Location: Sant Ambroeus Cafe Year: 2011
POV: Ren (First Person)
Blair's question hangs in the air between us, laden with the weight of everything she just witnessed. Who are you? It's the million-dollar question, isn't it? I could tell her the truth: I'm a reincarnated soul from another dimension with foreknowledge of the stock market and a fixation on anime, trapped in the body of a Greek god. But something tells me that answer would only lead her to call the men in white coats instead of a dermatologist.
I lean forward, preparing my most enigmatic and satisfactorily vague answer, when a shadow falls over our table. It's not a physical shadow, but a shift in the atmosphere. The hum of the cafe, the murmur of conversations, all seem to dim, as if the world has lowered its volume in deference.
"Ren. You told me you were in town to 'explore cultural opportunities.'" The voice is a caress of silk and gravel, soft yet unmistakably authoritative. It's a baritone that has pronounced death sentences and recounted charming anecdotes, often in the same breath. "I wasn't aware that local culture included corrupting Monaco's future royalty."
I lean back in my chair, a genuine, uncomplicated smile spreading across my face for the first time today. I don't turn around. I don't need to.
"Red. You always have a knack for timing," I say. "Did the arms deal in Zagreb close early? I thought you'd be busy haggling grenade launcher prices until Thursday."
"Trivial details resolve themselves when the appropriate amount of persuasion is applied." A man enters our view, circling the table to stand beside Blair. He wears a perfectly tailored, charcoal three-piece suit, and an impeccable fedora rests on his head. His face is a masterpiece of contradictions: kind, curious eyes that have seen unspeakable horrors, and a smile that is both warm and predatory. It's Raymond "Red" Reddington, the Concierge of Crime, and my oldest, most dangerous friend in this world or any other.
Location: Sant Ambroeus Cafe POV: Third Person
Blair Waldorf froze. If Ren's presence was like a force field of calm and confidence, this new man's was like a black hole. He drew all attention, all light, to himself. There was a gravity to his being that made everything else seem insignificant. Prince Louis, with his nobility and tantrums, looked like a preschooler in comparison. Chuck Bass, with his dark power and melancholy, was a mere amateur next to this man.
Blair felt a shiver run down her spine, a primal fear that had nothing to do with social scandals or public humiliation. It was the instinctive fear of prey before the alpha predator. This man didn't play on the same board as them. He was the board.
Reddington completely ignored Blair for a moment, his eyes fixed on Ren. There was genuine affection in his gaze, the camaraderie of two people who have survived things together that people like Blair only see in movies.
"I heard about your little adventure last night," Red said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "'Property of Blair Waldorf.' It's a bit melodramatic, even for you. I thought we were past the permanent ink phase after that incident in Marrakech with the yacht dealer's daughter."
Ren shrugged, a lazy grin on his face. "It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. Besides, Miss Waldorf here has a certain persuasive quality."
Only then did Raymond Reddington turn his gaze to Blair. It was like being assessed by an antiques expert who could see every crack, every imperfection, and every ounce of value with a single glance. His smile widened, becoming genuinely charming.
"Ah, yes. Blair Waldorf." Her name on his lips sounded like a verdict. "Constance Billard graduate, Columbia student, daughter of fashion designer Eleanor Waldorf and Harold Waldorf, who now lives in France with his charming partner, Roman. Engaged to Prince Louis Grimaldi, despite a rather spectacular and destructive attachment to young Mr. Bass. And now, nominal owner of my young friend here. I must say, it's a pleasure to finally meet someone with the audacity to claim that which cannot be owned."
Blair gaped. The information wasn't secret, of course, but the way he rattled it off, with such ease and detail, was profoundly unsettling. She felt layer after layer of her social armor being peeled away until she stood completely exposed on the sidewalk of Second Avenue.
"How...?" she managed to articulate.
"My dear Ren here has many talents," Red said, bypassing her question as if it were irrelevant. "But subtlety isn't always one of them. When he settles into a new city, I like to ensure the local landscape is... hospitable. You are the most interesting topic in Manhattan right now, my dear. Aside, perhaps, from the debate over whether Per Se's new chef is using too much tarragon."
He sat down in the chair Louis had vacated, moving with a fluid, economical grace. He looked as natural there as if he owned the cafe. The power emanating from him and Ren together was overwhelming. It wasn't the power of money or status that she knew. It wasn't ostentatious. It was silent, absolute, and lethal. It was the power of men who move the world from the shadows, who don't need Gossip Girl's approval because they write the news.
For the first time in her life, Blair Waldorf felt small.
"So tell me, Ren," Red continued, completely ignoring Blair's existential crisis. "What brings you to this particular viper's nest? It's not your usual haunt. Too much drama, too little substance."
"I'm diversifying my experience portfolio," Ren replied. "Besides, the show is top-notch. Yesterday, I watched a prince cower and a mogul self-destruct in the same night. It's better than the opera."
"Ah, yes. The entertainment factor," Red nodded, as if he had just understood a complex equation. "I suppose it has its charm. Though I prefer ballet. Less dialogue, more discipline. Speaking of discipline..."
Before he could finish, two unmarked black sedans screeched to a halt in front of the cafe. Four men in dark, practical suits, earpieces in their ears, and the unmistakable air of federal authority, emerged and headed directly for their table. The cafe's already tense atmosphere froze.
