Market of Remorse

Two Players, One Board

Chapter 3: Two Players, One Board

Jianro didn’t pull away. He stood his ground, the cold wind of the balcony whipping his hair across his forehead. He looked into Amara’s eyes—the eyes of the woman who had professionally decapitated him in a courtroom three years from now—and felt a strange, twisted sense of kinship.

"A hit?" Jianro repeated, his voice barely a whisper. "You’re saying the bankruptcy wasn't just a result of my own stupidity? That someone pulled the strings?"

Amara let out a sharp, jagged laugh. "Stupidity? Jianro, you were a genius. That was the problem. You were a genius who didn't know when to stop digging. You hit a vein of gold that belonged to people who don't like to share. So they buried you in the hole you dug."

"And you," Jianro said, his eyes narrowing. "You were the one who threw the first shovel of dirt. You dismantled Kestane Tech like you were taking apart a Lego set."

"I was doing my job!" Amara snapped, her composure fracturing. She stepped back, rubbing her arms as if she could shake off the memory. "I was an analyst at Sterling. My bosses gave me a file, told me you were a fraud, and told me to find the bodies. So I found them. I didn't know the bodies were planted there by the same people who signed my paycheck."

Jianro paced the length of the balcony, his mind racing. "Why are you telling me this now? In the future, you didn't say a word. You watched me get hauled off in cuffs and didn't even blink."

"Because in the future, I didn't realize that your fall was the first domino in a line that ended with my brother’s car going off a bridge!" Amara’s voice rose, then she quickly checked the glass doors to see if anyone was listening. She lowered her voice to a hiss. "Your company’s liquidation caused a liquidity crisis that wiped out the pension fund my father managed. He killed himself six months later. My brother... he spiraled. He was gone by 2020. I spent ten years winning, Jianro, and every victory felt like ash because I realized I was working for the people who murdered my family."

Jianro stopped pacing. He looked at her, really looked at her. "So you’re back to save them."

"And you’re back to save your empire," she countered. "Which puts us at a bit of an impasse, doesn't it?"

"How so?"

Amara stepped closer, her heels clicking against the stone. "Don't be dense. You’ve lived through this. You know how the market works. If Kestane Tech doesn't fall, the market correction doesn't happen the way it’s supposed to. If you keep your money, the Sterling Group loses theirs. And if Sterling loses, they’ll liquidate the very funds my father is supposed to be protecting. For me to save my family, the 'King of Tech' still has to die. Just... maybe not in prison this time."

Jianro felt a cold smirk touch his lips. "You’re still the same vulture, Amara. Even when you’re crying, you’re looking for the jugular."

"And you’re still the same arrogant prick," she shot back, though the edge in her voice had softened into something almost playful. "Seriously, Jianro. Look at us. We’re two ghosts in expensive clothes, arguing about things that haven't happened yet. Do you have any idea how insane this is?"

"Insane is my middle name," Jianro said. "I woke up at a desk smelling like stale coffee and thought I was in hell. Then I realized it was just 2014, which is basically the same thing."

Amara actually chuckled, a dry, elegant sound. "Fair point. The fashion alone is a crime against humanity. Look at Marcus Thorne’s tie. It’s hideous."

"It’s a five-thousand-dollar silk tie, Amara."

"It’s a cry for help, Jianro. Don't defend it."

Jianro leaned back against the railing, watching the shimmering lights of the city. "So, what now? We’re both 'regressors.' We both know the ending of the movie. Do we start sabotaging each other now, or do we wait for the first quarter earnings?"

Amara sighed, her shoulders finally dropping. "I don't know. I’m still trying to process the fact that I’m not thirty-four anymore. My skin is so... bouncy. It’s distracting."

"Bouncy?" Jianro laughed. "That’s what you’re worried about? Not the fact that we’re currently standing in a room full of people who want us dead or ruined?"

"I can worry about two things at once," she said, smoothing her dress. "But seriously. If you didn't send that text, and I didn't send it... who did? Who else knows?"

Jianro’s smile faded. "That’s the part that’s bothering me. The text said 'He's outside your door.' It was Makari, but the texter knew before I did. It implies someone is watching me. Or everyone."

