The Trio’s Odyssey: NY and Beyond, Part 1

Chapter 1 - Chapter 7

Chapter 1: The Resonance of Curiosity

The morning sun filtered through the jagged skyline, casting a golden glow over Central Park. As always, I sat on my favorite bench, sipping a latte as the city bustled around me. Joggers passed by in rhythmic strides, dogs barked at each other, and the distant hum of traffic wafted through it all. This chaos was, strangely enough, my peace.

I opened my notebook, the one embossed with koffeemocha in a simple, elegant script. Its pages were filled with scattered thoughts (-fragments) I'd spent years developing. A harmony of being and doing, introspection and action. But that morning, the usual flow of ideas refused to come. Instead, there was this... pull. A strange urge to leave my routine, to explore the park beyond its well-worn paths.

I set the notebook aside and let my feet take the lead, wandering aimlessly deeper into the park. The familiar sights and sounds of New York faded as the trees grew denser, their canopies painting the world in shades of orange, gold, and red. I wasn't sure what I was looking for - maybe I wasn't looking for anything. But the feeling persisted, as if something invisible was guiding me.

And then I saw it.

In a small clearing, half buried in the dirt, lay a strange object. At first it looked like an old piece of machinery - a remnant of some forgotten past. But as I got closer, its details came into focus. Intricate gears interlocked in a pattern that was at once strange and familiar, as if it belonged to the Renaissance(?) as well as the distant future. Strange symbols were etched along its surface, catching the sunlight in faint, shifting glimmers.

I crouched next to it, brushing away the dirt. When my fingers made contact, a faint vibration hummed through them, as if the device were alive. My breath caught.

What are you? I murmured, though I didn't expect an answer.

The air around me seemed to change. The chatter of joggers and dog walkers faded, leaving behind an eerie stillness. It wasn't just silence - it was as if the world itself had stopped, held its breath. My chest tightened, a mixture of awe and unease taking hold. I shook it off and slipped the object into my backpack. The weight of it felt heavier than it should have, as if it carried more than its physical mass.

By the time I reached the edge of the park, the city had returned to its usual rhythm. The sounds and sights of New York were back, but I couldn't shake the feeling that I had crossed some invisible threshold. My mind buzzed with questions: Who had made it? What was its purpose?

When I got home to my Upper West Side apartment, I placed the artifact on my desk. In the dim light of my desk lamp, its etched patterns seemed to move, shifting in a dance I couldn't quite follow. I opened my notebook and wrote a single line (I'm not sure why that line popped into my head at that moment):

The balance of being and doing is shaped by what we uncover.

I sat back and stared at the artifact. It seemed to hum faintly, as if alive, its presence an unspoken challenge. What secrets did it hold? Where had it come from? My mind raced with possibilities, but for the moment it offered no answers. Just a quiet, magnetic pull that promised this was only the beginning.

As the night deepened, I couldn't help but feel the weight of discovery settling over me…

Chapter 2: The Arrival

The artifact sat on my desk, a silent enigma glowing faintly under the warm light of my desk lamp. I couldn't take my eyes off it. Every etched line, every intricate gear seemed to whisper a story - a story I couldn't begin to understand. Yet there it was, pulsing with a low hum, almost as if it were breathing.

I reached out tentatively, running my fingers along its surface. The vibration was subtle but unmistakable, like the faint trembling of a heartbeat. My mind raced. Was this a forgotten piece of Renaissance engineering? Or something more - a relic from a time or place I couldn't fathom?

I scribbled some notes in my koffeemocha journal:

Design suggests precision beyond its time. Function unknown. Possible power source? Alive?

The last word lingered in my mind longer than I expected. Could such a thing be alive? The thought felt absurd, but the artifact defied logic at every turn. I turned it over carefully, examining its base. A set of symbols caught my eye - intricate and symmetrical, almost mathematical in their design. They glowed faintly as my fingers brushed across them.

The hum grew louder.

I froze. The room seemed to change, the air grew denser, heavier. Shadows danced along the walls, flickering as if caught in some unseen current. My hand instinctively pulled back, but the artifact continued to pulse, its light intensifying.

What's happening? I whispered, my voice barely audible over the growing resonance.

