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People assume he's good when he illustrated the cover of Vogue. That was four months ago after he was discovered by a well-known model finder in a bar in Luxor.
It is speculated that he has the potential to become a legend when, in less than a year, he walks the runway for Gucci, Versace, and Armani and signs a two-year contract with Louis Vuitton, which finally opens the door to a new world for him.
Star designers and photographers would die to work with him and, after two years, Malik Ishtar, who was virtually a nobody not too long ago, has an annual income that would make any top manager green with envy.
There’s hardly a magazine that hasn’t featured him, hardly a fashion label that isn’t trying to sign a long-term contract with him.
Everyone says he has a million-dollar face, and when he’s on the catwalk, he’s not walking. He’s levitating.
Malik is popular with women, although he breaks their hearts, and men can’t resist his charm, either. He’s a welcome guest at any high-society party.
He enjoys his life. He enjoys the benefits and also the power of money.
But soon, he has locked his heart, his humanity, and his empathy in a small cage deep inside himself, which he only shows when it really benefits him.
He is selective in choosing his friends, even though many people would give anything to be able to call Malik Ishtar their friend. If they don’t do what he wants them to do, he simply replaces them as if they were broken toys, just like he did with his Ghouls before.
He enjoys making his lovers think they are special to him only to drop them after one night and intentionally make them feel like they are nothing but trash to him. He does this for no particular reason, just because he can.
The one thing Malik never does is open his heart to anyone. He loves the freedom he never had and the high-society parties. Feelings are for idiots, he thinks, they make people weak.
And Malik Ishtar never wants to be weak again.
✰
The notification sound of a message wakes him up. Malik growls in annoyance and turns to the side. If there’s one thing he hates, it’s being woken up when he has the rare opportunity to sleep in.
And yet, his phone beeps again.
With disheveled hair and half-closed eyes, he gropes for his phone. The bright light of the screen blinds him and makes him squint his eyes even more.
'Hey babe, yesterday was just great! When are we going to see each other again?'
He rolls his eyes and sighs. He regrets giving this second-rate fashion designer his private phone number.
At first, it was fun to go out with the young, extremely handsome guy. And that’s only because he was trying so hard to leave a lasting impression on Malik.
Why was he so desperate?
Because he wants to become a part of Malik’s world. Just like everyone else.
For a while, Malik tolerates it; he lets himself be taken out to dinner, be spoiled and enjoy the expensive gifts he collects like trophies. But slowly, the lovesick fool begins to annoy him.
Malik doesn’t have to think long about what answer to send him.
'I'm sorry, but we won't meet again. You bore me. Don't take it too hard, sweetie. You were great. And think of me if you ever feel lonely :*'
After that, he blocks his number because he assumes the guy will now do one of two things: call him and make a scene because he feels “exploited and mistreated” or—and this would be much worse— he confesses his love and begs him not to end their “relationship”.
Ugh. Malik has no use for this kind of weak behavior.
He yawns indifferently and turns onto his back. He crosses his arms behind his head and closes his eyes.
Today he has no appointments for what feels like the first time in an eternity so he appreciates it all the more. He has enough time to check his social media, go shopping, take himself out for a nice dinner, and then go to his favorite bar.
He’s now living the life he’d always wanted after his past as a tomb keeper brought him nothing but misery and sorrow.
And he would not change it for anything in the world.
✰
Malik rides his new motorcycle, his latest investment: a beautiful, purple Kawasaki Ninja H2R with a cream-colored seat. A real eye-catcher.
He parks in a private lot right in the center of town. Before dismounting, he checks his appearance in the rearview mirror. His hair looks perfect and his makeup is on point. He smirks because he knows he looks gorgeous.
He takes a case with a pair of Gucci sunglasses out of the inside pocket of his extravagant leather jacket and puts them on.
Malik refuses to wear a baseball cap like many celebrities do to avoid being recognized. In his case, it’s the complete opposite.
He loves the attention and needs it like air to breathe. He doesn’t even mind being watched when he goes shopping or does things that other people usually prefer to be left alone. Malik loves the cameras.
In a good mood, Malik hums to himself as he leaves the private parking lot.
✰
He sits down at the bar and takes the fruity cocktail served to him by the bartender, who is also one of the few people capable of impressing him.
Normally, Malik has little interest in people who earn so much less than him and have no high social status, but with Mai it’s . . .different.
When he sees her again for the first time after all those years since the Battle City tournament, he is surprised to find her in this bar of all places.
But as it soon turns out, she has that special kind of sharp mind that impresses Malik.
Not only does Mai always know everything about everyone that comes to this bar—which has proven useful on many occasions—but she also has a wit that Malik finds a pleasant change from his usual company.
