Chapter 36 Chapter 36
Chapter 36
Nina’s POV
The last toilet in the left wing finally gleamed under the harsh fluorescent light. I straightened, pressing the back of my wrist to my forehead. Sweat stung my eyes and trickled down my spine in slow, itchy rivers.
My uniform—already oversized—clung to my skin like damp paper. The smell of bleach had soaked into my hair, my pores, my lungs. Every breath tasted chemical. My ankle throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, but I ignored it. Pain was just noise now.
I gathered the mop, bucket, and gloves, carried them back to the supply room, and locked the door behind me.
The corridor was quiet except for the distant hum of the museum’s air-conditioning system. I peeled off the uniform shirt first—wet fabric slapping against the concrete floor—then the pants. Standing in only my underwear, I shivered in the sudden chill.
The bruises on my ribs looked darker under the flickering bulb, purple blooming into sickly yellow at the edges.
I turned on the utility sink’s faucet. Cold water rushed out in a sputtering stream. I dunked the uniform in, scrubbed with a bar of harsh gray soap until my knuckles turned red, then wrung it out as hard as I could.
Water dripped in steady plops onto the floor. I hung the clothes over a metal pipe that ran along the ceiling—close enough to the vent that warm air would dry them by morning.
Next, the shower.
The staff bathroom was tiny: cracked white tiles, a single rusted showerhead, a drain that gurgled like it was dying. I stepped under the spray. The water came out lukewarm at first, then scalding.
I gasped as it hit the scrapes on my palms and the raw skin of my feet. I stood there anyway, letting it pound against my shoulders, my back, my face. Soap suds swirled gray down the drain—dirt, sweat, river water, humiliation. I scrubbed until my skin felt raw, until the chemical smell of bleach finally faded under the faint floral scent of the bar soap someone had left on the ledge.
When I stepped out, I wrapped myself in a threadbare towel that smelled faintly of mildew. My clothes were still dripping, so I pulled on the oversized uniform pants commando and left the shirt off for now.
The fabric chafed against my bare breasts, but it was better than wet cotton. I finger-combed my hair, twisted it into a loose knot at the nape of my neck, and headed for the cafeteria.
The staff cafeteria was tucked in the basement level, a low-ceilinged room with long metal tables, plastic chairs, and a serving counter at the far end. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.
The smell of garlic, tomato sauce, and something faintly burnt hit me the moment I pushed through the swinging doors. My stomach clenched so hard it hurt.
Behind the counter stood an elderly chef—short, round, white hair thinning on top, apron stained with decades of spills. He looked up as I approached, eyes crinkling at the corners.
“You’re new,” he said in accented English. Not a question.
I nodded. “First day.”
He ladled a generous portion of steaming minestrone into a chipped ceramic bowl, then scooped a mound of cold pasta salad—penne slick with olive oil, cherry tomatoes, cubes of mozzarella, fresh basil—onto a paper plate. He slid both across the counter without asking for payment.
“Eat slow,” he said gently. “You look like you haven’t seen food in days.”
I sat at the nearest table. The first spoonful of soup burned my tongue, but I did not care. I slurped it down like my life depended on it—hot broth sliding down my throat, vegetables soft and salty, beans bursting against my teeth.
The pasta salad followed in huge forkfuls. I barely chewed. Oil coated my lips. I licked them clean and kept going.
The chef watched from behind the counter, arms folded, a small smile tugging at his mouth.
“Calm down, ragazza,” he said. “There is more where that came from.”
He refilled my bowl without waiting for me to ask. This time he added an extra scoop of pasta salad and a thick slice of crusty bread. I tore into it, crumbs falling onto the table. When I finally slowed—bowl empty, plate scraped clean—I looked up at him, cheeks flushed from heat and embarrassment.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
He waved a hand. “Never seen you before. You work here now?”
“New hire. Toilets.”
His eyebrows rose. “The toilets? Marco put you on toilets your first day?”
I shrugged. “I needed the job.”
He studied me for a long moment—really looked. At the bruises peeking above the collar of my too-big shirt, the way my hands shook slightly when I set the spoon down, the hollows under my eyes.
“You should have a tour of the place,” he said at last. “After you eat. See the pretty parts. Not just the shit.”
I laughed—short, surprised. “After I eat. Promise.”
He grinned, teeth crooked but warm. “I like your spirit. Come back anytime. There is always more.”
I thanked him again, pushed back from the table, and returned to work.
The right wing restrooms were mercifully less disgusting—only a few smeared mirrors, overflowing trash cans, and a couple of unflushed toilets. I cleaned quickly, methodically. Mopped the floors until they shone. Wiped down sinks until chrome gleamed. Drank deeply from the water fountain outside, cool liquid soothing my raw throat.
When the last stall door clicked shut behind me, I stood in the corridor and breathed. The museum was quiet now—closing time long past. I wandered upstairs, slipping past velvet ropes into the public galleries.
Moonlight spilled through tall arched windows, painting marble statues silver. I walked slowly between them—Renaissance nudes with serene faces, ancient Roman busts with stern jaws, Greek gods frozen mid-stride. Frescoes glowed softly on the walls: saints reaching toward heaven, battles raging in faded reds and golds.
I stopped in front of a small bronze figure—a woman with wings, sword raised, face fierce and unafraid. I touched the cool metal base.
“You look like you’ve fought wars,” I whispered to her.
She did not answer.
But I felt something shift inside me. Not hope exactly. Resolve.
Night had fallen completely by the time I went looking for Marco.
I found him in the back loading dock—sitting on an overturned crate, cigarette glowing orange between his fingers, a half-empty bottle of cheap beer in his other hand. The smell of tobacco and stale hops hung thick in the air.
He looked up as I approached. “Done for the day, scream queen?”
I nodded. “I want to sleep.”
He took a long, deliberate slurp from the bottle—loud, wet, disgusting. Foam clung to his upper lip. He wiped it with the back of his hand and stood.
“Follow.”
I did.
He led me through a maze of service corridors to a narrow door marked “Staff Quarters – B Level.” Inside was a cramped hallway lined with numbered doors. He stopped at number 14, unlocked it with a key from his ring.
The room was barely bigger than a closet: single bed with a thin mattress, metal frame, folded gray blanket. A tiny sink in the corner. One window high on the wall, barred, showing only black night. A bare bulb hung from the ceiling.
“It’s yours,” he said.
“Thank you.”
I hesitated in the doorway. “Marco… can I have an advance? Just enough for a cheap phone. I need to—”
He smirked, slow and lazy. The beer bottle dangled from his fingers.
“I can give you more than that,” he said. His voice dropped lower. “If you pay me for my kindness.”
My stomach twisted.
He stepped closer. The smell of beer and cigarettes rolled off him in waves. His eyes dropped to my chest—lingering on the way the oversized shirt gaped slightly at the neckline. I was not wearing a bra. The fabric rubbed against sensitive skin. I crossed my arms over my breasts instinctively.
He noticed. His smirk widened.
“Come on, scream queen. Stop playing hard to get.”
I took a step back. The doorframe pressed against my spine.
“I don’t need the advance anymore,” I said quickly. My voice sounded thin. “I’ll wait for the weekend.”
He shook his head, still smiling. “Doesn’t work that way.”
His hand lifted—slow, deliberate—toward my arm.
I flinched.
The hallway light buzzed overhead.
My heart hammered so loud I was sure he could hear it.