The symbols began to shift, rearranging themselves in a fluid, almost organic motion. It was mesmerizing and terrifying at the same time. Before I could react, the artifact emitted a soft, golden light that enveloped the room. My apartment disappeared, replaced by... nothingness. Just a vast, endless expanse of light and silence.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over.

I gasped, blinking against the harsh return of the familiar walls of my apartment. The artifact lay still on the desk, its glow dimmed as if exhausted. My heart raced, the silence now deafening.

But I wasn't alone.

Two figures stood before me, their forms solid yet surreal, as if they had been painted into existence. One, an older man with a piercing gaze and a beard that tapered to a fine point, radiated an aura of boundless curiosity. His tunic and cloak were out of place in my modern apartment, but the confidence in his posture made it seem as if he belonged.

The other was slimmer, his face sharp with an intensity that felt almost predatory. He wore a dark suit, understated yet elegant, and his eyes - deep, penetrating - seemed to see right through me.

Who are you? My voice trembled, but I held my ground.

The older man stepped forward, a small smile playing on his lips. Leonardo, he said simply, his voice rich and melodic. Leonardo da Vinci.

My mind reeled. It couldn't be. It just couldn't be.

The second man spoke, his voice low and deliberate. Jean-Paul Sartre. And you, my friend, seem to have summoned us.

I stumbled back, gripping the edge of the desk for support. This... this can't be real.

And yet it is, Sartre replied, his tone almost amused. Though I suppose the how and why are questions for another time.

Leonardo leaned closer to the artifact, his eyes alight with wonder. Magnifico, he murmured, running his fingers over its surface. A marvel of creation, though its origin eludes me.

Origin matters little, Sartre countered, crossing his arms. What matters is why we are here, in this place, at this time.

Their words barely registered. I was too preoccupied with the impossibility of what was happening. Leonardo da Vinci and Jean-Paul Sartre - icons of creation and philosophy - stood in my apartment, brought here by a device I barely understood.

As the initial shock wore off, one thought rose above the chaos: This was no accident. The artifact had chosen me for a reason, though what that reason remained a mystery.

All right, I said, my voice calmer than I had expected. You're here. Somehow you're here. But now that you are, what do we do?

Leonardo smiled warmly. Sartre's expression remained inscrutable.

The question is not what we do, said Sartre. It is who we are.

Leonardo chuckled. And perhaps what we can create.

I looked at the artifact, its glow faint but steady, and felt the gravity of their words upon me…

Chapter 3: Fractures in Time

Leonardo paced my apartment, his eyes darting to every corner, every object. He ran his hands over the smooth surface of my desk, examined my laptop with the curiosity of a child, and marveled at the glow of my desk lamp.

This light, he said, his Italian accent thick but his English surprisingly precise. No flame, no oil. Remarkable. What powers it?

I hesitated. How do you explain electricity to someone who invented bicycles centuries before the concept of alternating current existed? It's... complicated, I said, waving vaguely at the ceiling. Wires, power grids. I can explain later.

Leonardo nodded, his attention already on the artifact. He crouched beside it, his fingers dancing reverently over its surface. This device, he murmured, is beyond anything I could have imagined. Its mechanics are elegant, yet its function remains a mystery.

Sartre, meanwhile, had taken a seat by the window. He looked out at the city below, his expression one of quiet contemplation. The honking of taxis, the distant sirens, the chatter of pedestrians - it all seemed to pass him by without reaction.

Fascinating, he said finally, though his tone was dry. This world is noisy. Distracted.

That's New York for you, I said with a wry smile. It's chaos, but it works.

Sartre turned to me, his piercing gaze unsettling. Does it? Or does it just exist, pulled by forces none of us can control?

I opened my mouth to reply, but stopped as Leonardo straightened and clapped his hands. Enough! This place, your city, needs to be explored. There is much to learn.

Sartre's brow furrowed. And yet you think that action alone will bring understanding?

Leonardo laughed, a deep, resonant sound. Of course! To act is to live.

To think is to live, Sartre countered, his voice cool. Action without reflection is mere instinct.

I rubbed my temples. All right, both of you, stop. If you're going to argue, at least do it over coffee.

They exchanged glances, Leonardo's curious, Sartre's skeptical, but neither objected.

***

Moments later, we stepped out into the bustling streets of the Upper West Side. Leonardo led the way, his head swiveling as he took in the towering buildings and flashing LED screens. Sartre trailed slightly behind, his gaze focused on the people around him, as if studying their movements for hidden meaning.

