“Thank you again for the wonderful lunch, sir,” my wife said, smiling up at Konrad. She was walking arm-in-arm with the old man, though given his height and that steady, dignified gait of his, it was hard to tell who was leading whom.

  “Nonsense. Think nothing of it, my dear,” Konrad replied with a small, courtly bow. “You and your husband are friends of my family now. And your son—ah, he’s been a fine friend to me as well. It would be in poor taste not to show proper hospitality.”

  While they talked, Diocletian and I had our own discussion — mostly about our sons, and the headaches they’ve caused us. From what he told me, our boys are two peas in a pod, literally and metaphorically. Bright enough, but without direction. The difference was that Remington was simply passive, while my son—well—he’s a storm. Clever, restless, always charging toward something without quite knowing what.

  Our breakfast at the recommendation of Diocletian last night, had been on the 25th floor — a restaurant offering French and English cuisine, of all things. They even had pub food, which I couldn’t resist. I ordered the full English.

  It was hard to come by a proper one in Singapore. They’re not super common, but not exactly rare either. Just that they’re usually full of tourists with cameras. They are also a bit pricier compared to a normal breakfast there.

  Still, since the bill wasn’t mine to pay, I had no reason to restrain myself. My wife, ever modest, settled for an egg roll, a slice of pie, and some salad.

  We’d already heard about the wellness center on the fifth floor, but from our dinner last night, we learned the hotel had a sort of culinary map of its own. There was a high-end Japanese on the 15th, Italian on the 35th, a Japanese-Western fusion on the 45th, and the bar on the 55th.

  Come lunchtime, my wife chose Japanese and, by coincidence, we ran into the two organizers. They insisted we join them, and before long, we were seated together. My wife didn’t quite take to the sushi, too much wasabi, maybe. But she enjoyed the kamatoro yaki, the grilled tuna collar. The rest of us went with chutoro and otoro, medium and extra-fatty tuna.

  Conversation drifted between business and family until my phone buzzed. It was my brother-in-law calling from the Philippines. When I told the others who it was and what it was about, Diocletian and Konrad exchanged a glance, and Konrad said casually, “We should tell your son. He might know something and it might be important. For all we know, it could be his friends.”

  What Diocletian said was true. It wasn’t the first time my son had kept things from me. Nor the first time he’d happily share them with everyone else. He has this infuriating habit of letting others figure things out at the very last moment — because, somehow, he finds that hilarious.

  “Let’s hope it’s not something stupid,” Diocletian said good-naturedly. I nodded, but if history was any indication, stupid was almost guaranteed where my son was involved.

  When we neared the room, the door across the hall opened and Nana stepped out. As always, her sharp eyes locked onto us like a hawk’s.

  “What’s this about?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. It took us a minute to explain. She listened without interrupting, then simply nodded and gestured toward the door.

  Diocletian, ever the gentleman, pulled out the hotel’s master key but decided to knock first. No answer. After a moment’s pause, we exchanged glances and let ourselves in.

  “Come on, Arthur!” my son’s voice rang out the moment the door opened. “This is why your ancestors fought that war! To stand against those tea-drinking biscuit munchers!”

  He was grinning, hands on his friend’s shoulders as if psyching him up for a boxing match. Inside, the boy named Arthur and Remington sat across from each other at a low table, surrounded by the boys all laughing while the girls were content to simply watch from their seats.

  All the furniture had been moved to the sides and left the low table and the two chairs in the center.

  There were quite a few people there, a handful from the Japanese delegation, but also several foreigners. One look at the way they carried themselves, how easily they laughed with my son, and I knew Konrad’s suspicion maybe correct. He was clearly on friendly terms with them so maybe he was friends with the others.

  And as I stood there watching him, that reckless confidence of his, shining in front of strangers, I felt that familiar knot of irritation and worry as well as pride, twist in my chest again. Then I saw the bottles they were holding and immediately got a headache instead.

  “Oi! What’s all this?” Diocletian called, loud enough to cut through the laughter. His tone carried amusement more than outrage and he didn’t seem bothered by the bottles the boys were holding. The girls, however, some jumped and went silent at the sound.

  “Oh. Hey, you’re here,” my son said, positively bored and unbothered. As if our arrival were the most tedious interruption possible. I wanted to punch him then and there.

  To my side, Konrad stepped forward and raised a hand. Two blond children came forward and stopped in front of us. “These two are my grandchildren,” he announced.

