewarding scientist like me?”
“You are not exactly unrewarding, doctor. Quite the opposite—you are immensely lucrative.”
“Yet, my laboratory is a month away from being permanently shut down, chairman.” Zandik smiled.
“I believe my question hasn’t yet to be answered. Why do you want, or even need, to build a hospital?”
“I want to hide.” The doctor answered bluntly; the smile slowly shifted into a smirk. “Just like you; hiding in plain sight.”
Feofan was quite unprepared at how his anger nearly exploded when Zandik’s eyes landed, once again, on Svetlana. The secretary—having been under Feofan’s admission since almost a decade ago—was fortunately used to handling creepy stares from obnoxious men. But the banker knew the stare wasn’t aimed towards Svetlana, at all. There was zero emotion behind those red irises upon looking at the woman.
The real target was him. The way those audacious pairs dragged their focus back on Feofan’s dull purple eyes.
“I’m not quite understand what are you trying to imply here, Mr. Zandik.” Gone was the relaxed posture earlier, replaced by a more composed, straight-laced attitude. A rigid social manner was never his virtue, but a detestable man like Zandik needed to be settled right at a certain time.
“Chairman, please.” Sultry. Sweet. Mocking. “Since you have been straightforward about the nature of our meeting, allow me to return the same attitude. I do believe a man of your calibre certainly isn’t naïve enough to think that I do not possess the same access as you.”
Dori, of course. An aggravating scoff nearly escaped Feofan’s zipped-shut mouth. Dori served no one but Mora—not that he could blame her for the similarity of their traumatic response of the past. There wasn’t any contract between them that forbade her to sell information to another party. A fair trade in a free economy, it seemed.
Zandik merely chuckled at the sight of a tense banker. “All I ask is why, Mr. Feofan. A man like you—who can afford the best doctors and scientists from all of Teyvat—is willing to put your polished shoes inside the humble office of a man who’s on the verge of homelessness.”
The doctor leaned his body forward again and—in that split second—it was as if Feofan was dethroned for a second, for all the power and influence he had as the Northland Bank’s highest overseer suddenly vacuumed by the heretic’s presence.
“Why, Chairman?”
A drop of whisper, and the world stopped moving.
Svetlana visibly tensed under the pressure, yet her superb professionalism was maintained. She spared a single glance at her boss, before opening her mouth to speak out on his behalf. Yet, not even the first syllable of the word managed to escape before Feofan raised his hand—an effective command of silence.
The Chairman didn’t betray his calm composure. Instead, he let his eyelids drooped low, showing yet another curated smile at the nagging doctor. Patience was always his virtue, after all.
“Well, Mr. Zandik, I am afraid we should end our meeting with a rather unsuccessful result.” The sofa lifted off of weight as Feofan stood up, followed by his secretary.
“Oh?” The doctor hummed, a surprised frown played on his lips. “That was surprisingly quick… Oh, well.”
At last, he stood up and extended his hand to the man, which was quickly accepted. “Such a shame that we couldn’t find a similar grounding, Mr. Feofan. I almost believed that we could be a great partner, considering how alike we are.”
The handshake was firm and brief—yet, at the last split second before Zandik withdrew, Feofan tightened the grip and pulled the man’s body slightly closer, placing his mouth right beside the ear, catching the man by absolute surprise.
“We are not alike at all, Zandik.”
Another hard whisper. The ashy blue veins bulged on Feofan’s hand as he hardened the grip.
“I could never trust a careless man like yourself.”
The weather of Sumeru and Snezhnaya was a polar opposite.
In the biting cold of his homeland, Feofan was not to leave his house without a thick, layered suit or a furcoat. In Sumeru, however, it had been a week since these two heavy fabrics touched his body. His attire was now reduced into a simple black shirt with rolled-up sleeves and cotton paints, as his Snezhnayan skin couldn’t withstand the heat and humidity.
Even earlier, in the expanse of Vissudha Golf Club, the fine silver rings on his fingers heated up considerably under the scorching sun, leaving his skin inflamed at its mercy.
