'This is Samantha, and we are standing right outside the west wing of the Gemini palace. The Georgian kingdom reels under a socio-political fiasco sprung by the shocking murder of the people's beloved Prince Derek. The iconic figureheads, Queen Mariyam and her despotic rule, now face a massive backlash from both the citizens and the ruling law. The echoes of public outrage that some might say are akin to riotous roars, present a grim picture of the situation in the state of Georgia.

In an unexpected twist that has sent shockwaves through the annals of Georgian history, the tale of Prince Derek's demise has taken a turn for the bizarre. Queen Mariyam, the matriarch with a penchant for patterns, has been weaving more than just fabric in her royal quarters.

As news of the royal family's devastating loss initially spread like wildfire, the public's response was swift and overwhelming.

Outpourings of grief poured in from across the kingdom, with many expressing shock and disbelief at the brutal manner of the prince's death. However, as the full extent of Queen Mariyam's alleged involvement came to light, the tide of public opinion swiftly turned against the monarchy.

Haunted by the perceived dishonour her son's sexual orientation would bring upon the royal lineage, Queen Mariyam took a strange route of repentance. She combined her passion for weaving with her guilt, translating them into intricate patterns and cryptic symbols that spoke of her tragic deed in an old, forgotten language.

According to sources within the palace, Queen Mariyam resorted to a bizarre and gruesome method of execution, using a substance typically used to treat gout, allopurinol, in a lethal overdose. The prince, silenced and paralyzed, met a tragic end with his mother's own hands, leaving behind only the iconic locket that would become the first and most incriminating piece of evidence.

In this heated narrative, one man remains stoically aloof yet deeply entrenched in the case: the criminal investigator, Cien Morris. Contrary to popular reaction, he turns a seemingly cold shoulder to the public outcry.

"As an investigator, it is my job to present facts, and as citizens, it is your duty to react, to reflect, and most importantly, to evolve out of the shadows of these prejudices," he says.

Notably, the LGBTQ+ community reels in disgust. Their respect for the monarchy— now ancient dust— and their faith in justice are flickering faintly. Questions choke the exhaled breath of every whisper of solace, echoing the uncertainty of royal dominion.
So, the future of the monarchy is in the clouds.

And as per the judiciary, the Queen won't get any peace or way out. The president has clearly mentioned that a murder is a murder, no matter who or where.

So, will this be the possible end of the monarchy in Georgia?'

Cien switched off the television with a beep, leaving the room with an unkempt hullabaloo of conversations.

Madhar was sprawled on the spare sofa, legs akimbo at all sorts of weird angles. A pizza box, half-empty and stained by nasty cheese, nestled near his loafers like some devoted pet.

Weary from the day's work and the afterwork, he had fallen asleep a few hours ago, leaving nothing but his rhythmic, gentle snoring with the hint of the pitter-patter outside, which provided Cien with an almost tranquil background score to his night.

It was like a winning prize from Madhar, the kisses and everything that followed.

He, too, was on the very same sofa alongside his Loverboy, but being an investigator was hard.

Maybe he had again given into his intrusive thoughts once more, but he was addicted to that man. What was his fault if he wanted more than that?

Now as he sat at his untidy desk that remained illuminated by his vintage desk lamp, he sat slumped over it. A weary face that was typically filled with humour or rage, depending on the situation, was hidden by hunched shoulders.

A new case was on his table, Mr. Martin and his so-called haunted house. Sally had personally called her to check on that before reporting tomorrow. So, he had to leave the warmth of Madhar and read through it.

The wall clock struck twelve solemn tones that resonated across the dimly illuminated space as it declared its midnight awakening. The exhausted criminal investigator received stinging reminders from each ring that it was time to wrap up the day's work.

However, the syncopated tip-tap of the rain against the window was abruptly broken by a jarring knock. Expecting it to be his diligent assistant, Cien didn't even bother to look up as he spoke, "Come in, Marie! I am just finishing."

