The city rose on the horizon like a living postcard—elegant buildings with exposed brick facades and cast-iron balconies but with unexpected touches: rustic wooden signs, bronze horse statues in the squares, and shop windows blending fine crystal with hand-tooled leather.
The sun hit the polished cobblestone streets, where people in cowboy boots walked past modern art murals alongside old, stylish saloons.
Camille, in her flowing dress, pointed toward the center of town.
"This is our hidden gem!" Her eyes sparkled.
Looks like the Wild West, Damián thought…
Mason chuckled, adjusting his sunglasses.
He immediately stepped closer to Damián and said, "Here, culture and the Wild West are business partners."
The Art Gallery—The Perfect Tourist Stop—appeared before them like a building made of soft lines, with large arched windows and a stone staircase that looked like it led to something sacred rather than just touristy.
Inside, the warmth from the heater contrasted with the dry cold of the street. The space was open, with white walls splashed with bold paintings and sculptures that looked like they'd just escaped from a dream.
Camille walked ahead with light steps, pointing at the artwork with genuine excitement.
"This wing is dedicated to local artists. It's all about identity, roots, blending…" She turned to Damián. "I bet you'll find it interesting."
Damián stepped closer to a canvas, mixing collage and oil paint. A figure on horseback crossed an abstract background in shades of red. He nodded with a half-smile.
"It's powerful. It has a story. This piece speaks."
"Exactly," Étienne joined in, raising his hands with a hint of pride as he looked at the same piece. "Here, we don't separate art from what this place is. This is made of clay and memory."
Mason noticed Ziggy lagging behind, hands in his jacket pockets, looking at the floor more than at the art. He didn't seem bored—just out of place.
Mason noticed and, without ceremony, nudged Ziggy with his elbow.
"Hey, that sculpture over there looks like you. A little crooked, a little genius," he said with a grin.
Ziggy looked up, hesitant. He eyed the sculpture—twisted metal with wires hanging down like roots.
"Hmm. Looks like a broken engine trying to become a tree," he muttered.
"Exactly!" Mason laughed. "Or the other way around. Maybe it's a tree trying to become an engine. What do you think, Camille?"
Camille turned, intrigued.
"I like that interpretation. You've got an eye for this, Ziggy."
Ziggy shrugged but smiled a little.
Damián watched the scene from the side, quietly. At that moment, he was more focused on the artwork than the people.
"We're an interesting bunch," he said finally.
"That's our fate," Mason replied, throwing an arm over Ziggy's shoulders for a second. "But who knows if that's a compliment or a warning."
Ziggy rolled his eyes but didn't pull away.
"You're the artist, Damián. See anything valuable here?" Étienne asked, with a look that mixed curiosity and a hint of challenge.
Damián glanced back at the earlier canvas.
"Some pieces aren't meant to be taken. They're meant to trap the viewer in the search for meaning."
An hour after arriving at the gallery…
Damián stopped in front of a monumental canvas that dominated the back wall.
The painting was unsettling: an astronaut floated in the void, alone, his silver suit distorted by a grotesque rocket strapped to his back—like a burden pulling him away from the planet. But the planet wasn't Earth. It was amber, cracked, wrapped in purple mist. Alien.
Damián tilted his head, fingers extended in the air, as if wanting to touch the piece without making contact. The emptiness. The acceptance. The irreversible distance. Something about it cut deep.
"Are you going to stand there staring at that for ten minutes?"
Mason's voice came close to his ear. The whisper was theatrical—and far too warm. Damián took a slight step to the side, moving away.
Mason smirked, fully aware of his effect.
"Oh, come on! These artists born yesterday?" He waved dramatically at the canvas. "If it were a Van Gogh, a Dalí, a Frida… but this? Spare me. I want to go shopping, walk into a luxury store, drink champagne, and spend your father's money. He *did* say we could buy whatever we want."
Damián kept his eyes on the painting.
"Wait. I'm connecting with the piece."
Mason raised an eyebrow.
"Does it take that long?"
Damián turned, annoyed.
"Stop being shallow, Mason. Enough with the superficial crap."
But Mason didn't back off, still overly dramatic.
"I want to shop, Damián. I *need* to walk into a store."
Ziggy, Camille, and Étienne, just a few steps away, pretended to study another piece—but they were clearly listening. The dynamic between Damián and Mason was... different. Intimate. Almost like a scene from an unintentional comedy.
Ziggy discreetly adjusted his pom-pom camera to capture the exchange.
"Later, Mason. You'll get to walk into every store in this town and buy whatever you want, alright?"
"Promise?" Mason shot back, eyes wide with mock drama.
