Laurus's POV
"Yes, I decided to leave Hauker Entertainment to focus on charity. It's a cause I've always wanted to pursue."
On the television, Örn's face was a mask of polished sincerity. The interviewer smiled, nodded, swallowed every word.
"Besides," Örn added, tilting his head with practiced humility, "working with certain playwrights can be... tasking. One begins to wonder if the brilliance is worth the instability."
The pause was deliberate. The smile was deliberate. The implication landed like a dart.
My fingers steepled against the hardwood of my desk. The sheer and brazen mediocrity of the man, repackaging his cowardice as virtue, it was an affront to the natural order.
I switched off the screen.
The boardroom was on the seventh floor, all glass and grey light. A long mahogany table dominated the space, surrounded by high-backed chairs that had probably cost more than they should. The windows faced east, which meant the morning sun was already fading, leaving the room in that particular half-light that made everyone look slightly ill. The air smelled of coffee and the particular anxiety of people who knew their jobs depended on the next few minutes.
A junior executive, Ingi, was speaking. "...just seeking attention because she's lost her spark."
A development executive, a woman whose name I hadn't bothered to learn, met my eyes as I walked toward my seat. She straightened without thinking, instinctively, then looked away.
Ingi didn't notice. He kept going.
"Perhaps her brother was the real talent," the development executive murmured, her voice dripping with faux pity.
The irony was corrosive. A room full of derivative minds who'd built careers on the coattails of actual creators, now daring to speak about her as if they had ever written a single line worth remembering.
It was something deeper. Something I hadn't mapped out yet.
I sat down. Stefán was at the head of the table, his fingers interlaced. Thinking. Calculating. His eyes kept drifting to the one empty seat.
'What could possibly be more important than this?'
I clicked my tongue.
"We all know the situation at hand," Stefán began.
The table buzzed.
"Mr. Geir's departure has sparked... rumors we don't need." He forced his eyes away from the empty chair. "Especially with us embarking on this project..." A scoff. Ingi leaned back, arms crossed.
"If there's a problem Mr Ingi," Stefan said quietly. "I suggest you let us hear it." Stefan's eyes fixed on him across the table. He bristled. Sat up straighter.
"Rumors, sir?" A pause. Testing. "Are you talking about the ones concerning Ms. Njáll? Because I see no rumors where there's only truth."
The whispers grew louder. A few heads nodded. Stefán tensed, I caught it in the corner of my eye.
Ingi pressed on. "Ms. Njáll has been unstable for months. She's missed deadlines. She's been seen wandering at odd hours. And the project you're asking us to invest in, she's listed as head playwright." A sound between a scoff and a laugh. "How do you expect the progression of this project if the source is stagnant? I say we cancel her contract. Find a better contemporary playwright. Move on."
He leaned back, arms crossed.
A few people stopped murmuring. The silence of those who had just realized he'd gone too far. But Ingi didn't notice. He was already basking in the approval he thought he had.
Stefán was completely still. A muscle in his jaw twitched.
"Your reasoning removes the fact that Ásta is the face of this company..."
"Maybe we need a new face," another executive chipped in, emboldened by Ingi's performance.
Stefán was about to speak again. It was clear: most of the table agreed with Ingi. This would be a circle of arguments where Stefán remained the only one clinging to an invisible thread.
'He's grasping,' I noted. 'And he knows it.'
I raised my hand. Not sharply. Just... up. The other executives quieted. Some straightened. Ingi finally noticed me.
It was unimportant.
"Ingi, was it?" My eyes fixed on him. He was already shrinking.
"Yes, sir?" His voice came out higher than before. He cleared his throat, tried to reset. Failed.
"How long ago did you join this company?"
"Th-that was... about three years ago, sir."
"So your presence here is irrelevant." The words landed. Quiet. Certain. "You all speak as if Njáll owes you something. As if you don't owe her your entire careers."
I leaned back. Let the silence stretch.