Now, in the club’s private lounge equipped with AC, Feofan groaned, throwing his head back as he sunk into a plush sofa. Red blemishes kissed his pale complexion, vision blurred at the intense exposure, heart palpitated—each loud beat drummed in his ears.
The black coffee was still warm when he took the first sip, continuing the pleasure by slipping a cigarette into the gap of his lips. Just when the fire burned the butt of the rolled tobacco, and just when he was about to enjoy the first inhale of the nicotine, he realized—maybe the sun above Sumeru wasn’t the worst thing he faced today.
“Well, look who it is.”
Sweet. Smooth. Mocking.
Unwelcomed.
Feofan barely gave a newly-entered man a glance before continuing his sacred ritual of enjoying the cigarette.
“I thought you left Sumeru days ago. What a pleasant surprise to see you here.” Zandik, without waiting for the banker’s approval, settled himself comfortably on the sofa right across.
For a long while, the presence wasn’t acknowledged inside the lounge. The Chairman deliberately ignored the doctor—looking on his phone, typing something that required a major focus, all while enjoying his afternoon share of coffee and cigarette. The other man, meanwhile, just sat still in silence, smiling.
It was not until the room was entirely filled with the harsh scent of the smoke, did Zandik open his mouth.
“I have a feeling that you are a smoker. Do you know why?” He began; smile grew wider when Feofan spared him another brief, sinister glance. “When I first saw you on TV years ago, I thought a man as sophisticated as you would have a rather… lighter, silkier voice—the kind that I imagine would drip in honey at how suave it is. But, it turns out…”
The tip of Feofan’s ears stained red. Was it from the sun or from the growing irritation, he didn’t care to know.
“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Continued the doctor, intertwining his fingers. “Maybe you did have that kind of voice before—until the amount of tobacco you inhaled gradually changed it. Truthfully, your voice isn’t unpleasant either—just deeper than I initially thought, with a little hint of gravel at the edge… just perfect.”
With a deep sigh, Feofan settled down his flagship smartphone on the table, flicking the ashy butt of his cigarette on the ashtray, and finally graced the intruding man with his full attention.
“Do you have anything you wish to discuss, Mr. Zandik?“
“Drop the formalities, if you may.” He shrugged. “We aren’t here as businessmen, Feofan. We’re here as… new acquaintances, trying to get a little bit better about each other.”
“You don’t strike me as someone who loves small talk, Zandik.” The purple irises squinted. “Especially not about my voice.”
“Haha, pardon my rudeness, would you?” A laugh bloomed. “I am just excited to see you alone, Feofan. It is rare to see Snezhnayan richest man be by himself, without the presence of his otherworldly beautiful secretary.”
The corner of Feofan’s eyes twitched.
Such a shame that the exquisiteness of Zandik’s features was actively ruined by his own madness. The silky, brilliant blue of his curly hair that framed his chiseled face. The intricate Sumerian features of prominent nose, thick eyebrows, and fuller lips. Warm, golden-toned skin—resemblance of the sands. The body that held together strong bone structure and toned muscle. All of them were eclipsed by how erratic he acted.
“I don’t appreciate you romantically pursuing my employee.” The Snezhnayan warned, final and firm. Yet, the immediate response was another laughter—louder this time.
“I’m not sexually attracted to women, Feofan.”
Now, there wasn’t any surprised pang on the banker’s heart—not any twitch in the eyes, fingers, or other obscure spots. Precisely because the information was no stranger to him. It was plainly written on the first few pages of Dori’s report, that Zandik had repeatedly dated male partners.
To that declaration, Feofan replied nothing. There was no response he deemed suitable or appropriate enough. Moreover, those red eyes prickled on his skin more than he was willing to admit. From the very first second they had met one week ago, Zandik always imposed him as a man who knew what he shouldn’t have.
From the way those gaze pierced him thoroughly, the Chairman made a simple deduction; Zandik knew of Feofan’s awareness of his homosexuality, and just merely wanted to test the man’s reaction. After all, if the banker presented himself as an enemy, then Zandik dodged a whole missile for not establishing a partnership with someone who rejects his sexuality.