Before Damián could reply, the sound of leather shoes on the polished floor broke the moment. A tall man approached, moving with the ease of someone who knew he'd be noticed. Broad shoulders, chestnut hair slicked back, steady gaze. The kind of presence that filled a room. And the kind of scent that came with a high price tag.
"Hi," he said with a reserved smile. "That piece is powerful, isn't it? This is the second time I've come just to look at it. There's something… inevitable about it."
Mason spun around in a flash, already stepping into character.
"I *totally* get you. I found it fascinating too. Very deep."
Camille, Étienne, and Ziggy glanced at each other. This was the same Mason who, seconds ago, had said "I want to go shopping?"
The man extended his hand to Mason and then to the others.
"Sorry for the approach. I'm Bronson Coon. This piece... it fascinates me. Intrigues me. I saw you all looking at it and felt comfortable walking over."
"'Fascinates' is a good one," Ziggy muttered, nearly laughing.
Bronson continued, eyes locked on the canvas:
"This idea of a man leaving everything behind and throwing himself into the unknown… It fascinates me. Chaos is left behind, silence takes over. And the future is just uncertainty."
Mason nodded, newly inspired.
"I look at this painting and... I see a man, yes... caught between what he's leaving and what he doesn't even know he's looking for…" He paused and added, almost emotionally: "Or maybe... it's just me."
Silence. Bronson looked genuinely moved.
But Damián turned slowly to Mason, his expression edging on cynical.
"How did *you* see all that, Mason? That's a hell of a leap. You said it was just some crazy person with fire shooting out of the planet."
Camille stifled a laugh. Étienne turned his back to hide his reaction. Ziggy just burst out laughing, unbothered.
Mason brought a hand to his mouth, trying to keep it in.
He opened his mouth, scandalized—but couldn't help it. A loud, uncontrollable laugh escaped.
"You traitor!" Mason accused, still laughing as he pointed at Damián.
Bronson looked surprised, but amused.
"Well, at least we have… passionate opinions."
Damián turned to Bronson, cutting the mood short.
"It was a pleasure, Mr. Bronson, but now we're off to shop."
"Superficial stuff, right?" Mason added, still laughing as he walked backward, waving at Bronson. "But with style."
Bronson extended a business card, but before Mason could take it, Damián snatched it with a brisk gesture.
"He'll be in touch. Thank you."
Mason froze, hand suspended midair, a little smirk on his face.
"I will," he said, glancing at Bronson with theatrical resignation. "Always at the wrong time."
Damián didn't even look back.
"Exactly. Now move."
"He thinks he's the boss of me," Mason muttered, finally turning around, walking off with an exaggerated strut.
Bronson laughed, a little confused, a little charmed.
And once again, Ziggy discreetly adjusted the camera to catch the card now in Damián's hand. Who knows what that might lead to.
Outside, the cold air hit their faces hard—like the city reminding them they were still on solid ground.
Camille was the first to laugh, nearly tripping over her own feet.
"What *was* that back there?" she said, voice cracking with laughter.
She covered her mouth, but her eyes were smiling.
"'I see a man trapped between what he leaves behind and what he's still searching for'… Oh my God, Mason, did you make that up on the spot?"
Mason grinned wide, arms open like an actor taking a bow.
He raised his hands, pure theater.
"Guys, it was a joke! A full-on performance! I didn't even *like* the painting that much…"
"Just into handsome alphas?" Ziggy teased, nodding toward the card still in Damián's hand.
"That's baseless slander," Mason said, completely unfazed.
Damián looked at the card, then at Mason, and shoved it into his coat pocket.
"Let's go before you start reciting poetry about crystal window displays."
"Oh, show some respect," Mason said, hugging himself like he was cold. "Now *this* is my natural habitat: shopping and reckless spending!"
Étienne stretched his arms, relieved.
"Finally!"
They headed toward downtown, laughter still echoing. The mood was light, sharp, and slightly chaotic—just like always when they were together.
But somewhere in a coat pocket, Bronson's card still waited, unsure whether it belonged to a closing scene… or the start of a new one.
The city's high-end shops looked straight out of a magazine—storefronts lit like stages, overly cheerful attendants, and ambient music that made you want to spend without thinking.
Mason was already gliding between racks like he was on a runway, trying on sunglasses, faux fur-lined coats, and even a ridiculous hat that had the whole group cracking up. Camille found the perfect coat, Étienne couldn't resist a watch he claimed he just "wanted to look at," and even Ziggy, after a half-hearted protest, gave in and let Mason drape an outrageously expensive scarf around his neck.
Damián picked up a navy-blue coat with a flawless cut, glanced over at Ziggy, and said calmly:
"This one would look good on you."
"I don't need it," Ziggy replied, not very convincingly.
Damián ignored him.
"It's a gift."