  The boy, who was taller than his grandfather was Karl Konrad Friedrich who came from Germany. Henrietta de Martine was the girl and she hailed from France. Her mother is the younger sister of the father of the young man in front of us, which would make the two, cousins.

  “And these, are Vi’s parents,” Konrad continued introducing us to the two children. Karl Konrad bowed slightly, a hand over his heart, with the polite reserve of someone raised to expect attention. While the girl, Henrietta, curtsied, with a wide smile.

  We exchanged greetings, my wife remarked how beautiful the girl was. Her smile widened at the praise and thanked my wife for her compliment while giving back the same compliment.

  “Their parents, however,” Konrad said, apologetic, “you’ll have to meet another time. I had them running an errand.”

  He then turned his attention to everyone. Off to the back, a woman who I’ve never met, went to talk to my wife and they went slightly further behind, to the back of the room along with Nana. Based on their expressions, their discussion seemed important.

  “And what is going on here?” Konrad asked. With his eyebrow raised, he looked quite stern.

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  But, from our talks last night, he and Diocletian were not what you would expect from the extremely wealthy. Far from it. Both men were grounded, unpretentious, the sort of people who laughed easily and knew how to move among ordinary people without pretense.

  “A bit of fun,” my son said now, passing over a box of pizza and two bottles of wine as if that explained everything.

  “Well, at least they’re not gambling,” Diocletian remarked, amusement flickering in his eyes as Yukihito handed him a few glasses. “Or are you?”

  “There are — things,” Remington said, smiling slyly.

  I felt my jaw tighten. In Japan, betting for money was illegal, but there were always loopholes and grey areas. Diocletian met my eyes, and we both sighed because we already knew who could have started this nonsense.

  “Oh! I love this game!” Konrad exclaimed suddenly as Diocletian handed me a glass already filled with wine. He was at the small table now, holding up a square box for Diocletian to see.

  “This,” he declared enthusiastically, as he went back to our side, “is a game of wit. Not of strength, or of intellect, but wit and composure.”

  “Yes,” he went on as he accepted his share of the wine, “the goal is to make your opponent laugh while you remain stoic. You see, wit and composure, takes ten times longer to sharpen compared to strength. This game is a fine, friendly way to enhance them.”

  Diocletian chuckled while swirling his glass. “And, of course, bets are customary to give things a little spice.”

  The boys cheered softly at that, glasses raised, while I took a sip, watching the circle form again. The girls were also watching with interest as Arthur and Remington began again.

  “My name is Jacqass, owner of Touilette,” Arthur began in mock French accent which made Remington’s face immediately twist as he fought not to laugh.

  “Mate, is that an innuendo for a shit joke?” Remy deadpanned. Arthur choked but managed barely to stifle his laughter.

  “You see, most Asians, are lactose intolerant,” Arthur continued, his gaze fixed on his opponent. Remington with a straight face, retorted.

  “Wait, I am lactose intolerant, maybe I am Asian.”

  Arthur didn’t even get to his next line. He burst out laughing, and within seconds, so did the rest of the room. My younger son, William, was translating for the Japanese guests, and before long even they were snickering behind their hands.

  After composing himself again, Arthur continued. “I see, then I have a deal to offer you, Mr. Asian,” he said in a straight face while Remington shook with silent laughter, his teeth showing with how wide his grin had become.

  Arthur opened his mouth and my son, interjected

  “He’s got nice feet though.”

  Arthur doubled over while Remington was pounding the table, desperately trying his hardest from laughing, tears of mirth running down his face. The whole room dissolved into chaos as everyone was laughing hard. Even I snickered a little though, I hate to admit it, but that was actually pretty good.

  “Whose side are you on!?” Arthur half-shouted, half-laughed, swatting my son’s arm.

  “My side, obviously,” my son replied, nonchalantly. He thrives in chaos. Whether it’s his friends or his opponents, he always finds a way to make a mess of things and somehow, he enjoys it.

  “Shut up! You did that on purpose!” Arthur said, feigning anger. Konrad offered me the box of pizza while Diocletian was already eating a slice.

  “Ha! I out-weeb you all!” my son declared, striking one of the most ridiculous poses I’d ever seen which made the girls giggle.

  “Yeah, right,” Arthur smirked. “If I didn’t know any better, you only watch shows that start with ‘That Time I Reincarnated as’”

  “As if,” my son rolled his eyes. “The way you Japanese name your novels is like how the Chinese name their martial arts techniques!”

  A collective gasp. “Take that back!” Two of Arthur’s friends shouted in perfect unison — and the room exploded into laughter and mock outrage once more.