Ah, cheap. Feofan nearly spat the thought out loud. “I don’t resent someone for their sexual preference, Zandik. Is that what you want to hear?”
A wide, satisfied smile gleamed on the other man’s face. He settled himself in a comfortable position—one arm draped on the sofa’s headrest, legs crossed, fingers taped on his thigh.
“Surely you won’t blame me for being cautious?” He asked, brows raising. “Snezhnaya is quite a conservative country… or so I’ve heard. Please pardon my rudeness to assume that your business is dictated by government policy.”
Another slow sip of coffee wetting Feofan’s throat, eyes looking below at the liquid. “I do not concern myself with their political stance towards sexualities. They don’t have even the smallest of power to control my decision upon Northland Bank. I, by myself, am more valuable than their entire cabinet. Perhaps I am worth the same as Tsaritsa herself.”
“Fair point, chairman, you’re untouchable…” Zandik hummed in agreement.”… But, why are you so defensive all of a sudden?”
There was nothing quite preparing Feofan for how the cup in his hand suddenly trembled—that his faint reflection on the dark liquid rippled from the movement, that his knuckles turned white as the grip hardened.
Slowly, furiously, his eerie gaze lifted, looking at the smirking man.
“What I mean is, Feofan, that you have a full sexual liberty.” Zandik feigned a cough, clarifying his words—though it came across as further insult to the unamused man. “For instance, you have a whole line of alluring women as your secretaries and no one will dare to criticise you. Now, that is something worth being jealous of. You certainly have a type, huh?”
Secretaries, yes, the original topic that had stray too far. Svetlana was the primary one, physically always on stand-by, regardless of the location. Two other secretaries were stationed in Northland’s HQ in Snezhnograd. All of them checked the boxes of “Snezhnayan Doll” attributes—criminally gorgeous women that were as cold as the snow, yet as ethereal as its aurora. The women that could perfectly own the runway of any fashion event. The women that made Feofan’s male business partners tapped his back, grinned widely, and raised their thumbs in approval—praising his fine choice and muttering something misogynistic along the way.
“Although, Feofan, it’s really a mystery to me…”
When Zandik continued his taunt with a lowered voice that nearly dropped into a whisper, Feofan should’ve just interrupted him for the sake of sanity. He should’ve stood up and left the suffocating room behind. But no, somehow he lacked the capability to even move the smallest group of his muscles.
“All those supermodels-like women in your office, all those decades you’ve been crowned as Snezhnograd most desirable bachelor… and you miraculously have zero sex scandal.”
The chairman shook his head, looking baffled, losing his words. Disgusted, anger, exposed—all of them mingled together as he looked furiously at the grinning man. Feofan was only a human, after all. There was a limit his patience could take, especially upon being tested by a certain deluded scientist.
“I don’t think-“
“Hahaha!” Zandik released his laugh freely—so free that his head threw to the back—uncaring about the killer gaze shot by the other party. “Please don’t take my gag seriously, chairman. I've always been bad at joking, I shall shamefully admit. You are the most well-mannered, respectful man I’ve ever known.”
Even the cold blow of the AC could no longer soothe the sweat prickling from the banker’s pores. The loose cotton shirt he wore suddenly trapped all the heat inside.
“It was rather unfunny and disrespectful, Zandik.” Still, the ever-present smile framed the gentleness of his face. “To imply that these women work for me due to their attractiveness instead of their own merits. Yet, somehow, I don’t expect anything better from a man of your stature…”
An immense wave of delight washed over Feofan as Zandik’s laugh subdued, now seemingly cautious of the upcoming words. He didn’t look ashamed—that was obvious—and arched an eyebrow instead, challenging the man to complete his scold.
“What is it about me, hm?”
“It was foolish to seek sympathy from a person who experimented on humans with zero ethical concern.”
