to destroy. The stark fluorescent glow of the university’s administrative wing did little to soften the sharp edges of Renia’s fury. Milosz’s office, a cramped space overflowing with yellowed blueprints and academic tomes, felt less like a sanctuary and more like a cage. He looked up from a stack of grading, his round spectacles perched on the end of his nose, a warm smile faltering as he saw her face. “Renia, my dear. What a pleasant surprise. Come in, come in. I was just reviewing some designs for the new student dormitory – a rather ambitious cantilevered structure, you know, not unlike Klara’s early sketches for the Berenovo spire.” He gestured to the only available chair, laden with books. “Forgive the clutter.” Renia ignored the chair, remaining standing, her voice a low murmur that cut through his pleasantries. “I saw the footage, Milosz.” His smile vanished, replaced by a flicker of unease. “Footage? What footage, Renia? I don’t understand.” His hand, thick and pale, involuntarily smoothed the lapel of his tweed jacket, a nervous gesture she’d never noticed before. “The security feed from the Berenovo Atheneum. The night Klara died. I saw you, Milosz. Arguing with her. Not Teodor. *You*.” The accusation hung in the stale air, thick with the scent of old paper and dust. Milosz’s face paled, the blood draining from his jowls. He stammered, “There must be some mistake. I… I was not there that night. I was at home, I remember… I was reading.” He pushed his glasses higher on his nose, his eyes darting around the small room as if searching for an escape route. “You were there. Near the service entry. You were shouting at her, your face contorted. And she was holding something, a small silver object, pressed against her chest. What was it, Milosz? What were you fighting about?” Renia pressed, her voice gaining an edge. She remembered the glint of metal in Klara’s hand, the way her sister had clutched it, even in anger. Milosz sank into his chair, a deep sigh escaping him, a sound of utter defeat. He laced his fingers together, his gaze fixed on the desktop, refusing to meet her eyes. “Anatol Reznik,” he whispered, barely audible over the hum of the fluorescent tube. Renia tilted her head, waiting. She recognized the surname—a rival developer known for aggressive buyouts and ties to municipal syndicates. “I owe him, Renia. A lot. A crippling amount.” He finally looked at her, his eyes red-rimmed and filled with shame. “Gambling. A weakness, a foolish addiction. It started small, innocent bets on the city’s architectural competitions, then the horse tracks, then… deeper. That syndicate boss found out. He offered to ‘help.’ A loan, he called it. With conditions.” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “He wanted me to… to undermine the Atheneum. To ensure it failed, or at least, that its completion was delayed indefinitely. He wanted Klara to incorporate a fundamental structural ‘flaw’ into the design. Something that wouldn’t be immediately obvious, but would cause cascading issues later. Something that would ruin Teodor, completely.” Renia pressed the nails of her thumb into her palm. “And Klara refused,” she stated, not a question. “Of course, she refused!” Milosz exclaimed, a flash of something akin to pride warring with his despair. “She called it an affront to her vision, to the very soul of the structure. She said she’d expose the whole operation, expose me. I was desperate, Renia. I begged her, pleaded with her to reconsider, to just buy us time. I told her the lender would destroy me, my reputation, my life. I knew she cared for me, for my family. But she wouldn’t budge.” He pushed a hand through his thinning hair, his voice cracking. “We argued, yes. It was heated. I was frantic. I tried to make her see reason, the consequences for me. But she was adamant. She said she’d rather die than defile her work. I… I left her there. I walked away, furious and terrified. But I swear, Renia, I left her alive. She was standing, still clutching that little locket, her face pale but resolute. I swear it.” Renia’s mind raced. The locket. The identical one she’d found in the service corridor. Klara had been wearing it. Clutching it. Milosz’s story, as horrifying as it was, held a terrible ring of truth. “How do I know you’re telling the truth now?” Renia asked, her voice flat, devoid of warmth. Milosz fumbled in his desk drawer, pulling out a cheap, nondescript burner phone. “Proof,” he muttered, pushing it across the desk. “Messages. From his enforcers. Threats, instructions. They haven’t stopped, even after Klara’s… accident. They still want me to ensure the Atheneum fails, or they’ll make my life a living hell. Take it. Read them. You’ll see.” Renia picked up the device, her thumb tracing the worn plastic. Milosz was merely an instrument, a desperate debtor caught in a web larger than she had initially calculated. By taking this device, she had stepped squarely into the crosshairs. She walked out of the university building, the burner phone a cold lump in her jacket pocket. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the cobbled courtyard. Her own phone vibrated, Teodor’s name flashing across the screen. She hesitated, then answered. “Renia. Did you speak with Milosz?” His voice was sharp, without preamble, devoid of his usual controlled calm. “Yes,” she replied, her voice tight. “He told me about Reznik. The debt. The blackmail.” “Reznik is not a man to be trifled with, Renia. He plays a brutal game. He has eyes and ears everywhere. By confronting Milosz, you have made yourself a part of this. You are a target now.” His tone was protective, a stark contrast to the cold magnate she had once perceived him to be. “Be careful. Extremely careful.” His words echoed in her ears as she turned the corner onto her street, the familiar facade of her apartment building coming into view. Parked directly across from it, slightly obscured by a plane tree, was a sleek black sedan. Its windows were tinted opaque, reflecting the last slivers of the setting sun, revealing nothing inside. It was clearly waiting for her.

The Mentor's Debt