However, instead of the familiar click-clack of Marie's heels, there was a hesitant shuffle, more like ifs and buts speaking.

Glancing up, Cien found himself staring at a stranger.

A man.

His tall, frail figure was silhouetted against the dim light of the hallway. Dark patches adorned his frantic eyes. He appeared to be a man of great refinement in his marine Prada suit, his roughened hands and steely eyes.

Cien felt a chill of unease and eagerness go down his spine, piercing his fatigue like a hot knife through butter.

"You're not Marie."

"No, Mr. Morris, I definitely am not." The man huffed, "I am Philip Paniz, Tectonic Corps and Geology."

Philip Paniz. A very familiar name with no history intertwined with him whatsoever. Still, the name lingered on the edge of his memory, like a word on the tip of his tongue. Cien's mind drawled in every nook and cranny, the search tab in his brain frantically seeking to retrieve the name of the being.

"Don't be so harsh on yourself, Mr. Morris. I will be a little more detailed. The lost men at the Sea of Magellan. The Mystery of Eblis. The possible disaster versus distaste. I am that man, geologist Philip Paniz." The man smiled, extending a small card.

With a card in his hand, the thought dawned like a breezy morning for Cien. The jingle of breaking news that accompanied the animated television reports, the triadic newspaper clippings from the neighbourhood.

The nation's heart was pounding in unison with sorrow following the recent royal death, causing deafening mourning. A smaller sound, like a tiny echo, could also be heard—a group of seamen vanishing into the darkness of Eblis once more.

And the very article in the newspaper had one name: 'Philip Paniz.'

"Ah, yes! Mr. Paniz, yes. I remember you now. But why are you here at this ungodly hour?"

"I require your assistance, Mr. Morris," declared Paniz, as casually as one remarks upon the weather.

"Help? You? With the lost men? I don't deal in mysteries, Mr. Paniz, if that's why you're here." He looked lost.

"No," Paniz interrupted, surprisingly calm. He crossed the door and took a seat, his wet clothing making an unpleasant squelching sound. "It's not about the men. It's about Thullium, Mr. Morris."

"Thullium?" His forehead crinkled at the squelch.

Resolutely, Paniz rose to gesture towards the office's glass partitions. His arms weaved the air around him somewhat dramatically. "Thulium is a rare and expensive metal that can be found only in the depths of the Sea of Magellan. The surface of this unique metal is so shimmery that it could easily attract anyone, like those sirens."

Turning to face Cien, the man went on, "However, the allure of Thulium does not solely lie in its rarity. Claro que sí, it can make you rich, very rich. It's a one-way ticket to cashville. Practically minted. History predicts that the extraction of Thulium could result in a seductive glimpse into colossal affluence. Ong story short, I had managed to accomplish its extraction. But it went missing, and I am afraid my own man stole it, Mr. Morris. And now, only you could help me."

Unmatched greed lit up this guy's face like a riddle wrapped in a mystery He babbled on as if Thullium were his greatest obsession, something to kill for or, ironically, die for. It seems that this great need was his life force.

Cien's interest was bifid. He made a mental picture of the whole story; Thulium, a metal rare and costly, ignited, according to a history of predictions, a mining frenzy resulting in mass displacement, corruption, and loss of catastrophic proportions.

It was the glittering trigger for many a disaster. And the man had them extracted, and then someone stole it? And now, Paniz needed his help. What was going on exactly?

"My help? Why not the government? The police?"

"Don't be so single-minded, Mr. Morris, the allure of prosperity isn't always bound by truth or law."

"I have a proposition for you." Paniz continued. His eyes twinkled, a stark contrast to the gloom outside. "If you're brave enough to take it up."

Sitting back and crossing his arms, Cien gave his assent with a simple nod.

"You find me the metal; you get a hundred grand and 30% of the share of metal. Trato?"

Paniz was indeed a study of contrasts.

__________

Claro que sí : Of course
Trato: Deal

Little Spanish deets!