“Tsk.” An annoying click of tongue echoed in the room. Gone was the smile on the doctor’s face. “What are we talking about anymore? I’m not the one who exclusively hires beautiful women just so I can deceive both the public eye and my own, Feofan.” He tilted his head, scrutinizing the equally pissed man. “At least I’m not confused.”
Feofan sucked a deep breath, swiftly stood up from the sofa—still carrying the grace with him. With a filtered smile, he bid farewell. “I believe we don’t have any compatibility in both business and personal level, Zandik. Have a nice day.”
With that, his long strides carried him out of the lounge, leaving behind a half-empty mug of cold black coffee and a still-lit cigarette on the ashtray.
“The jet will be ready at eight in the morning, sir. Is there anything you wish to indulge in Sumeru before our flight?”
“None. I’ve had enough of this short vacation.”
On the Athelwood desk, Svetlana put the dinner tray—consisting of a hearty, warm portion of chelo kebab, a cup of black tea, and a small bowl of saffron rice pudding as a dessert. Amidst the alluring scent and appetizing appearance of these Sumerian dishes, nothing but bitterness tasted in Feofan’s mouth.
Her employer, leaning on the edge of the desk, had his sharp eyes following every Svetlana’s movement. The woman bent slightly to put the dishes down, the backside of her pencil skirt rode up. The intricate design of the navy blazer was a heavenly match for her hourglass figure, hugging every feature and appeals on her body. Pale nape exposed, above it was a neat strands of platinum blonde in a slick back.
“Well then, have a nice eve-“
The air shifted considerably when Feofan’s big hand caressed her jaw. Slowly, softly, his other hand reached for her waist, pulling Svetlana closer until their distance was merely a pinkie apart. His thumb smoothly glided over her flawless face—from the sharp contour of the brows, defined lips, and regal cheekbones. A small gasp escaped, as her vibrant blue eyes clashed with his dull, eerie purple ones.
In a heartbeat, their lips connected.
“Feofan.” She whispered, hand on his chest, pushing slightly. “Feofan, you don’t want this.”
Nonsense, he thought, deepened his pursuit. The faint chemical cherry taste of Svetlana’s lipstick graced the bitterness of his tongue.
“Feofan-“ She sighed into the kiss, muffled. “Aren’t you tired of this?”
As if he was stuck in the middle of Snezhnayan winter with no fabric on—he froze. With only a gentle push from the secretary, their lips parted. A thick smear of cherry red pigment stained the corner of his lips, which Svetlana wiped it off with tissue—all while looking at the stunned man with pity, shaking her head. Twenty years since they had met in college, ten years since she worked under his command—nothing ever seems to have changed.
“… Sorry, Sveta.” Only a drop of whisper representing the perplexed man.
A gentle tap on his back as Svetlana withdrew herself, not without casting him a last, empathetic glance.
There, in the vast expanse of his presidential suite, thirty stories above the glamourous, wealthy district of Sumeru City, a man stood alone. A man so rich—yet even all this wealth couldn’t satiate the anomalous thirst on his parched throat. A man so materially contempt—yet his heart remained plagued by hollowness. A man who controlled the world—yet couldn’t even control the direction where his life was going.
There, on the edge of his desk, his face was swallowed by his palm—nails sunk deeply, nearly tearing the skin apart. The other hand was gripping on the smooth edge, trembling in anger as his knuckles went white.
“Fuck him.” A sharp hiss escaped his gritted teeth. “Fuck that bastard.”
There wasn’t any presence of the mighty, ever-composed Chairman of Northland Bank at the moment. What replaced him was a man of inferior stature, fragile pride, and lungs that dangerously close to being dysfunctional—a man throwing dirty insults the banker would never even mutter.
Ever since the golf club this afternoon—no, ever since the meeting at Zandik’s laboratory days ago, Feofan was unable to enjoy his short rest in Sumeru. Not even its delicious cuisine and diverse landscape were able to lift the tense off of his shoulder. Not even the smooth, exalted taste of the cigar was powerful enough to send him into temporary heaven.
