So this was that movement from the news.
I'd heard about it more than once, yet I'd never seen them before. Until that moment, it had felt distant. Something had been happening somewhere else, far from my daily life.
Now they were only a few feet away.
I stopped and looked at them one after another. My gaze moved over their placards, their ears, their tails… White ears flashed among the group.
My breath caught, though it lasted just a few seconds. A moment later, I realised it was not him.
I forced myself to look away.
Then I remembered that Michael had been somewhere nearby the whole time. I slowly turned my head, trying to behave as usual.
He was studying me very closely, as though trying to read something on my face.
It took an enormous effort to push every trace of emotion somewhere deep.
I opened my mouth, ready to say something, but someone among the onlookers suddenly shouted: "Clear off! Get back to your own district! Stop stirring up trouble here!"
Another voice joined in.
"You're blocking the street. People are trying to work!"
"Get out of here!"
A wave of anger rushed through me. Hot, ugly, pushing its way out. It was a strange urge to step forward, to say something. I didn't even know what I meant to do.
Perhaps smash the face of the people who had shouted. Or stand between those hateful people and the group.
I lifted my foot to take a step.
Michael was quicker, catching my sleeve and pulling me aside.
I turned toward him.
"Let's step away," he said quietly, almost in a whisper. "Do you understand that Edward Moncler should not be seen anywhere near this?" he said, looking straight into my eyes. "You know as well as I do that reporters adore scenes like this. How exactly would you explain your presence here?"
The seriousness of his tone caught me off guard, and I stared at him in bewilderment.
"There is a lovely café not far from here," he added. "Come on, I'll show you a new place. I'm certain it will become your favourite."
He grinned again, lightly tugging at my sleeve.
"You're right. This has nothing to do with us. Let's go." I said, pulled my sleeve free, and followed him.
There was an uneasy emptiness in my head. My legs moved with some effort. Probably because we had been walking through that disgusting slush the whole time, and they were simply tired. That had to be the reason.
I barely remembered how we reached the place. I hardly noticed Michael speaking with the staff before we were shown to a table. Only when my back met the chair did I come back to myself and look around.
This was not a café.
It was an expensive restaurant.
Everything around us looked perfect. Beautiful tablecloths. Elegant chairs. The waiters looked far cleaner than Michael or me. We both had stains on our clothes, splashes of dirt. We were slightly overheated from the walk, looking completely out of place in such an expensive setting.
Yet that did nothing to stop Michael from smiling broadly and chatting cheerfully with the waitress about the menu.
On another day, I would never have allowed him to bring me into such a place while we looked the way we did. But at that moment, I had neither the strength nor the desire to argue with him. I just sat there, watching him place his order.
When the waiter turned to me, clearly expecting me to order as well, I said nothing and kept looking at Michael.
He reacted at once, speaking up for me, adding something to the order. He seemed to be saying how wonderful their pasta was and that I'd like to try it.
The rest of their conversation slipped past me.
Even though my eyes were still on Michael, my thoughts were on that street. I was still watching the protest.
I wondered what they hoped for. Why did they come here despite all the negative reactions? Did they not fear that it might be dangerous?
And what if… what if he had been there?
Or did he go to other protests?
Maybe he attended different events or took part in other things connected to it.
No.
That could not be.
Luka was never that kind of person. He never sought attention. If anything, he feared it. He recoiled from every gaze turned his way, pulling up his hood and putting on a mask.
He preferred to stay in the shadows.
He would never do anything dangerous.
That had been true. Now, though, it seemed to belong to the past.
Things had changed.
He had changed.
He no longer hid his ears. He even smiled when a camera was pointed straight at him.
The memory of that video returned to me.
His smile.
The way he had run without hesitation to save someone.
The presenter questioned whether it was real or staged.
I hadn't doubted it for a second.
It was real.
Why else would he risk himself for footage, only to return with small injuries all over him?
There had been so many scratches on his face.
I wondered whether they had healed. Whether he was all right now.
Slightly shaken by my own thoughts, I blinked.
Of course, he was fine.
And in any case, this was no longer my concern. It had nothing to do with me anymore. What did it matter what had happened to that fox?
He was handling everything on his own now.
Exactly as I had told him to.
There was no reason for me to think about it.
I turned my head toward the window. Evening had begun to settle over the street outside. The glass reflected the interior of the restaurant, and among those reflections I saw my own face looking back at me.
There was nothing on it.
No trace of the thoughts that had unsettled me.
Just a calm expression.
A mask.
A mask I wore with pride.
A mask that had protected me for so long.
And I would never let anyone destroy it.