While sipping his cocktail, Malik lets his gaze wander over the crowd—from his place at the bar, he has a good overview of everything.
“Anything interesting today?” he asks as he takes a small sip of his drink.
“Interesting in terms of what, Ishtar?” replies Mai, raising an eyebrow in amusement.
Malik smiles at her and crosses his legs. “I only see no-names today. Your boss should keep an eye on who comes in and who doesn’t. Otherwise, soon only parasites will come in here.”
Mai snorts and tosses her long blonde hair over her shoulder. She starts mixing a drink for another guest. “Well, we’ve all told him that, but he’s watching sales—and if we hardly let anyone in, we’ll go broke. That’s life, sweetheart.”
He wrinkles his nose and barely notices the man who is sitting down two chairs next to him. “The right appearance is all or nothing, Mai. You should know that.”
Mai starts laughing and, before she can say anything back, a raspy voice interferes, almost making Malik choke on his cocktail.
“Hey, bartender! A beer.”
It’s a voice he’s familiar with but has almost forgotten. A voice he never thought he’d hear again, a voice that brings back memories from a time long ago—a time that Malik tries with all his might not to let resurface under any circumstances. Not again. It has taken him a long time to repress what happened, to lock it away and never visit it again. His life as a tomb keeper is over. Deeply hidden and forgotten. Just as he once was.
His purple eyes slowly move to the side and the first thing he notices is the prominent scar on the face of the man with the white hair.
Their gazes meet and Malik instantly knows this isn’t the first time he’s looked into those eyes.
But it can’t be. He must be mistaken. It can’t be him. It’s a coincidence. It must be a—
“Hey, tomb keeper. Surprised to see me?”
The man grins mischievously and raises an eyebrow.
Malik’s throat feels dry, and his grip on the cocktail tightens. He clears his throat.
“What the hell are you doing here . . . Bakura?”
Even though he looks different than he did at the Battle City tournament, Malik knows it’s him—there’s no doubt about that. He could never forget the aura that radiates from this man.
“Is that how you greet an old friend?” Bakura props his chin on the back of his hand.
Malik’s eyes narrow as he sees the all-too-familiar teasing glint in Bakura’s eyes.
Thousands of questions run through his mind, but he deliberately chooses not to ask any of them.
“We aren’t friends.”
Bakura chuckles in amusement. “That’s too bad . . .” He nods to Mai as she sets the beer down for him and ignores her icy, piercing stare. He waits patiently until she turns away before looking back at Malik.
“Anyway. It was surprisingly easy to find you. Who’d have thought that one day your face would be on every magazine, tomb keeper?”
“Don’t you dare call me that again!” Malik hisses, and he can’t suppress the anger in his voice as he sees Bakura’s grin widen.
“Oh, have I hit a soft spot there? No longer the little slave of the Pharaoh, eh? Do they know who you really are?”
“Shut up!” spits Malik, slamming his cocktail on the counter and ignoring the pairs of eyes directed at him.
He’s aware he’s about to lose control but he doesn’t care. Not after Bakura has the audacity to drag his repressed memories back into the light of day so violently.
Furious, he stands up and looks down at Bakura like a king from his golden throne. “What do you want from me after all these years? And who the hell do you think you are to talk to me like that, Bakura?!”
Malik’s jaw tightens as Bakura just looks at him, obviously unimpressed by everything he has achieved. He follows his every move as Bakura also stands up and looks him in the eye.
His whole body tenses and his eyes widen as Bakura grabs his chin surprisingly gently and leans next to his ear.
“Listen to me, you spoiled brat,” Bakura’s grip on Malik’s chin tightens, and the sound of his voice is cold like his eyes. Malik can do nothing about the goosebumps on his skin. “Who do YOU think you are, huh? You seem to have forgotten who you really are, and that’s just pathetic. You can’t erase the past, just like you can’t erase the scars on your back. Remember that, tomb keeper.”
And in that moment, a million thoughts race through Malik’s mind. He doesn’t even notice how Bakura turns and leaves without a single glance back.
Malik watches him go, an emptiness inside him that he thought he had long destroyed, along with a burning rage that makes his body tremble. His hand clenches into a fist just as he loses sight of the thief in the crowd.
And he knows that he has allowed what he swore he would never allow again.
Malik Ishtar has shown weakness.
✰
A few days have passed since he met his former partner in crime again.
And Malik hates to admit to himself that this encounter has messed with his head more than it should. It keeps him awake at night; the conversation circles endlessly in his head, his past seemingly breaking out of the unstable prison in his mind called repression.
And even more, he hates that it doesn’t seem to go unnoticed.