Indeed, as the highest power of Teyvat’s biggest financial institution, Feofan could never truly rest. However, the uneasiness that hit him in these past few days was… different, to the very least. The kind of restlessness that couldn’t even be settled with a glass of the finest aged wine—the kind that prickled his skin every time his mind replayed the image of that heretic’s eyes.
He was being haunted. Exposed. Stripped down bare.
And he didn’t like it, at all.
Now, even at two in the morning, his mind refused to shut down, with a body that still wasn’t allowed to lie on the bed. The chairman glued to the desk, gliding down the fountain pen across every paperwork—the ink danced to form his signature. Contracts, quarterly evaluation, projects proposal—all of them were his true daily meals.
Cough!
The smooth and relentless strike of his work was interrupted by a single protest from his lung—to which he paid no mind.
Cough! Cough!
It doubled. Still, he persisted.
Cough! Cough! Cough!
Then, it tripled. Quadrupled. Quintupled. To the point he had to withdraw from the desk, so the important papers wouldn’t be touched by saliva or mucus drops. To the point his whole body trembled greatly at every cough launched. To the point his hand had to clench on a specific spot around his upper torso, just so the internal pain could be pressured to subdue—even just slightly.
His nostrils flared, desperate for oxygen, chest heaved up and down. Tears prickled on the corner of his eyes. Still, the cough persisted—worsened, even. The sounds grew uncontrollable and violent—searing his throat in hot, stinging pain and tightening his airway. The abdominal and chest pressure increased rapidly as the spasms pushed air to the back of his throat, overstimulating the nerves—resulting in a great, loud gag.
His trembling hand navigated through the crowded desk, messily snatching several sheets of tissue. The thin papers landed on his mouth on impeccable timing—precisely when the mucus was forced out of his throat.
“Fuck…” A weak rasp followed the reveal—thick, bloody, dark red.
By the time Feofan decided to end his exceeding work, it was all too late.
Just one weak step toward the bed, and his knees buckled—his body collapsed entirely on the carpeted floor, echoing a dull thud across the suite. His vision grew dimmer as his lungs burned in an intense white-hot pain. Suffocated, he couldn’t even feel his heartbeat anymore, couldn’t even control his limbs. Even a single inhale of breath was a luxury the richest man couldn’t afford.
At last, in the most agonizing seconds, he managed to press the hidden button in one of his rings—directly connected to Dmitri’s device that would send an alarm in one single command. Not even thirty seconds later when the bodyguard appeared in his suite, Feofan already lost his consciousness.
“Blyat!” Dmitri cursed, hurrying over to the dying man, checking the barely-throbbing pulses on the neck. He made a call, barking orders.
“Prepare the car now! To the hospital! We have a critical situation with the Chairman!”
What time is it?
Was his first thought upon opening his eyes.
What greeted him was a blank ceiling with a warm ambience light. Beige, heavy curtains draped over the wide window—whether it was a morning, afternoon, or night, he couldn’t tell. The single, stiff, mildly-uncomfortable bed supported his body—very different from the plush mattress he always had.
Then, his barely-opened eyes dragged downward. IV injections attached to his left arm. White, plain blanket wrapped his body. He wore black cotton pyjamas.
What time is it?
Was his second thought.
How many days I have left?
Was the third.
How can I spend those days with no regret?
Was the fourth.
Who should I inherit my fortune to? Where should I be buried? My hometown, or Snezhnograd? Should I visit The Tsaritsa for the last time?
The fifth, sixth, and so forth.
It would come sooner or later—the death. He knew this. He had always expected every single day to be his last—hence him pushing the limit the human body could only take. If he was caught soulless in the comfort of his executive desk, drowned by the paperwork, then so be it. At least, he died as the king of the empire he had built from scratch.
All the doctors had warned him about his extreme intake in nicotine and the restless lifestyle. It began with simple advice from smiling lips; ‘please reduce your smoking and sleep in scheduled hours’, ‘please don’t overwork yourself’. Gradually, the tone of these doctors shifted—firmer, harder—and the smiles were no more. ‘Mr. Feofan, your condition is really critical. As your doctor, I urge you to quit smoking at once’, ‘Mr. Feofan, the surgeries are the only solution for your conditions and you have to be put in bedrest.”