Is this what humanity has become? Sartre asked, gesturing toward a group of people glued to their phones. Disconnected? Consumed by illusions?

It's progress, Leonardo replied, pausing to admire a street mural. Look at this art! The colors, the technique-it speaks to a world unbound by limits.

Or bound by new ones, said Sartre. Freedom is traded for convenience.

I sighed. You two are going to be a handful.

Leonardo grinned. You invited us, didn't you?

Technically, the artifact did.

We arrived at a nice classic café, the kind of place where the smell of roasted beans and fresh pastries could stop you in your tracks. I ordered three lattes, much to Leonardo's delight and Sartre's indifference. As we sat down at a corner table, the hum of the city faded into the background.

So, I began, now that you're here, what do you want to do?

Leonardo leaned forward, his eyes glowing. Understand. Create. This city is a masterpiece, a canvas waiting for new ideas.

Sartre tilted his head. Or perhaps it is a mirror, reflecting the absurdity of existence.

I groaned. I like both your arguments.

And you, Sartre said, his lips curling into a faint smile, are caught between us. Are you a creator, like Leonardo? Or an observer, like me?

I hesitated. I'm... neither. Or maybe both. I believe in balance - action and reflection working together.

Leonardo nodded in agreement. Sartre just raised an eyebrow.

Interesting, he said. But balance is fleeting. Perhaps your artifact knows that.

I glanced at the device in my backpack, its low hum barely audible over the din of the café. It felt heavier now, as if its secrets were pressing against my chest.

Whatever it was, I knew one thing: it had brought us together for a reason. And whether through action, thought, or a delicate balance of both, we would discover it…

Chapter 4: The Essence of Being and Doing

The café was alive with quiet conversation, the occasional clink of a cup on its saucer, and the rich aroma of coffee mingling with freshly baked pastries. But at our small round table, the world seemed to stand still, caught in the weight of an unfolding debate.

Leonardo was the first to break the silence, his hands gesticulating animatedly as if painting the air. Your world is a wonder, Kefei. A proof of the power of doing. Look at those buildings, those machines! He pointed to the cafe's window, where skyscrapers stretched into the sky. Such achievements require action, the courage to create, to dream, and to make those dreams come true.

Sartre, sitting with the cool detachment of a man who had seen too much and cared too little, sipped his latte before setting it down with deliberate precision. And yet, he began, his voice measured, these creations mean nothing if mankind has lost its essence. What is a skyscraper if its builders forget why it exists? Progress without purpose is an empty endeavor.

Leonardo's brow furrowed, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. Purpose is revealed by creation. To act is to define oneself.

And to act without reflection, Sartre countered, leaning forward slightly, is to reduce oneself to a mere tool, a cog in the very machines you admire.

I held up a hand, cutting through the rising tension. All right, let's pause for a moment. You both make good points, but isn't there a middle ground? What if action and reflection aren't opposites, but complements?

Leonardo turned to me, his expression softening. Explain.

I looked down at my notebook, running my fingers over the embossed cover. Take this thought I've been working on, koffeemocha. It's about balance. Yes, action drives progress, but without introspection, we risk losing ourselves in the process. At the same time, pure reflection without action leaves us stagnant.

Sartre tilted his head, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. And you think this balance is attainable? Life is chaos, Kefei. Balance is an illusion we chase to calm ourselves.

Perhaps, I admitted. But isn't the pursuit of balance itself worthwhile? Even if we never achieve it perfectly, the pursuit of harmony between being and doing gives our actions, and our reflections, meaning.

Leonardo nodded thoughtfully. A noble idea. It reminds me of the balance I have sought in my work - science and art, logic and imagination. Perhaps you're right, Kefei. Perhaps there is merit in seeking both.

Sartre's grin faded, replaced by a rare look of curiosity. You surprise me, Kefei. For someone surrounded by such noise, he gestured to the bustling café, you seem to have found a peace I have not.

Before I could answer, the barista approached with a plate of biscotti and set it on the table with a polite nod. Leonardo immediately reached for one, examining it like a sculptor examining raw marble.

A fascinating creation, he said, breaking off a piece and tasting it. Simple yet elegant. Do you make these, Kefei?

I laughed. Not even close. But I think the person who did would appreciate the compliment.