  The three of us had already finished two slices each, before the room settled down again.

  “Get on that side, then,” Arthur challenged, grinning. Remington stood up, and my son confidently took the opposite seat. Both faced each other with the smug seriousness of duelists.

  Before they could begin, however, Reika rose from her seat and tapped Arthur’s shoulder. She whispered something in his ear, he blinked, then nodded. Arthur then got up and Reika sat down in his place, calm and composed.

  “Oh, really? You?” my son asked, one eyebrow raised, his tone dripping with arrogance.

  “The usual bet Ae. Since I don’t have any allowance thanks to you,” Reika said as she smiled sweetly while Remington flipped a coin. Reika won and she got to go first.

  “Four words to destroy someone’s ego,” she said fluently in English. Her expression, perfectly neutral.

  My son thought for a moment, before giving up.

  “What?”

  “Ae, your dick’s small.”

  For a heartbeat, silence, then Konrad’s booming laughter filled the room, followed by Diocletian’s and nearly everyone else’s. William, still translating for the Japanese side, could hardly keep his composure. When the translation hit, the entire group erupted.

  My son’s face twisted exactly like Remington’s had earlier before he collapsed backward in laughter.

  “I hate you! I hate you!” he shouted between gasps, laughing so hard he could barely breathe, while Reika, Arthur, and Shizuku were already in tears from laughing too. “I hate you!”

  I pressed a hand to my forehead. I should have been angry— I wanted to be angry — but that was more than good, the girl had wit. I was having a hard time holding it in as well.

  “Fuck!” he exclaimed, as he got back up and looked undeterred.

  This time, however, Reika stood and surrendered her seat. Shizuku took her place across from my son. He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck.

  “Let’s do this,” he said fiercely.

  For a moment, I thought Shizuku would speak in Japanese but to my surprise, she spoke in English. The accent was there, but her words were clear enough despite how quickly she said them.

  “How to make an idiot say how,” she said, face perfectly blank.

  “How? Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu,” My son’s voice trailed off into another explosion of laughter before he could even finish the curse. Shizuku was tapping her feet on the ground, one after the other, with how thrilled she was.

  “Twice in one millennium will wonders never cease!?” Remington wheezed between breaths, slapping the table.

  My son, somehow, managed to make himself the butt of the joke, to everyone’s amusement. Good. That should take him down a peg or two.

  “I hate both of you,” my son grumbled, arms crossed though the faint smile on his face betrayed him. He dropped into a seat beside a brown-skinned woman, still sulking.

  Reika and Shizuku high-fived triumphantly and I understood. Reika must’ve taught her the joke considering between the two she was the one fluent in English. The two were obviously in on it together. But then I remembered something Reika had mentioned earlier — about not having an allowance because of my son. What exactly did she mean by that?

  I was still considering whether to ask when someone tapped my shoulder. I turned and I found my wife standing there with Nana and another woman — elegant, composed, and with an expression of mild amusement.

  “This is Mochizuki Tsukiyo,” my wife said. “Shizuku’s mother.”

  Tsukiyo gave a polite bow before offering an enthusiastic explanation about her daughter’s involvement, something about a car and international relationships. I could feel a headache forming again, even before she finished.

  Another round of laughter erupted behind us this time from Arthur’s friend and a man, the one with the quiff.

  I caught my son’s eye and gestured for him to step outside. After a few words of excuse to Konrad and Diocletian, my wife, Nana, Tsukiyo, and I went with him into the hallway.

  When the door closed behind us, I got straight to the point. The first topic to discuss first was the one we originally came here for.

  “Your uncle Kevin, called,” I said evenly. “Four foreigners — all men — came to the house looking for us.”

  He blinked, eyes widening for just a fraction before returning to normal.

  “Kevin took the dogs, his family, and your grandparents out to eat, so they missed them. They returned around two in the afternoon. It was the neighbors that spoke to them instead. They said the men didn’t give any names. But Konrad and Diocletian both think you might know them. Ring any bells?”

  My son shrugged, too casually. “Not that I know of. Maybe they got the wrong address or they could just be lost. Or they could also be those groups that preaches about our Lord and Savior.”

  “They asked for your name specifically,” I replied, my voice sharpening.

  He paused, pretending to think. “Hmm. Well, I do have a lot of friends, even overseas,” he said after a few seconds. “Maybe some of them just wanted to surprise me.”

  I stared at him, trying to decide whether he was being na?ve or evasive. Knowing him, it was probably both.