But, what was Feofan Sergeyevich Veksel without Northland Bank?
He didn’t work to live, or live to work. His work was his life.
He was the man who revolutionized Snezhnaya’s economic landscape, the man who ordered hundreds of thousands of employees, the captain who steered his colossal vessel. Yet, he was powerless to give direction to the deepest, untouched part of his life. Every single incompleteness and desire buried within were replaced by thick stacks of documents and hours of executive meeting.
Suddenly, the door creaked open, and sharp steps echoed in the wide, quiet room.
Dmitri presented himself, leaning towards the bed as he spoke to Feofan. Yet, when the bodyguard barely opened his mouth, his superior shook his head weakly. He knew Dmitri would pass the doctors’ diagnosis and treatments plan, but Feofan wasn’t in the mood for that—he was never in the mood for this, truthfully. The muscular man just sighed at the ever-present stubborness.
Then, Feofan communicated through hand gestures—the one that Dmitri had long since memorized due to how often his boss got hospitalized. As per his request, Dmitri helped the weak man sit on the bed, adjusting the headrest and supporting the back. Gently, he put the metal glasses back to the only place it belonged.
After that, the bodyguard assessed the situation, making sure the man was stable enough, before opening mouth again. “Sir, actually… someone requested a presence.”
A look in the eyes. Who?
No words came, with Dmitri only putting a certain object on the chairman’s blanketed lap.
A singular tube, filled with translucent blue liquid.
An elixir.
The elixir that caught Zandik in the banker’s radar in the first place. The one that made him stunned—part in awe, part in disbelief—at how a mere human being was capable of creating it. The one that pushes him to make a risky business decision.
Page 78-90 of Dori’s report, if he correctly recalled, was exclusively dedicated to this topic.
The elixir, when administered under strict medical supervision, demonstrated a high degree of efficacy in slowing the progression of terminal illnesses associated with organ failure and malignant cellular disorders. Although its effects were temporary, continuous treatment significantly improved patients’ conditions and extended life expectancy.
Page 79. However, one of the key ingredients was both scarce and legally protected, raising concerns regarding its sourcing and long-term availability.
Page 81. Allegedly, several major pharmaceutical corporations and influential figures within the hospital sector exerted significant pressure on Zandik to discontinue the project and destroy both the elixir and its formula.
Now, the only remaining elixir—that Zandik somehow managed to rescue—was in his hand.
“Sir?” Dmitri interrupted his attention.
In the end, Feofan could only close his eyes, and nodded. Bring him here.
Not even five minutes later, the air in the hospital shifted as a presence welcomed himself to the room.
“One week, at most.”
The first thing Feofan saw upon opening his eyes was… black roses. A thick bouquet of them, hovered right in front of his face. A mere one second of the heretic’s presence already cast a throbbing headache into the poor man’s head. He dragged his gaze away from the roses, upward to meet the red eyes that had been haunting his stay in Sumeru.
“You’ll be scheduled for surgeries in four days. For your extreme case, the success rate is laughably small—small enough that I’d ask The Tsaritsa to write me an eulogy right now if I were you.” Zandik smiled faintly. “Then, after the surgery fails, you will be in a state of coma for a day or two or, if you’re unlucky, three.”
“So, chairman…” The bouquet was gently put on Feofan’s lap, right next to the elixir. “Because I am too poor to book a flight to Snezhnaya and attend your funeral, let me pay my utmost respect to you right here, right now.”
Perhaps because he was bedridden, or perhaps because his lungs were still aching—but Feofan was devoid of his ability to talk. Even stretching his lips to a signature polite smile would take a toll on his depleted life force. The only muscle group that could move freely were his eyes. And never—not once since a minute ago—did he tear them away from Zandik’s. They were burning, in contrast with his flat expression.
“Hm, not in the mood to talk? As you wish.” Another sardonic humour. “Although, Feofan… How do I say this?” Zandik sucked a deep breath through his teeth, scanning the sick man completely. “I never thought that your complexion could be even paler than it already is—and to think that you’re one of the palest people I’ve ever met.”