Leonardo nodded, obviously impressed. Sartre, however, ignored the biscotti entirely, his focus returning to the city beyond the window.

There is something deeply unsettling about this place, he said, almost to himself. So much movement, so much noise. Yet I wonder how many of these people really know themselves?

Leonardo shrugged. Perhaps they don't need to. Knowing oneself is important, yes, but so is contributing to the world. A life lived solely for introspection accomplishes nothing.

Sartre's eyes narrowed. And a life lived only for action lacks depth. Do you know what I see when I look at this city? Distraction. People running from themselves, filling their lives with noise to avoid facing the void.

I sighed. And what do you see when you look at me?

Sartre's gaze softened, and for the first time his tone lacked its usual edge. Someone who refuses to choose one over the other. You walk a precarious path, Kefei, but it is a path worth walking.

Leonardo raised his cup in a mock toast. To precarious paths, then. And to the pursuit of balance.

I smiled and clinked my cup against his. Sartre hesitated before joining in, his touch light but deliberate.

As the cups met, the artifact in my backpack gave a faint pulse, its hum just audible enough to make me pause. For a moment, I wondered if it, too, was responding to our debate, as if it were an unseen arbiter in this unfolding conversation.

Whatever it meant, one thing was clear: this discussion was far from over. And perhaps that was the point…

Chapter 5: A City of Contrasts

Stepping out of the café, we were greeted by the hustle and bustle of midday New York. Yellow cabs weaved through the traffic, honking in anticipation. The city was alive in every direction, a symphony of movement and sound.

Leonardo stopped on the sidewalk and tilted his head back to admire a skyscraper that seemed to scrape the sky. Magnifico, he breathed, his voice tinged with awe. This... this is the work of giants.

It is the work of countless engineers and architects, I said, looking up with him. People building on each other's ideas for decades.

Leonardo nodded, his fingers twitching as if sketching the structure in his mind. Such coordination, such ambition. Truly, a testament to doing.

Sartre, standing a few steps away, lit a cigarette and took a slow drag. And yet, he said, exhaling a thin stream of smoke, how many of those workers found meaning in what they built? Or were they merely cogs in a system, sacrificing their existence for someone else's vision?

Leonardo turned, a hint of irritation flickering across his face. Does it matter if they found purpose? Their creation stands, endures, inspires.

Sartre's lips curled into a slight smirk. Ah, the arrogance of the artist. The belief that creation justifies the toil.

I stepped between them and held up a hand. Let's not start this again. We have a whole city to explore.

***

As we walked through the streets, Leonardo's enthusiasm was palpable. He paused to examine the intricate carvings on the facade of a historic building, his fingers tracing the stonework as if connected to the hands that shaped it. Sartre, on the other hand, seemed distant, his gaze sweeping over the crowd with a mixture of curiosity and unease.

This city is a labyrinth, Sartre said after a while. A labyrinth of steel and glass, built by people who seem as lost as its streets.

Leonardo laughed. Lost? No, my friend. They are explorers, making their way through their wilderness.

And what wilderness is this? Sartre asked, pointing at the towering buildings. A cage they have built for themselves?

I sighed and pulled out my phone to check the directions. You're both right in your own way. New York is a place of contradictions - chaos and order, ambition and disillusionment. That's what makes it... alive.

Leonardo grinned. Spoken like a true creator.

Sartre merely raised an eyebrow, but there was no malice in his silence.

***

Eventually we found ourselves in Times Square, its neon signs glowing even in the midday sun. Leonardo's eyes widened as he took in the riot of colors and lights. What magic is this? he asked, turning in a slow circle. Messages in the air, images without substance!

Advertising, I said, grinning. And not very subtle either.

Leonardo frowned, his brow furrowed. Such power, used for... commerce?

Welcome to modern existence, Sartre said, his tone dry. A world where meaning is sold by the square foot.

The conversation was interrupted by a sudden, low hum coming from my backpack. My heart skipped a beat. The artifact. I stopped, glancing at the two of them, but neither seemed to notice.

Are you all right? Leonardo asked, his expression worried.

Yeah, I said quickly, adjusting the strap on my shoulder. Just... thought I heard something.

He nodded, his attention already back on the spectacle around us. But Sartre's gaze lingered on me, sharp and unyielding. For a moment I thought he might say something, but he just took another drag on his cigarette.

