Cyanica

GREED: 1

TWO MONTHS LATER

Mikhail's collection was complete. Sticking true to his iconic, brutalist, avant-garde aesthetic, his collection featured a lot of elements that Ms. Taquo would be known for. The use of golden fabrics and black velvet trims would surely secure his spot as the King of Milan. He worked himself endlessly to make sure that the entire collection would be so moving that everyone in Milan would have to call him King.
The runway show was scheduled for the following week, and Mikhail's heart began to race. He had never held a runway show this impactful, and he was still considered a rookie by the rest of the fashion scene. If this runway show did not go well, his whole future would be in jeopardy.
The stress of the whole ordeal was starting to show in Mikhail's eyes; he always looked like he was about to pass out. He was determined, however, to keep himself as far away from the long nights of partying and self destruction as possible. Cyanica was still out there, and if he was inebriated, he wouldn't be able to defend himself. Due to all of his hard work, Mikhail began to see deep bags begin to develop under his piercing green eyes, framing them like a grand Art Deco piece. His body was tired, his back was locked in all of the wrong places, and his hands would cramp and seize up constantly. Mikhail was becoming a slave to his work, and there was no way out until he was King.

Giovanni would come over once a week to check in with Ingrid and make sure that she wasn't falling back into her old habits. When he knocked on the door to Ingrid's apartment that day, there was no reply. He knocked a second time, but still no answer. Giovanni began to worry that she had fallen back in to drinking herself to an early grave, but that suspicion was quickly squashed when Ingrid opened the door.
Unlike the other times when she greeted him, Ingrid was ready with her hair up in a high pony, makeup done to make her eyes pop, a slick outfit that Ceruli had made for her for special occasions, and an enchanting fragrance that dared to be different. Ingrid had a date.

"Ingrid, wow, you look amazing!", he exclaimed.
"Thanks, Giovanni. I have a very special meeting with someone today, so I wanted to look my best", she replied.
"Do I know this person, Ms. Dijkstra?", he questioned.
"I don't think so, no. His name is Dante, and he came all the way from America to see me!", she shouted.
"That's incredible news, Ingrid. Seriously, good on you", he said.
Dante Zimmer, age 24 from Illinois, was a business major traveling abroad in Italy. He began talking with Ingrid about a month ago, and already had made plans to come to Italy, so meeting up was just the natural thing to do. Dante was tall, muscular, with dark hair and light brown eyes. Ingrid was smitten from the moment they started talking. The two met in a cafe down the street from where Ingrid's apartment was, and even though he was a foreigner, he didn't come off that way, which was a big deal for Ingrid. Being from the Netherlands, and a foreigner in Italy herself, Ingrid despised any foreigner living in Italy who still acted like an asshole. Bonus points if any of those interactions started with, "That's not how it's done in my country". Dante wasn't like that though, as far as Ingrid had seen.

"So, where are the two of you headed?", Giovanni asked.
"He said we were going to 'Contraste', whatever that is", she replied.
"Sounds like a really ritzy restaurant. Is it in town?", he asked again.
"Yep, and I looked at it on google, and it has four dollar signs next to the name", she said.
"Sounds like you are about to have a wonderful night on the town. I don't have anything to do tonight, so maybe I could stay here and work on the research", Giovanni proposed.
"Sure, but be sure to be quiet. My neighbors are not the nicest people", Ingrid warned.
"No problem. Go have fun, you deserve it", he said.
And just like that, Ingrid was out the door and in the car of her loverboy. Giovanni waved goodbye, and then quickly locked the door behind him. He was still traumatized by how easily Cyanica snuffed out the flame that was Ceruli Taquo.

He sat down at the small wooden table in the kitchen and began to do more investigative work on who Cyanica could possibly be. Phone books and little notes lay all around him as he worked tirelessly for answers. While looking through his notes for a fourth time that day, something caught his eye. An article that he had previously glanced over, titled "The Cyan Terrorist". He had thought very little of it initially, but a small detail stuck out like a sore thumb this time around.