The doctor dragged a chair to the edge of the bed, sinking himself with a small sigh. “It’s absolutely heartbreaking to see you like this, chairman. You look like a corpse more than a corpse itself.”
The thing was, Zandik—the bastard he was—never favoured the act of lying. Feofan already had pale skin to begin with. Now, as the consequences of his persistent medical avoidance, the complexion had suffered further pallor—ashy, dull. His lips were of muted gray. The undereye was several tones darker, casting him a complete ‘undead’ look. Truly, there was no colour except the dim purple of his eyes.
“However, it is strange, I must say…” The doctor continued. “It is not entirely out-of-place either. I myself am not a fashion connoisseur, but I concur this happened because of...”
Every nerve on Feofan’s body screamed as Zandik, out of all sudden, reached for his hair. The muscles on his mouth twitched as the man’s fingers ran through his thick black-purplish strands, brushing it repeatedly. At last, Feofan's mouth had enough power to summon a slight frown—acting as if the warmth emanating from the large hand was the hottest fire in the deepest pit of hell.
“Your hair is the blackest, shiniest hair I’ve ever seen in a man.” A whisper dropped. “That’s what makes your appearance so enticing, so mesmerizing. Pale skin wrapped in all-dark attire, adorned with silky black hair that falls on your shoulder. You have the finest taste in everything, Feofan. If your ashy complexion isn’t due to your illness, I’d say you will rock undead fashion.”
A gritty, muffled grunt from the chairman’s throat was enough for Zandik to retract his hand at once. Feofan was looking considerably—significantly—upset, that if look was enough to kill, Zandik would be the one being bedridden right now.
“Ah, I apologize. Where’s my manners?” A mockery was all he could respond. Then, he laid back on the chair, crossing his legs. “Well then, chairman. You already know why I am here; to offer you an option.” His chin nudged to both items on the man’s lap. “Life, or death.”
Sweat prickled at Feofan’s forehead as he worked his mouth to open. It was a massive struggle to move the muscle—let alone producing a sequence of coherent sounds.
“You don’t have to push yourself.” Zandik said easily. “You have already given up on life since long ago and, right now, you are thinking about the purpose of staying alive any longer. You think that is futile, right?” Feofan didn’t answer as the man continued. “But look at you now, chairman. A king enslaved to his own kingdom. Still single even when you’re pushing the age of forty. Joyless. Childless. Wifeless…” Red eyes glinted devilishly. “Ah, my bad. Spouseless, it is.”
Finally, after all that immense effort pressuring his throat to work, Feofan let out a groggy, raspy whisper. It was barely audible that Zandik had to lean forward, presenting his ears.
“Go to hell, Zandik.”
An ear-to-ear grin bloomed in the said man’s face; body reclined back again. “Wait for me there, Feofan.”
For a long while, both of them locked in an intense contact of eyes—battling which was more menacing; the pissed purple irises or the relaxed, devilish red.
Until, the doctor cleared the throat, attempting to shift the tense atmosphere. “Let us steer back into the topic, shall we? My offer is quite simple…”
From the leather briefcase he had brought with him, Zandik retracted a single paper. Clearing the chairman’s lap, he set aside both the bouquet and the elixir on the table, replacing them with said document and a pen.
“Sign this, and you’re alive.”
“And… if it doesn’t work…?”
“Then, you’re dead.” The reply was too casual, too easy-sounding. Zandik shrugged as the man threw him yet another deadly glare. “Where’s the harm in trying, Feofan? You have fifty chances of survival, that’s outrageously generous at this point. Fifty percent of surviving versus one hundred percent of dying. Your choice.”
The chairman dragged his gaze back into the papers, scanning every word, sentences, and clauses there. Zandik proposed ten clauses—eight of which were already present in the previous proposal. However, the two additional clauses made Feofan completely stop reading further; eyes glued in the last two remaining conditions.