***

As the afternoon wore on, we walked through Central Park, the chaotic energy of the city giving way to a quieter, more contemplative space. Leonardo sketched trees and bridges in a notebook I'd bought him, his pencil moving with effortless precision. Sartre sat on a bench, watching children play with a look I couldn't quite decipher-wistful, perhaps, or just thoughtful.

I sat among them and pulled out my koffeemocha journal. The weight of the artifact in my pack was a constant presence, its low hum still echoing in my ears. Whatever it was, whatever it wanted, I knew it was no coincidence that these two men had been brought here, now, to this city of contrasts.

What do you see, Kefei? Sartre asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

I looked up. In what?

In this city, in this park. At this moment.

I thought for a moment, then smiled. Possibility.

Leonardo grinned and picked up his notebook. A sentiment with which I can agree.

Sartre exhaled slowly, nodding almost imperceptibly. Then perhaps we are not so different after all.

For the first time since their arrival, the three of us sat in silence, not as adversaries, but as travelers on the same path. The artifact in my pack pulsed again, but I didn't flinch. Whatever lay ahead, I knew it would test us all…

Chapter 6: The Artifact Speaks

The sun was beginning to set over Central Park, casting long shadows across the grass. We had been sitting in comfortable silence for some time, each of us lost in thought. Leonardo was engrossed in his sketches, Sartre was watching the golden light shift, and I was leafing through my journal, trying to make sense of everything that had happened.

Then it happened.

A low hum emanated from my backpack, louder and more insistent than before. I froze, my hands tightening around the journal. Leonardo looked up from his sketchbook, his eyes sharp with curiosity, while Sartre's head tilted slightly, his gaze narrowing.

Kefei, Leonardo said, putting down his notebook. That sound... is it the artifact?

I nodded slowly and reached for my backpack. Yes. It's been doing that all day, but now... it's louder.

Sartre stood up, throwing away his cigarette. Maybe it has something to say.

I pulled the artifact out of the pack and placed it on the bench between us. The faint glow that had been so subtle before now pulsed with a steady rhythm, casting a warm, golden light. The symbols etched into its surface shifted again, rearranging themselves into a pattern I couldn't decipher.

Leonardo leaned forward, his fingers hovering just above the artifact. It's alive, he murmured, his voice tinged with wonder. Or at least conscious.

And what does it want? Sartre asked, his tone guarded.

The artifact answered.

The light intensified, and a sharp, ringing sound filled the air, not unpleasant, but impossible to ignore. The world around us seemed to blur, the colors of the park bleeding together until only light remained. I blinked, my heart racing, and when my vision cleared, the three of us were no longer in Central Park.

***

We stood in an empty white expanse, a space without walls or horizon. The artifact floated in the air before us, its glow pulsing with an almost hypnotic rhythm.

Leonardo stepped forward, his expression glowing with curiosity. What is this place?

Sartre frowned, hands in his pockets. Not a place. A state of mind, perhaps.

I looked around, my chest tightening with discomfort. Whatever it is, it's not natural.

The artifact's glow shifted, and a voice - not a sound, but a presence - filled the room. It spoke in a language I didn't understand, but the meaning echoed in my mind, clear as day.

“You are chosen.”

Leonardo turned to me, his expression a mixture of excitement and confusion. Chosen for what?

The voice continued.

“To restore balance. To reconcile the threads of being and doing.”

Sartre's jaw tightened. Balance? This again? Tell me, artifact, what is the universe's need for balance?

The artifact's light pulsed, and the space around us shifted. Images appeared in the air - cities crumbling, rivers running dry, and skies choked with smoke. Then, just as suddenly, the images changed. Forests grew back, oceans sparkled, and people stood together, their faces glowing with hope.

Leonardo's voice was barely a whisper. It shows us... possibilities. Futures that could be, depending on our actions.

Or inaction, Sartre muttered.

I stepped forward, my gaze fixed on the artifact. Why us? What do we have to do with it?

The voice replied, echoing through the room.

“You embody the spectrum: creation, reflection and harmony. Together you will hold the balance.”

Leonardo and Sartre exchanged glances, their expressions unreadable. I turned to them, my pulse pounding.

Well, I said, trying to keep my voice steady. Looks like we've got our work cut out for us.

