Four years later, a boy is outside, sitting in the rain. He hears a voice, calling his name, and he turns to see his father standing next to him, holding an umbrella, out of breath. He is smiling, and holds out another umbrella, to his son.

The father: Nikolai! Here, take this! Don't suppose it'll help, but, what the hell.

The boy Nikolai, smiles, but shakes his head

Nikolai: No, but many thanks to you, father. I. . . .enjoy it.

The father too smiles, while shaking his head, and extends his arm a little bit farther.

The father: You'll get pneumonia! Take this before I make you!

The boy looks indecisive, and the father shoves an umbrella into his hands before he can argue, running back inside. The boy looks at it for a minute, before opening it. He puts it over his shoulder, and holds it there with his head. He cleans his glasses on his shirt, using the rainwater to wash them. He looks at the reflected image in the glass, and sees a pair of blue eyes, which appear to be mildly washed out, eyes on a pale face that has seen far too much, a face far too mature for the rest of his body, which appears to be thirteen. He tilts the glasses so that he can see his mildly aquiline nose, and cleft chin. A bit of water has pooled within them, and he turns them over, and dries them on his shirt, again. He puts them on, right before he hears a klaxon, which rings loudly for two minutes, signaling an hour before curfew. He turns around, and then takes off his glasses again, remembering something. With one hand, he picks up the umbrella, and exercises his head, a bit stiff from staying in one position for too long. He looks into the glass, and his eyes widen, in fear and irritation, seeing his blonde hair with brown highlights. He runs inside, passing his father in a corridor, carpeted from wall to wall. The father just barely avoids dropping the large bowl of pasta and the salt and pepper cellars he was carrying. He laughs, and yells at the quickly retreating back of his child.

The father: You have to use the toilet that badly?

The father laughs, and then ceases his laughter as the boy drops the still dripping umbrella, turns around, and points angrily at his hair. The father hurries up the stairs to him, and shoves him into a room with one toilet, one sink, and one shower/ bath. It is pure black, even the spouts and the toilet, and it is the source of many a joke that it is colored as such to hide the dirt. The father looks in the cabinet in the wall, while the child looks nervously, from side to side. The father presses his finger against a knot in the wood, and whispers.

The father, barely audible: Esther

The back slides open, revealing a straight line of hair products- dye. The father reaches in, and pulls out one that's labeled: Nathaniel. He hands it to the boy, and closes the cabinet. You hear a click. The secret back has once again closed. The boy looks at the dye, relieved, and goes over to the sink. He squeezes some of the dye into his fingers, and then runs his fingers through his hair, making it even. He then turns on one faucet, and runs some water through his fingers, before pulling two locks of his hair with them. The dye comes out, and the father frowns. The boy, noticing the frown, smiles, turns to his father, and mischievously informs him,

Nikolai: Highlights, they're all the rage. You know, hiding in plain sight.

The boy now has two lines of black through his almost completely blond hair. The father sighs, and then smiles weakly.

The father: I suppose. . . but you shouldn't take too many risks. Your mother wouldn't like it.

Both of them close their eyes, and recite, as if in a sacred ritual, "May her Soul rest in peace."

The boy: No, she wouldn't. But would she like us dancing around, not taking any chances? Even the real blondes take risks. I've seen more then one with orange hair. Speaking of hair, I saw this really nice green. . .

The father: NO!

Nikolai: Relax, Matthew. Breathe. In, out. In, out.

The father, surprisingly, follows his instruction, while Nikolai quickly leaves the room. He goes to his room, and checks himself in the mirror. The black looks fake enough when compared to his platinum blonde hair. He sighs, then whispers.

Nikolai: Fire and Brimstone.