Chapter 2: The Man with Magenta Hair, Solido
A look of theatrical apology crossed Jonas's face. "My sincerest apologies, my friend. I didn't mean for that piece of trash to land on you."
He strode over to the man, extending a hand in a gesture of goodwill. "The name is Jonas Jourdan. I'm an American, just a tourist taking in the sights of Egypt."
The man's eyes were downcast, but a storm of fury was brewing on his face. He hesitated for a moment before gripping Jonas's hand. His own was firm, calloused. "Solido," he said, his voice a low gravel. "Italian."
Jonas took a moment to size up the man who called himself Solido. A sharp, magenta fringe hung over his forehead, with the rest of his hair styled back. His piercing green eyes held a dangerous glint, a silent threat simmering just below the surface.
Suddenly, a flicker of recognition passed through Solido's mind. The name... Jonas Jourdan. He'd heard it, or perhaps read it, somewhere before.
Just then, Aya's attention was caught by the book lying on the floor. She picked it up, her face lighting up with delighted surprise. "No way, you read this book too?" she exclaimed, turning to Solido. "Does that mean you're a fan of Mister Jourdan?"
Solido's brow shot up. His gaze snapped to the book in Aya's hands. There, printed elegantly below the title, was the author's name: Jonas Jourdan.
NANI?! It hit him like a lightning bolt. This towering man was that Jonas Jourdan—the "genius mystery novelist" who had exploded onto the literary scene in recent years. To think he would run into a celebrity just by sitting down for a drink in some back-alley tavern...
Though momentarily stunned, Solido's shock quickly gave way to a burning curiosity.
"You... You're the author of Invisible Black Monster?" he asked, his tone shifting from irritation to intense interest.
Jonas offered a charming smile. "The one and only. I'm in Egypt gathering inspiration. Research for my next masterpiece."
"I can't believe it... meeting you here, of all places," Solido said, his eyes gleaming. "I have to say, the murder methods you describe in your book... they are so brutally, viscerally detailed. It's as if you witnessed them firsthand. Tell me, what kind of 'research' allows you to create scenes of such... beautiful violence?"
Jonas was taken aback. Most fans praised the intricate cleverness of his plots. This man, Solido, was the first to fixate solely on the bloodshed.
At that moment, the portly tavern owner lumbered over, a scowl on his face. "Hey! No fighting in my establishment!" he boomed at Jonas. "And you're going to pay for that broken table and glass!"
Jonas turned to face him. "My apologies, good sir," he said smoothly. "But I believe your grievance is with that thief, not with an innocent man like myself."
"Is that so?" the owner grunted, jerking his head towards the door. "Well, he's long gone. Vanished. So that leaves you holding the bill."
Sure enough, the spot where the thief had been lying was now empty. The coward had obviously used their conversation as a cover to make his escape. With a sigh, Jonas reached into his pocket for his wallet.
"Father!" Aya interjected. "He's my friend! It was just one table. Please, let it go."
The owner looked at his daughter as if she'd grown a second head. Was this the same girl who, just a few hours ago, was a stranger to this foreigner? Now she was taking his side?
Despite Aya's plea, Jonas paid for the damages in full. He wasn't about to owe a favor over such a trivial amount of money.
"Fate has brought us together," Jonas declared with a grand gesture. "We must have a drink to celebrate."
The three of them pulled a table together as Jonas ordered another round. Solido figured he had nothing better to do, and besides, he was intensely curious about this man who threw punches first and asked questions later.
"So, tell me," Solido began, raising his glass and swirling the amber liquid within. "What was it that first inspired you to start writing?"
A nostalgic look flashed in Jonas's eyes. The truth was, Jonas was a transmigrator. In a previous, far more mundane life, he'd been reborn into a middle-class American family. He spent his youth dreaming of awakening some incredible power, a "System" or a "Golden Finger" that would let him rise above the masses and seize ultimate power and status.
But after twenty years of waiting, he finally gave up. This world, aside from some minor cultural and historical divergences, was painfully ordinary. The only thing that ever pinged his sense of familiarity was a global conglomerate known as the Speedwagon Foundation. The name felt... significant, like something he'd heard in a great story from his past life. But his research turned up nothing bizarre; they were just a mega-corporation that started in oil and expanded, a titan of industry.
So, Jonas resigned himself to a normal path. He used his past-life knowledge to excel, becoming a top student in medical school. But the destiny of a medical student, it seemed, was to abandon medicine for a grander calling. He left behind a lucrative and respectable career as a doctor to become a novelist.
By skillfully "remixing" the great detective stories he remembered from his previous life, he had crafted several best-selling mystery novels. Invisible Black Monster was his debut masterpiece. The books that followed were just as successful, granting him financial freedom before he was even thirty and allowing him to begin his travels around the globe.
"Inspiration?" Jonas answered finally. "It comes from passion. Without a burning interest, a man would never even have the will to pick up a pen."
"I see," Solido said, setting his glass down. He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with a new kind of intensity. "Then a world-famous author like yourself must be making an absolute fortune, yes?"
Jonas couldn't help but chuckle. It seemed that asking about his income was a mandatory part of any fan interaction.
"Let's just say it's more than enough to ensure I won't have to worry about food or drink for the rest of my time in Egypt," he answered vaguely. It was always wise to not flaunt your wealth when traveling.
Solido, however, seemed to read between the lines. A barely perceptible glint shone deep in his eyes, though his expression remained perfectly calm.
"How wonderful," he mused. "It must be nice to live so freely, without a care in the world."
"It has its moments," Jonas admitted. "My only dream is to continue this pleasant life, free from the burdens of mundane work."
The three of them talked late into the night. Jonas learned Solido's "story": he was from Naples, Italy, from a poor family. He'd come to Egypt to work and send money home. Currently, he was part of a team working on an archeological dig at some ancient ruins.
Finally, the hour grew late and the tavern owner began closing up. Reluctantly, the trio prepared to leave.
"Allow me to get this," Solido announced, stepping forward with an air of gallantry.
"No, no, I insist..." Jonas began to protest, but Solido's hand was already moving toward his pocket.
Then, he stopped.
"Hm...?" Solido's face twisted into an expression of surprise and confusion.
"What is it?" Jonas asked.
"My wallet," Solido said, patting down all of his pockets with growing panic. "It's gone."