The cold cut into their skin every time they stepped out of a store, but the warmth of the shopping bags seemed to make up for it.
Soon, their arms were full of elegant branded bags, juggling laughter, comments about the clothes' quality, and the literal weight of consumption.
That's when two tall security guards, dressed in black with earpieces, approached with purposeful strides.
When the guards came to collect more items, he dropped the bag into their hands, watching as it disappeared—as if none of it had any weight at all.
Ziggy hesitated for a second before letting go of the bag handles. He watched the men walk away with everything they'd bought, arranging each item with an almost solemn care.
He stood there, the camera's fuzzy pom-pom swaying slightly in the wind, and thought:
So this is how those who have everything live. Carrying nothing, not even feeling the weight of what they buy.
A biting cold swept through, and Ziggy adjusted the scarf he'd received as a gift.
Lightness is a privilege, he concluded, before following the others down the gleaming stone sidewalk, listening as Mason already asked where the next store was.
After so many bags, laughter, and storefronts, hunger struck. They stopped at a trendy diner where bacon was served on handcrafted ceramic plates and hot chocolate came with pink peppercorn shavings.
Ziggy, quieter than usual, finished his meal while staring out the window. Across the street: a small, charming music store, its display full of strings, keys, and brass. He stood before finishing his drink.
"Mind if I pop in there?"
"Music store?" Mason arched an eyebrow. "I thought we were hitting the jewelry next."
Camille lightly smacked his arm.
"Let him go. Just a quick look."
They crossed the street. The shop smelled of waxed wood and old varnish. An antique radio played some jazz. The clerk, an older man with a low bun and a green sweater, greeted them with a nod.
Ziggy went straight to the corner where guitars hung from the ceiling like ripe fruit. He picked one up, testing the tuning with practiced fingers.
He sat on a low stool. Without warning, he started playing—a simple, pretty fingerstyle pattern. Then, he sang.
His voice was deep, steady, surprising. One of those sorrowful songs that seem to have existed before sadness itself. Camille held a hand to her chest. Étienne recorded with the pom-pom camera. Mason just stared.
Damián stepped forward, picking up a different guitar—larger, darker. He adjusted the strap and suddenly played. A bold, clean, virtuosic riff. The song was fast, captivating, unfamiliar—at least to everyone there.
Ziggy stopped playing.
"You play?" he asked, eyes wide. "And what is this song?"
Damián gave a faint smile.
"One of the few things I liked doing when no one was telling me what to do."
Mason clapped theatrically.
"Okay, talent show? Because I can play too."
He grabbed a guitar, holding it awkwardly, like a fashion accessory. He plucked two strings—it sounded like a drowning cat.
"Ugh, that's awful. It's not fair you're good at everything. I can be too."
He lowered his gaze. His sleeve slipped subtly. A nearly invisible blue glow pulsed under the fabric. The bracelet, activated.
Damián noticed. Said nothing.
Within seconds, Mason was playing. Well. Clean notes, perfect harmonies, sharp rhythm. His smile returned in full force.
"And now, who's the star?"
Camille clapped, half-shocked. Ziggy, however, narrowed his eyes. Something was… off. Too precise. Too polished. Soulless.
He glanced at Mason's wrist. The detail hidden under his sleeve. He was sure he'd seen something glowing there.
"Yeah. Impressive," he said flatly.
Mason winked at him, smug.
"Some are born with talent. Others..."
Damián laughed—for the first time, unrestrained.
"Cheater," he thought.
"Artist," Mason corrected, strumming with charm. "In this life, you either improvise… or learn to hack."
Ziggy smiled but didn't reply. He just looked at the guitar in his hands. The sound still vibrated in the air, but he already knew. This store wasn't just a break. It was a revelation.
And what came next—he wasn't ready to say yet.
Then Mason leaned in, voice low and conspiratorial:
"Ziggy, Damián, and I have some unreleased songs. If you like them, they could be yours."
Damián jerked his head up so fast he nearly dropped the guitar.
"What?" He hissed. "Outside. Now."
They stepped out. The cold cut deep.
"Are you insane?" Damián spat. "Interdimensional plagiarism now?"
Mason adjusted his sleeve, hiding the blue bracelet further.
"Call it… multicultural inspiration." He shrugged. "Ziggy wants to be a singer. We know songs no one here has heard. What's the problem?"
"It's plagiarism. You think just because this world is another dimension, we can do whatever we want?"
"Songs from another world," Mason added, as if offering coffee. "No one will know. And there's no copyright here, so..."
Mason insisted—just a few songs, it's his dream, let's help him, please?
Damián couldn't help it. He laughed. And called Mason a cheater.
"Artist," Mason corrected, with a smile that was pure provocation.
"You're unbearable."