Chapter 19: The Honest Frame
Rain dripped from the awning of Kaffeeklatsch, tracing silvery lines down the steamed-up window. Inside, the air hung thick with the scent of roasted beans and damp wool, a warm, low-lit cave against the Berlin evening's persistent chill. Lerok sat opposite Lea Brandt, his stillness a stark contrast to the nervous energy vibrating off her. Rainwater darkened the shoulders of his dark coat where he hadn’t quite shaken it off.
Lea tapped a chipped silver ring against her half-empty mug, the ceramic clinking a rapid, uneven rhythm. Her denim jacket was shrugged off, draped over the back of her chair, revealing a band t-shirt faded to grey. Her usual quick-fire smile was absent, replaced by a tightness around her eyes. She looked like she was holding her breath.
Finally, she reached into the worn canvas bag at her feet, pulling out a single sheet of matte photo paper. Late evening, the café’s light warm against the rain, she slid it across the scarred wooden table. Six faces caught mid-laughter, slightly blurred around the edges, eyes crinkled with genuine, unguarded mirth. Imperfect. Alive. Jonas’s broad grin, Eric’s quiet smile, Miko’s near-manic energy frozen, Mara caught mid-retort, Helena’s rare softness, and Lea herself, eyes squeezed shut, head thrown back. No filters, no careful posing, no calculated angles. Just a raw, fleeting moment of pre-competition ease, probably snapped by Jonas or Eric weeks ago, now feeling like a relic.
“It’s the only one that felt right,” Lea said, her voice quieter than usual, almost swallowed by the gentle murmur of the café and the drumming rain outside. Her fingertip traced the edge of the photo, hesitant. “The others… they looked like promo shots. Like everyone was trying too hard. Even me.”
Lerok didn’t pick it up immediately. He studied it from where it lay, his gaze travelling slowly over each face, lingering on the blurred motion, the imperfect focus, the sheer, unvarnished humanity of it. The contrast to the carefully curated feeds, the practiced charm, the desperate hunger for importance that seemed to cling to the others – especially after his words in the club to Miko – was stark. Blurred edges, unguarded eyes. No performance. Just presence.
A beat of silence stretched, filled only by the rain and the distant hiss of the espresso machine. Then Lerok’s hand moved. Not to take it, but to rest his fingertips lightly on the corner Lea’s finger had just vacated. His touch was deliberate, grounding. He met her anxious gaze.
“Then it’s enough.”
Two words. Simple. Final. They landed with the weight of an absolution Lea hadn’t known she craved. Relief washed over her face, sudden and profound, loosening the tension in her shoulders. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
The photo trembled slightly between their hands where their fingers almost touched. Not much. Barely noticeable. But it was there. A physical manifestation of the fragile thing she’d offered and the quiet acceptance he’d given. Proof that honesty may not win the game—but it finally exists. In this small, warm pocket of Berlin, against the indifferent rain, it was real.
Lerok withdrew his hand first, leaving the photo on the table. He finished his black coffee, the cup hitting the saucer with a soft clink. “The qualifiers begin tomorrow at Tempelhofer Feld. Hangar 6. Dawn.” His voice was back to its usual calm neutrality, the moment of connection carefully folded away.
Lea nodded, swallowing hard. The reality of the contest, the hundred million, Arkan’s shadow, slammed back into focus, a cold wave against the lingering warmth of the shared moment. She pulled the photo back towards her, her fingers tracing Jonas’s blurred face. “Right. Dawn.”
Lerok stood, his movement fluid. He didn’t say goodbye. He simply pulled his coat tighter and stepped back out into the downpour, vanishing into the wet gloom as seamlessly as he’d arrived.
Lea stayed. The photo lay before her on the scarred wood, the six faces seeming to watch her from their captured moment of uncomplicated joy. The café’s warmth felt suddenly insufficient against the chill seeping in from the edges. She ran her thumb over the image, feeling the slight texture of the paper, the imperfections in the print. Enough. The word echoed. Was it? For Lerok? For Arkan’s brutal game? Or just for her, right now, in this fragile space between who she’d been curating herself to be and… whatever came next?
Outside the steamed window, a figure paused under a streetlamp across the rain-slicked street. Dark coat, watching the café window. Too far, too shadowed to identify clearly. Mara? Someone else? Lea’s photographer’s instinct kicked in – a flicker of unease cutting through her introspection. She reached for her camera bag instinctively, then stopped. Not now.
===
Not now. The climbing hall swallowed sound. Plywood walls absorbed the thump of Jonas’s boots hitting the mat after a controlled descent. Dust motes danced in the high, grey light filtering through skylights streaked with dried rain. The air smelled of chalk and old sweat, clean and sharp.
Lerok stood near the base of a towering artificial rockface, hands loose at his sides. He watched Jonas unwind the rope from his harness, the movements economical, practiced. Jonas didn’t rush. He coiled the rope with focused precision, each loop identical, the nylon whispering against itself. His chalk-dusted hands moved with a calm certainty that seemed to quiet the vast, empty space.
He clipped the coiled rope onto his gear sling, the metallic snick loud in the stillness. He didn’t look at Lerok immediately. Instead, he tilted his head back, studying the route he’d just climbed – a complex puzzle of crimps and slopers painted onto the textured surface. His breathing was already steadying, the flush fading from his neck.
“I don’t need to be chosen,” Jonas said finally, his voice echoing softly off the plywood. He still gazed upwards, his profile calm against the artificial rock. Steady. Unhurried. “Not by him. Not by anyone.” He lowered his chin, meeting Lerok’s watchful eyes directly. “I just want to know I was seen right. That’s all.”
Lerok nodded once. A simple dip of his chin acknowledging the statement. His own stillness mirrored Jonas’s, but felt different – less anchored, more like water finding its level. “Those who say they don’t want to be chosen,” he observed, his voice low and clear in the cavernous quiet, “are usually the most ready.”
A single, dry laugh escaped Jonas. It held no bitterness, just a deep, weathered understanding. “Or the most tired.” He shrugged out of his harness, the buckles clinking softly. The weatherproof fabric of his jacket rustled as he moved.
Silence settled again, deeper this time. The echo of Jonas’s laugh faded. The only sound was the faint groan of the rope still anchored high above, shifting slightly under its own weight. Jonas stood facing Lerok, harness dangling from one hand. Lerok remained motionless near the wall’s base.
No applause. No witness. Just the vast, echoing hall, the smell of effort, and two men suspended in a moment that felt less like peace and more like the eye of a storm. Purpose thrummed beneath the quiet surface, a taut wire humming just out of hearing. Jonas’s knuckles, still pale with chalk dust, tightened almost imperceptibly on the nylon loops of his harness. The rope groaned again overhead, a low, protesting sound against the karabiner.