“Mr. Ishtar? Should we stop the photo shoot for today? You seem distracted.”
The photographer’s words snap him out of his thoughts and, at the same time, he feels an old, all-too-familiar anger rising inside him.
“No!” he snarls at him, ignoring the surprised expression on the other’s face. “I’m fine, we’re moving on!”
Malik feels the anger rising inside him—he knows the photographer is right, and even as he feels his manager’s eyes on him, he resumes his pose.
He knows that he is not behaving professionally, that he is putting his reputation on the line and, at worst, risking his contract with the fashion label, but in this moment, he doesn’t care.
The photographer looks at him, then at his manager, and when his eyes go back to Malik, Malik gestures to him with his hand impatiently.
The stability he has built around himself, the facade he has created begins to shatter piece by piece—from one moment to the next, all of it begins to fall apart like a house of cards.
Malik puts on his widest fake smile as the photographer continues the photo shoot after some brief hesitation.
But his thoughts rage louder than ever before.
✰
And life goes on for Malik.
He enters his penthouse apartment and slams the door behind him. It’s already long past midnight and the day can only be described as a major disaster. Now he’s reached the point where his manager told him he was overworked and should rest for a few days.
Frustrated, he throws the keys to his motorcycle into a bowl on the dresser and slips off his shoes.
He tries to repress his memories again, to push them back into the far corners of his consciousness and bury them as he has always done.
The truth about the truth is it hurts, and that’s why people lie to themselves.
Lost in his thoughts, he flicks on the living room lamp, only to stifle a scream the next moment.
“What the hell?! How did you get in here?!”
“It was surprisingly easy. Maybe you should get a better alarm system, doll face,” Bakura snorts, leaning back in one of Malik’s expensive designer chairs.
Malik shakes his head as he looks stunned at his former accomplice.
Not only does it run through his mind whether it was really that easy to break into his apartment, but also that the person who caused this whole mess in his head is now comfortably sitting in his living room and drinking his most expensive Chianti. Purple eyes narrow.
“Thanks for the advice. Would you please leave now?”
Bakura looks at the wine glass in his hand and snorts through his nose before taking another sip. He doesn’t seem to like it much because Malik can see him grimace before setting the glass down.
“No. Sit down.”
“What do you mean by ‘no’? You just broke into my apartment! And how did you even get my address?!”
Bakura pinches the bridge of his nose and stands up. “Can’t you shut up for once and do what I tell you? None of this would be necessary if you hadn’t acted like a brat the last time we met and let me finish.”
Malik looks at him uncomprehendingly, but something in Bakura’s expression tells him that he will never leave him alone if he does not listen. The thief is in no way inferior to him when it comes to stubbornness. Malik knows that better than anyone.
That’s also the reason he drops onto the couch, exhausted. He runs his hand through his hair. “What the hell are you doing here, Bakura?”
But the conversation that follows is not what Malik expected.
Bakura explains to him that since he has returned to life, he no longer has a goal and has not known for a long time why he deserves a second chance. After all, his vengeance failed and he couldn’t bring justice to his family.
In recent years, he has traveled the world and seen fascinating things he could not even imagine were possible. He has thought a lot about what happened, what he did to the people around him, how he can be better now. He has started to enjoy his new life now that he has finally found his inner peace.
While Bakura talks, Malik listens to him in silence. And without really wanting to, he thinks about how much fame, money, and success have turned him into a monster.
He has forgotten the value of friends and family and, in that moment, he realizes that he must accept his own past for what it is. It is a part of him and always will be, whether he likes it or not. He must learn to live with it or, sooner or later, he will destroy himself.
✰
The sun wakes him up. It is already past noon when Malik looks at his phone.
Sighing, he drops back onto the couch.
Bakura is gone. Malik regrets that he didn’t stay—somehow, he feels like talking further with his former partner in crime.
While Malik makes himself a coffee, he thinks about what might have kept Bakura from staying. He opens the fridge and raises an eyebrow questioningly when he notices the missing milk. He doesn’t remember taking it out of the fridge. By accident, he spots the carton on the living room table. As he approaches it, he sees the small handwritten note lying next to it.
'You are out of milk'
Malik sighs heavily.
Damn Bakura.
He sits down at his table and takes a sip of his coffee. His gaze slides back to the empty carton of milk and the note. A warm feeling blooms in his chest as he reaches for his phone and books a one-way flight to Luxor.
Bakura is right about everything he said. Who would have thought that the thief, of all people, would open his eyes?
While he thinks about it, Malik doesn’t even notice that he’s smiling. For the first time in ages, he feels at peace with himself.
[end.]