THE MAN IN THE BURGUNDY SILK TOP

THE MAN IN THE BURGUNDY SILK TOP
The announcement on his social media has it that he will attend this event in person.

However, the thing is: everyone has to wear a mask in here. Not wearing a mask means breaking a rule. So, unless he introduces himself as Blank and confirms it by revealing his newest work on the last day of the event, no one would recognize him. Only at the reveal of his artwork would we all know what figure he has, at least—since we still would not see his face.

“I feel like the creation of the artist, Blank, is the politicians’ means to invade the world of artistry,” Shawna whispers while leaning into my ear. “As in, the person coming today may just be one of the ‘Blank Patriarcs’.”

“So, you think there are so many Blanks?” I ask as we arrive at a mezzanine.

We can view the huge reception hall from up here. And if we walk to the right, we can use the escalator to go down there.

“Yes, I believe in the notion that say it’s just a name and not a person,” Shawna affirms as she leans on the rail.

“Hm.” I lean on the rail too, looking down at the reception hall.

Half of a 158m sky-scrapper was rented for this event. While the rented building is meant for rooms, little of its space is used to store the registered artworks, while the reception on the ground floor remains a reception or a gathering hall.

We watch as the crowd push in through the revolving door and line up for attendance marking. Standing at the mezzanine gives us the privilege to see everything clearly. And that’s how we witness the commotion that comes with one particular girl’s entrance.

I’m not surprised by the disorder she caused, though. It’s how she has always been. Even with a mask on, those who know her can tell it’s her without even sniffing her scent.

“Iyanu Montrachet,” Shawna spits out, only because this Iyanu bullied her severely in high school.

Ms. Montrachet has always been known as the symbol of beauty since third grade. Her dark glowing skin craves attention wherever she finds herself. And her full lips became a standard in high school. Every girl started to adopt lip fillers, except me.

Her thick and tight hair curls were always admirable. They still are. I didn’t know this before, but I’m only now seeing the appeal of her hair from how it bounces as she struts.

Iyanu has all these good qualifications, but she’s nothing more than a rotten bitch.

“I may hate the girl, but isn’t it fascinating how she easily beats us all in looks during our school days and still comes out as the heir of one of the most wealthy families in country P?” Shawna wonders aloud.

I shrug. “Her family is the twelfth richest in the world, Shawna. It’s not a big deal.”

Iyanu wears those titles of hers too much—hottest girl, and heir to the wealthiest family.

It’s at times like this that I feel the urge to brag subtly despite myself. “Plus, it’s not like I’m bragging about the fact that my maternal lineage are made of lucrative marionettes, and my paternal lineage owned one of the most lucrative businesses,” I spurt out with confidence, “nor am I bragging that I’m the first daughter of the number one most wealthy living person in the world, and I have a share in the number one biggest company ever known.”

“You ARE BRAGGING now.” Shawna side-glances me. “Besides, to be honest, Lupin group may have been the fifth wealthiest in the world before the project empire saga, now it’s no more. Christopher Su Pointe became your paternal family’s saving grace.”

“So you’re among those people who argue that my dad stole Su Pointe group?”

“I didn’t say so.” Shawna changes the topic immediately after saying that. “Well, there’s a blissful sight.” She subtly pinches my waist and jerks her head toward the reception.

At first, I don’t see what’s blissful. Then I later see him walking in alone through the door, a stark standout from Iyanu’s commotion.

I can’t tell if he’s an artist or a buyer. Ever since Blank announced his participation in the event, I’m not surprised at the number of people crawling into the venue. But this man looks exceptionally out of place. Dressed in a loose silk burgundy shirt that is tucked into a pair of dark jean pants—with no jewelries, he fits in no class as an artist or a buyer.

The artists look too casual. One can single them out of the extravagantly-dressed buyers.

Iyanu is both, but I see more of her buyer side. However, I can’t tell which category this man is, as he neither looks casual nor extravagant.

Who am I to know about what category he falls in, though? It’s not like I’m aware of my own fashion to start scrutinizing other people’s style of dressing.

I best return to my room before my people phobia starts sneaking in.

>>>>>>>>

Sitting at the desk and scrawling into my art book, I purposefully leave my door open so as to catch everyone who has a room in this floor.

I may not see their faces, but I need to analyze their overall looks just to make sure there’s no serial killer in the same floor as I am. Some serial killer movies I’ve seen happened in events like this, after all.

For hours, I have been sitting here, standing up only when I hear someone’s noise so as to check what room they enter.

So far, no murderer, and all the rooms have been occupied except room three, the room opposite mine. I bet the person staying in it wants to sneak in at night when everyone is asleep.

“Shawna, I think the person across my room is a serial killer,” I tell Shawna on the phone.

The girl sighs in seeming frustration. ‘Not again, Nectar. When last did you see your therapist?’

“Since I was a teenager—when I stopped being paranoid.”

‘No, the paranoia is still there. You can’t even trust your own environment.’

“How am I supposed to trust the person in the room opposite mine when I’ve not even seen them before?”

‘Serial killers don’t indicate what they are on their foreheads, Nectar. You can’t tell by just looking at them.’

That’s true. But I surely can tell a stalker. “Later,” I tell Shawna before cutting the call.

There stands my stalker as he struggles to unlock the door of the opposite room.

I bet he saw me at the reception hall and worked his way to stealing this room. Maybe the whole process kept him late, and it also explains why he can’t unlock it.

“You have to slide the key-card slowly for it to read,” one of our wing mates tell him while passing by.

I can’t help but snap. “Dang it!”

The stalker turns to me after nodding a thank you to the wing mate. My noise must have made him turn. Even I don’t know why I said that out loud. I should have been more careful. This man is my stalker, after all.

As the man still looks at my direction, the world around me grows still and falls into a slow motion.

I don’t know how many seconds become a minute, but I do know how regretful I now feel about the mask rule. And I know I have one thing to blame for feeling regretful—the cliche hot male figures that are tall and brawny. Because one’s standing right in front of me.

Except, he’s also the man in the burgundy silk top.