A day had passed since the jarring photo shoot, and I was engrossed in sifting through a fresh batch of gigs and scripts that had been forwarded to me. The afternoon sun, a pale, lukewarm presence, slanted through the tall windows. It was around noon when, quite unexpectedly, Levi returned home. I had anticipated our next meeting to be either at his office or his enigmatic parents’ house. He greeted me with his usual detached politeness.

"Good day, Raphael. I arrived ahead of schedule to apprise you of certain details concerning my familial unit. Our forthcoming commute will necessitate the utilization of a rotary-wing aircraft, a journey of approximately thirty minutes' duration."

“Did you just say… chopper? As in, a goddamn helicopter?” I asked, my brows knitting in incredulity.

"Indeed. Alternatively, we could employ an automobile and subsequently transition to a maritime vessel, though that particular route would considerably extend our travel time."

“Your parents… live on a goddamn island?”

"Affirmative. To be more precise, I deemed it necessary to sequester them upon an island, effectively effecting their banishment."

“Well, talk about some serious family drama,” I mumbled, shaking my head. “But seriously though, how monumentally awful were they that you had to banish them?”

“Beyond articulation.” He pursed his lips, a subtle tightening that barely registered on his otherwise impassive face. I could perceive a shadow flicker across his features, not truly sadness, but perhaps a profound, quiet disinclination to elaborate. “The estate is, of course, maintained by a complement of domestic staff. They harbor, it must be stated, a certain degree of animosity towards me, stemming from the circumstances of their rather involuntary confinement alongside my mother. However, their pecuniary compensation is, by any standard, exceedingly generous. My father passed away a considerable duration ago. I possess a maternal grandfather; and, if fortune favors us, our paths will not intersect with his.”

What a turn of events, a cascade of bizarre family secrets. “Shit, sorry about your dad, then.”

"There is no necessity for such sentiment; his passing occurred a considerable duration in the past." He walked into the gleaming, minimalist kitchen, his movements precise, and retrieved some ice cream, milk, sugar, and an assortment of fresh fruits. "Raphael, I confess to a particular predilection for saccharine flavors; I will prepare a beverage for my own consumption. Would you care for one as well?"

I sprinted from the couch, practically skidding to a halt beside him. “Wait, what? You have a sweet tooth? And you’re actually going to make us a milkshake, right here, right now?” My voice was giddy with surprise and something akin to childish delight.

"Indeed. My inclination towards sweetness is such that I find savory and pungent dishes largely unpalatable, and my general appetite is rather diminished."

Which, in a strange way, actually made sense. I had only observed him eating when we first met, and even then, he was merely nibbling and chewing with a silent, almost imperceptible slowness.

“I especially do not enjoy red meat. The stringy texture of meat makes me shudder,” he added.

“What?! I practically live on red meat! Then what the hell do you eat, Levi?” I asked, my voice rising in disbelief as he busily added extra honey to the blender.

"Predominantly, substances high in saccharose."

“But that’s ridiculously unhealthy! You’re going to get diabetes by the time you’re thirty-five!”

"If your apprehensions pertain to the daily ingestion of vital nutrients and essential compounds, rest assured. I am, as you are aware, the proprietor of a pharmaceutical enterprise, Raphael." he replied, his tone smooth, utterly unconcerned. I laughed, a sharp, disbelieving sound. Somehow, this answer was perfectly, terrifyingly fitting for him.

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“So, you just, like, shoot vitamins directly into your arm, then?” I teased, a grin on my face. He merely turned the blender on, a jarringly loud whir that momentarily drowned out all thought. He didn't answer until the mechanical roar subsided.

"No, Raphael," he said, his voice flat, "I do not inject vitamins. Their administration is typically achieved via oral ingestion in tablet or liquid form."

He meticulously poured the viscous, pale contents of the blender into two tall, slender glasses, the liquid thick and foamy. “Do enjoy, Raphael.”

I was so excited, my heart fluttering. Was he one of those impossibly perfect men from romantic fiction who knew how to do everything just by seeing it once?

The answer, as it turned out, was a hard no.

“Ack!” A guttural choke escaped my throat as the first sip hit my palate. My teeth, my entire tongue, every nerve ending in my mouth screamed in pain. My head began to spin from the sheer, unadulterated sugar rush. “What the fuck is this?! Are you trying to put yourself in a coma?!” I slammed the glass onto the polished counter, a loud, defiant thud. “No one should drink this, Levi! Not even you!”

Excessive sugar has a way of making you violently ill. My stomach began to bubble ominously, and I started salivating like I was about to vomit. I was feeling distinctly queasy, a sickly-sweet coating on my tongue. Levi, however, remained utterly unperturbed by my dramatic display. He continued to sip his own monstrously sweet concoction, his expression placid. "My apologies," he offered, "would you prefer a beverage of a more astringent nature to cleanse your palate?"

“I need a goddamn pool's worth of water just to wash this chemical-grade sugar bomb down! How the hell can you drink that without even batting an eye, Levi?!” I demanded, my voice shrill with indignation. He merely handed me a glass of water, still calmly sipping his milkshake.

"As my dietary regimen does not involve consistent, substantial meals, I counterbalance my caloric intake through the extensive consumption of refined sugars." he stated, as if it were the most normal, logical thing in the world.

"That sounds like the biggest load of bullshit I've ever heard." I mumbled, certain that no amount of pharmaceutical knowledge could normalize this extreme sugar intake. "Do you really eat that much sugar, Levi?" I asked, already knowing his answer.

"This constitutes my breakfast, Raphael." he replied, his tone devoid of any jest. I stumbled to the kitchen sink, washing my mouth out with copious amounts of water, trying to banish the cloying taste.

As much as there was a tall, unyielding wall between us, this stoic man having a surprisingly soft spot for sweets was, inexplicably, making me happy. He was thirty years old, yet he didn't possess a single discernible wrinkle on his chiseled face. His complexion, a milky translucence, had remained entirely unimproved since the day we met, lacking any hint of healthy color.

"Levi," I asked, a concern bubbling up, "do you have some form of chronic illness?"

He appeared momentarily dumbfounded by my directness, a faint crease forming between his brows. "I beg your pardon?" he inquired, his expression conveying mild perplexity.

"You’re pale as a goddamn ghost, Levi. It's making me worried, alright?" I retorted. He moved to the dishwasher, placing his now empty, meticulously drained glass inside.

"I do not have any medical condition that warrants your apprehension, Raphael. Should I, by some unforeseen circumstance, contract an ailment, I will certainly inform you." He paused for a fleeting moment, his gaze unwavering as he added, "I genuinely appreciate your expressed concern for my well-being."

Him praising me, even with such formal, detached words, was like an itch finally scratched in the right spot for attention. I wanted more.

“So, Levi,” I pushed, intrigued, “Tell me more about your… parents.” I genuinely wanted to know more about him, sensing a wealth of ludicrous, perhaps even terrifying, stories lurking beneath his placid surface.

"Raphael, I had indeed contemplated verbal exposition, but I ultimately concluded it would be more effective to convey the information through direct experience."

Another vague answer.

“So your dad’s dead, and you only have your mom. Then why the hell do you keep referring to them as ‘parents,’ plural?” I pressed, my gaze following his to the vast, shimmering glass windows that framed the woods. It took another long, unsettling pause, almost as if he were accessing a distant, rarely visited file in his mind, before he finally answered.

"I confess, I had not consciously registered my consistent utilization of the plural form."