"You think you are executives. You see executives when you look around this table." I paused, let my gaze settle on Ingi. "Do you know what I see?"
He shook his head. Sweat at his temples.
"A collection of parasites feeding on someone else's labor. Like Örn." I let the name hang. "I suggest you do what you are assigned. Stop dictating how this project should proceed. Everyone at this table is replaceable."
I stood. Slowly.
"Stefán."
He was up before I finished the name. At the door before I finished adjusting my cuff.
"Good day, gentlemen."
The door clicked shut behind me. Stefán's shoes followed.
"I... thank you, sir..."
I clicked my tongue. "For what? Maintaining basic standards? I don't need gratitude. I need results."
I walked toward my office.
The corridor was dimmer than the boardroom, fluorescent strips that hummed at a frequency most people didn't hear.
"Do you have her residential details?"
"That's confi..." Stefán started.
"Not when she wasn't at my meeting. Get them to my office."
He complied without argument.
'This is getting out of hand. She needs to resolve this quickly.'
I pushed through the door to my wing. The air was cooler here. Controlled. The way I liked it.
My assistant was at her desk, typing. Probably not working, but at least she was being productive. She stood as I approached.
"Dìs, get someone to trail Örn. I want information about everything he does."
"Yes, sir."
I paced the length of my office. The afternoon sun slanted through the blinds, striping the carpet in parallel lines. Too bright. I didn't adjust them.
'What exactly is wrong with her? The death? The pressure? Why is this obstacle so difficult to overcome?'
I stopped at the window. Below, cars moved in orderly lanes. Pedestrians obeyed signals. A world of predictable variables.
'This cannot continue. Not while I'm in charge.'
The intercom buzzed.
"Mr. Daníelson, Mr. Axel just dropped off something for you."
'I'll do it myself.'
I stood, grabbed my keys from the drawer, and walked out. The file was already on Dìs's desk. I took it without stopping.
"Cancel everything else today. I'm busy."
The elevator was too warm. Someone's lingering cologne, something too sweet. I stepped out into the lobby, pushed through the glass doors.
The afternoon hit me. Full sun. Heat rising from the pavement. I unlocked the car, slid inside, and for a moment just sat there, letting the air conditioning work.
The GPS already had the address.
I drove.
The GPS led to a gated community. Nice. Normal. The kind of place where families live, where children learn to ride bikes on weekends.
Two children on scooters waved as I passed. A group at the other end of the street were playing with water guns, their laughter sharp in the afternoon air. Peaceful. Deliberately so.
I had expected something else, a crumbling artist's loft, a Gothic apartment in the old city, something that matched the mythology of Ásta Njáll.
Instead, it was just a house. At the end of a tree-lined street.
I got out and walked up the pathway. The garden was small, overgrown in places, but not neglected. Someone had been watering recently. The soil was dark, damp. And there, pushing through the greenery, Nootka lupines. Wildflowers. Tall spires of purple and blue, the kind that grew in clusters along the southern coast, untamed and indifferent to cultivation.
'Odd choice,' I thought. 'She planted wild things in her garden.'
On the porch, a brown tabby stretched lazily, not bothered by my arrival.
'This is where she lives?'
The thought arrived unbidden. I dismissed it. Irrelevant.
I rang the doorbell. Nothing. Then again. No reply.
I knocked once, then twice, sharply. The door swung inward an inch, not opened, just not closed.
I clicked my tongue. The sound was sharper than I expected.
'Irresponsible.'
I stepped inside. A simple hallway. No theatrics. No pretense. So annoyingly her.
I stopped short in the living room. It wasn't a disaster. It was just... neglect.
A takeout box on the coffee table, not old enough to smell, but not fresh enough to be today's. A blanket on the couch, where a body had recently lain. Papers scattered from the foot of the couch to the coffee table. Not dramatic. Not an outburst. Just the mark of someone who had stopped filing.
The TV was on. Static. Connected to... a camera.
'Reliving memories?'