***

The world around us shifted again, and in an instant we were back in Central Park. The artifact lay still on the bench, its glow dimming once more. The three of us sat in silence, the weight of what we'd seen settling over us like a heavy blanket.

Leonardo was the first to speak. If this is true, if we are to guide this balance... then we must act.

Sartre sighed and sat back. And yet we must first understand what it is we are acting for.

I looked at the artifact, its presence now heavier than ever. Whatever lay ahead, one thing was certain: our journey had just begun…

Chapter 7: The Artifacts Map

The silence after the artifact's display was deafening. Central Park had returned to its usual rhythm-the chatter of people, the rustling of leaves-but none of us spoke. The weight of what we had seen, of what the artifact had said, lingered like an unspoken question.

Leonardo was the first to break the silence. Restore balance, he repeated, his voice tinged with wonder. A task as noble as it is daunting.

Or meaningless, Sartre countered, his tone clipped. Balance is a myth, a construct we invent to console ourselves. The artifact's message is no different, a riddle designed to distract.

Leonardo's eyes narrowed. And what would you suggest? Inaction? To sit idly by while the world slides into chaos?

I suggest, Sartre replied, his gaze unwavering, that we question why we were chosen in the first place. Perhaps the artifact is not an instrument of salvation, but of manipulation.

I raised a hand, my voice cutting through their rising tension. Enough. Arguing won't get us anywhere. If the artifact brought us together, there's a reason. We may not understand it yet, but we won't find out by tearing each other apart.

Leonardo sighed and rubbed his temples. You're right, Kefei. My apologies.

Sartre nodded slightly, though his expression remained guarded. For now, I'll defer to you. But skepticism remains my companion.

***

As we left the park, the city seemed different - more vibrant, more alive. The artifact's hum was muted now, but its presence felt heavier than ever, as if it were listening, waiting.

We made our way to my apartment, where the artifact sat on my desk, inert but no less mysterious. I couldn't help feeling that it was aware of us, its silence deliberate.

Leonardo paced the room, his hands clasped behind his back. The artifact has shown us two futures - one of despair, one of hope. Our task is clear: to secure the latter.

Clear? Sartre scoffed, leaning against the wall. We know nothing of the origin of this artifact or its true purpose. To act without understanding is folly.

Then we learn, I interjected, standing between them. Together.

Sartre raised an eyebrow. And where would you have us start, Kefei?

I glanced at the artifact, its faint glow reflected in the dim light of the room. We begin with its symbols. They moved, shifted, as if trying to communicate. If we can decipher them, we might get closer to understanding its purpose.

Leonardo nodded and pulled out his notebook. An excellent idea. The patterns remind me of mathematical sequences - perhaps Fibonacci or something similar.

Sartre sighed, but moved closer to the desk. If we are to decipher this, we must also consider the possibility that its language is completely alien, beyond our comprehension.

That's why we have three minds, I said, smiling faintly. Each with a unique perspective.

For the first time, Sartre's expression softened, and he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. Very well. Let us begin.

***

Hours passed as we pored over the artifact, sketching its patterns, tracing its movements, and debating its meanings. Leonardo's sketches were precise, capturing every shift and curve with an artist's eye. Sartre, ever the philosopher, challenged every assumption, forcing us to consider angles we might have overlooked. I found myself mediating, bridging their differences while contributing my own thoughts.

As the night wore on, a pattern began to emerge - a series of symbols that repeated themselves, each time subtly shifting. Leonardo's eyes lit up as he traced the sequence on a sheet of paper.

Look, he said, holding it up. This is not random. This is a map, a guide.

Sartre frowned and leaned in. A guide to what?

Before Leonardo could answer, the artifact pulsed. Its glow intensified, casting long shadows across the room. The hum returned, louder this time, resonating through the air. The sequence on Leonardo's paper began to shift, aligning itself with the artifact's light.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the light faded. The artifact fell silent again, but the symbols on the paper remained, now perfectly clear.

It points somewhere, Leonardo whispered, his voice filled with awe.

Sartre's gaze darkened. And leading us where, I wonder? Toward balance, or ruin?

I stared at the paper, my pulse racing. Whatever lay ahead, it was clear that we had reached a turning point. The artifact had chosen its path, and now we had to decide whether to follow it…

The Trio’s Odyssey: NY and Beyond, Part 2