“Let me elaborate, chairman.” Zandik merged in smoothly, noticing the shift
“Aside from building me a hospital in Sumeru, I want you to fund two other laboratories; one in the same country, and another in Snezhnaya.” He paused, observing the man. When the banker kept his expression blank, he continued. “For the Sumeru lab, I will present myself fully as the highest authority, while in Snezhnaya, I humbly request your assistance to provide me with the top scientists all around the nation.”
Indeed, the question was no longer 'to live, or not to live'. It was to die, or to work with Zandik… which was redundant because—to Feofan’s absolute certainty—both words meant the same.
He had already accepted his fate long ago, so why couldn't he shoo the man away? Why did the pen remain steady in his hold? Why didn’t he tear the papers and throw them in the trash can already? Why, even from all the trash-talk Zandik shoved to him earlier, did he still consider that man to be his lifesaver?
Perhaps… it was just curiosity and perhaps… it was something he couldn’t yet name. What would he be in the next five years? Still the Chairman. Where would he be? Still in his throne. With who?
Another flicked of gaze directed at Zandik again, who returned it with a sly, confident arch of eyebrows. The ballpoint tip of that cheap pen touched the bottom of the paper—silently pleading for a single strike of his signature. Then, with one final scan of the entire document, the ironclad contract was set.
“Five years, Zandik.”
The smile died before it could fully bloom. The doctor was just holding the edge of the barely-signed paper when his smile withered.
“Five years.” Feofan sternly repeated amidst the unstable voice, words rolled out of gritted teeth, dripping of authority. “I expect to live for at least another five years, with the peak of my performance guaranteed. If you fail to actualize it, I will drag you to death and throw you in the bottom of hell. Are we clear?”
The next five seconds weren’t supposed to be filled with silence. They were supposed to carry yet another sardonic reply from the doctor. Yet, even as ten seconds had passed, no words were spoken.
There was no smirk painted on Zandik's face. No annoying drums of fingers against the wooden frame of the chair. No easy hums from his throat. For the first time ever since they had met, his face was devoid of any emotion. Cold. Flat. The danger, however, increased tenfold than his regular smug expression.
“Five years?” A mere repetition came in the fifteenth second. “Five, you say?”
Then, it came like a flash of lightning. A laughter—so loud, so unhinged, so maniac. Fully burst from the deepest part of Zandik’s heart that it almost threw his body off-balance from the chair. His abdomen puffing up and down in a fast, manic manner as the laughter bubbled up. His tanned complexion gradually grew redder as blood pumped excitedly on his vessel.
For a while, all Feofan could do was to stare at him, fully bewildered—thumb hovered over his ring in case Zandik suddenly attacked him like the madman he is.
“With all due respect, Chairman…” At last, his laughter subdued, thumb wiped the tears prickled at the corner of his eyes. Back was the signature smirk, crooked from the full lips of his. This time, however, it felt sinister. Baleful. Sickening.
“That is the finest insult anyone has ever directed at me.” He said. “And I have been called things far worse than you could possibly imagine.”
Feofan watched as the doctor rose from his seat and slipped the contract back into his briefcase.
“Five years…” Again, Zandik repeated, full of offended amusement, as if he could scarcely believe anyone in their right mind would utter such a phrase to him. “Feofan, for once, I find myself at a loss for words. How do I explain to you that, with regular treatment, this could keep you alive for centuries? That you could smoke twenty sticks of cigarettes a day and still wake to see the next sunrise?”
Then he leaned forward, fixing the chairman with his wide, dilated gaze while holding up the vial of elixir between his fingers. He sneered, baring the pearly-white teeth. “Centuries, Feofan. Centuries. Given the proper support, I could have granted you immortality.”
By the time Feofan realized just how insane the man standing before him truly was, it was already far too late. Even a businessman as ambitious and calculating as he was could no longer predict the direction his enterprise would take under Zandik’s increasingly erratic and unpredictable actions.
Now, as Zandik extended his hand to seal their agreement, there was little Feofan could do but accept it with the composure expected of a gentleman.
“Well then, it's a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Feofan.”