I nudged the bottle of Bacardi on the floor with my shoe. It lay on its side, nearly empty, dropped, probably, from the couch. I didn't pick it up. I didn't want to touch anything.
'Not worth leaving evidence I was here.'
My eyes landed on a shirt. Folded. Clean. The only orderly thing in the room. I reached for it slowly.
'Why is this the one thing...'
Footsteps.
I retrieved my hand. A reflex. Unimportant.
I turned. She was there, in the doorway. My pinky twitched at the sight of her.
She was wearing what might have been work clothes. Wrinkled. Put on without care. Her hair was tangled, unbrushed, not her controlled intensity. Dark circles beneath her eyes. The kind of exhaustion that wasn't about sleep.
A brief pause. Then her shoulders dropped. Not defeat. Visible, undeniable relief. Her body loosened. Her hand gripping the doorframe relaxed. For a moment, she looked at me, really looked, like I was the first real thing she had seen in days.
My brows furrowed. This wasn't the expected reaction. I hadn't prepared for relief.
"I thought.." She stopped. Shook her head. A private dismissal. "You're here."
"Yes." My voice came out harsher than I intended. "Your door was open. Anyone could have walked in. Anyone did walk in."
She didn't flinch. That only made the irritation worse. This wasn't a performance. Her eyes were too tired for that.
"I know." Her tone was almost grateful.
She moved into the room. My eyes caught the back of her right hand. A patch of skin, pink and shiny, pulled tight across her knuckles. Healing. The edges peeled slightly, thin flakes of dead skin catching the light.
'What the...'
Her eyes followed mine, then moved back up. She didn't hide it. Didn't comment. I didn't ask.
Five to seven days. Superficial. Not severe enough to be deep. Self-inflicted? Or an accident?
"I was on my way to the meeting." I forced myself to look away from her hand. She wasn't looking at me anymore. Wasn't recognizing me.
"The meeting ended two hours ago."
Her face shifted, something I couldn't name. Regret. Disappointment. She just accepted it. Like she accepted everything now.
I straightened. Better. Familiar territory.
"Why didn't you answer my texts?"
"It wasn't important."
I bristled. Not important?
"You need to tighten up, Ásta." My tone was flat. Professional. "I can't have this attitude. I'm in charge of this project. I won't let it flop."
Nothing. No flicker. No twitch. No defense.
Irritation. Then something colder. I didn't name it.
"This doesn't make sense. You're throwing everything away, and you don't even care." I stepped closer. She smelled of something not her, mint. "You have an obligation. You need to realize that."
She didn't look up.
"Death is hard. I know."
I dug my nails into my palm. A small correction.
Her eyes met mine. Not petulant anger. Something else. Enough to make the irritation dissipate.
Rage. Unfiltered. Unrestrained.
"No." Her voice was quiet, absolute. "You don't, Laurus."
She paused. I took a step back.
"You've never known anything that couldn't be explained in a memo." She took a slow breath, her eyes moving over the room as if seeing it anew. "You think this is a problem to solve. A variable to manage. You're here because the project is behind schedule. Not because a person is gone."
Her breath caught, just for a moment, on the last word. Then it steadied.
"So don't stand in my house and tell me you know. You see a problem. I see...." She stopped. Shook her head. The rage retreated, replaced by something hollow.
Something shifted in me. I didn't have a category for it. I set it aside.
"I'll try my best." A pause. "Even if it's the last thing I do."
The words unsettled me. The calm after the rage. I had no response.
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. For once, no words felt correct.
I inhaled sharply and walked out.
The door closed behind me. I stood on the porch, letting the ordinary afternoon light wash over me. The cat was gone.
I exhaled. Let the silence settle.
'The variables didn't align. I should have anticipated. I should...'
My hand ran through my hair, pushing aside strands I didn't know had fallen.
"What next, Ásta."
"The mystery of human existence lies not in just staying alive, but in finding something to live for."
- Fyodor Dostoevsky