"Maybe there's a third one," Amara whispered. "A third person who came back. Someone who wants the timeline to stay exactly the way it was. Or someone who wants to burn it all down faster."

"If there’s a third, they’re playing a much better game than us," Jianro said. "They’re in the shadows."

"Well, you’re not making it easy to stay in the shadows," Amara noted, nodding toward the glass doors. "You’ve already ghosted Qadir Renzo. That’s like slapping a hornet’s nest with a wet noodle. He’s going to come for you, Jianro. Hard."

"Let him. I know his books better than he does at this point. I know where he hides the offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands. I know the name of his mistress’s dog."

"It’s a Pomeranian named Princess," Amara said instantly.

Jianro blinked. "How did you—?"

"I told you, I was the one who did the deep dive for the SEC," she said with a wink. "I know everything, Jianro. I know you have a secret stash of emergency cash hidden in a hollowed-out book in your office. I know you’re allergic to shellfish but eat it anyway when you’re trying to impress investors."

"That was one time! And I had an EpiPen in my pocket!"

"You turned purple, Jianro. It wasn't impressive; it was terrifying."

They stood there for a moment, the tension between them morphing into something else—a strange, reluctant partnership forged in the fires of a future that no longer existed.

"We need a truce," Jianro said suddenly.

Amara arched an eyebrow. "A truce? Between the executioner and the condemned?"

"I’m not the condemned anymore," Jianro said, his voice hardening. "And you’re not the executioner. We’re both just... survivors. If we fight each other, the people who actually set us up win. They’ll just sit back and watch us tear each other apart again."

Amara looked at him for a long time. The wind caught her hair, framing her face in the moonlight. "And what about my family? If I help you save your company, what happens to my father?"

"We find another way," Jianro said. "We use our knowledge to short the companies that deserve to fall. We redirect the flow. We don't have to follow the old script. We’re the writers now."

Amara reached out, her fingers grazing the sleeve of his suit. "You really think we can change it? All of it?"

"I’ve already changed today," Jianro said. "The Venn deal is dead in the water. That’s a start."

"It’s a start," she echoed. "Okay, Kestane. A truce. For now. But if I see you heading toward a cliff, don't expect me to grab your hand."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Jianro smiled.

The sliding glass door creaked open. A young server in a crisp white tuxedo stepped out onto the balcony, carrying a silver tray with two crystal flutes.

"Pardon me, Mr. Kestane," the server said, his voice low and polite. "A gentleman at the bar asked me to bring this to you. He said it was a 'celebration for a deal well-avoided.'"

Jianro frowned. "A gentleman? Which one?"

The server gestured vaguely toward the crowded ballroom. "He didn't give a name, sir. Just said you’d appreciate the gesture."

Jianro looked at the tray. Two glasses of amber liquid. It looked like high-end scotch. He reached out, his hand hovering over the glass, but then he paused.

A scent wafted up from the liquid. It was faint, nearly hidden by the peat of the scotch, but to Jianro, it was like a physical blow to the chest.

Bitter almonds.

His blood turned to ice. He knew that smell. He had smelled it in his final moments in that high-security cell, right before the 'suicide' that had ended his first life.

Cyanide.

"Jianro? What is it?" Amara asked, noticing his sudden rigidity. "You look like you've seen... well, another ghost."

Jianro didn't answer. He looked at the server, whose face was perfectly blank, perfectly professional.

"Who gave you this?" Jianro asked, his voice deathly quiet.

"I’m sorry, sir, I didn't catch his name. He was tall, silver hair, wearing a—"

"A red carnation in his lapel?" Jianro finished.

The server blinked. "Yes, sir. How did you know?"

Jianro didn't answer. He took the glass, but he didn't drink. He turned it slowly in his hand, watching the light catch the poison.

"The game hasn't even started," Jianro whispered, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the crystal stem. "And they're already trying to kill me again."

He looked back at the ballroom, searching the sea of faces for a red carnation. The gala, the music, the laughter—it all felt like a thin veil over a gaping maw.

"Amara," Jianro said, his eyes never leaving the crowd.

"Yeah?"

"I think we just found our third person."