The man leading the group stopped beside Red. He was tall, stern-faced, and didn't seem impressed by Red's suit or Ren's presence.
"Raymond Reddington," the agent said, his voice monotone and official. "I'm Special Agent Ressler, FBI. You need to come with us."
Blair felt the last bit of air leave her lungs. FBI. She was sitting at a table with a man wanted by the FBI. She looked at Ren, expecting to see panic, surprise, anything.
Ren simply rolled his eyes.
"For heaven's sake, Red," Ren said with an exasperated sigh. "Can't you go one week without the feds interrupting our lunch? It's the third time this month."
Red smiled at Ren, a smile that said, "you know how it is." Then he addressed Agent Ressler with exaggerated courtesy.
"Agent Ressler, it's always a... rendezvous. But as you can see, I'm in the middle of a fascinating conversation about the art of impulsive tattooing and the intricacies of high society. Perhaps you could wait? The tiramisu here is divine."
"Now, Reddington," Ressler insisted, his hand instinctively moving to the weapon Blair could guess was under his jacket.
Red sighed dramatically, like a stage actor disappointed with his audience. "Oh, youth. No patience. No appreciation for the finer things." He slowly stood up, adjusting his suit. "Very well. But I expect you to at least have a vehicle with decent suspension. The last ride left my back in knots."
The other agents moved to flank him. Blair was petrified, certain she was about to be arrested as an accomplice. She imagined the Gossip Girl headline: From Royalty to Penitentiary. B Trades Her Tiara for an Orange Jumpsuit.
POV: Ren (First Person)
I watch the whole theater with a sense of tired amusement. Ressler and his team are so predictable. Always with the long faces and the feigned urgency. Red, of course, enjoys every second. It's his stage, and these agents are mere supporting actors.
I look at Blair. She's pale as a ghost, her doe eyes wide with terror. It's almost adorable. She's spent her whole life thinking "danger" was a bad write-up in the New York Post or being exiled from a charity gala. Now she's sitting a meter away from the world's most wanted criminal (well, one of them) as he's being arrested by the FBI. Her universe is expanding at an alarming rate.
As the agents begin to escort Red away, he pauses. He turns slowly, a thoughtful expression on his face. He looks directly at me.
"Ren, I almost forgot," he says, his voice serious.
The tension skyrockets. Ressler and his men stiffen. Hands return to their weapons.
Red slowly reaches inside his jacket.
Time seems to stop. Blair gasps. Ressler shouts, "Hands where I can see them, Reddington!"
Red completely ignores the agents. His gaze remains fixed on me. With a smooth motion, he pulls out a pistol. A classic Luger P08, black and lethal-looking.
Blair Waldorf's world shatters. I'm sure of it. The terror in her eyes is absolute. She thinks she's about to witness a daylight shootout.
I raise an eyebrow, waiting. I know this trick.
Red points the gun at me, a sad smile on his face. "Sometimes, my friend," he says, his voice filled with fake drama, "we have no other choice."
And he pulls the trigger.
CLICK!
From the barrel of the gun, no bullet emerges, but a small red fabric flag that unrolls in the air. In yellow letters, a single word:
BANG!
The silence that follows is deep, almost sacred. It lasts exactly one second.
And then, Red and I burst into laughter. It's not contained laughter. It's a loud, genuine, booming laugh. I double over the table, slapping it with my hand, tears welling in my eyes. Red laughs with his whole body, his head thrown back, the sound echoing down the silent street.
The FBI agents stand there, an expression of absolute exhaustion on their faces. Ressler runs a hand over his face, muttering something that sounds like "every day the same story."
"Oh, your faces," Red manages to say between laughs, pointing at the agents. "Priceless. I should frame this moment."
Ren, still laughing, replies, "The gag gun is a classic, Red. A bit retro, but effective. Next time try the squirting flower."
"I'll make a note," Red says, as the agents, patience worn thin, grab him more firmly and lead him toward the car. As he's led away, he calls over his shoulder, "Don't forget to try the tiramisu! And take care of our proprietress! She looks fragile!"
And with that, he's bundled into the sedan, the doors slam shut, and the cars speed away, leaving a stunned silence in their wake.
The cafe slowly comes back to life, but no one looks at our table. It's as if we'd been in our own bubble of madness, and now it had burst.
I lean back in my chair, wiping a tear of laughter. I feel relaxed, like after a good joke with an old friend. Then, I remember I'm not alone.
I turn to Blair.
She's exactly in the same position as before: frozen, eyes wide, hand halfway to her mouth. Her impeccable Queen B facade has shattered, and what's left is a terrified young girl who just watched all the rules of her world burn to the ground. She doesn't look at me. She stares at the empty spot where Red was, and then at the sidewalk, as if waiting for reality to reassert itself.
I give her a few seconds. Then, I tap her untouched coffee cup.
"Cold?" I ask, my voice sounding abnormally loud in the silence. "I can order you another. Or, as Red suggests, the tiramisu is excellent."
Slowly, very slowly, she turns her head to look at me. The question of "Who are you?" is still in her eyes, but now it's much deeper, much darker. It's no longer a question about my social status or my romantic intentions.
It's a question about universes.
She just caught a glimpse of mine, and I suspect she'll never see hers the same way again.