Chapter 50 Chapter 49: Trust No One
The evening’s final, chilling echo of Karn Zul’s words was not the only presence that haunted me. Throughout the entire night, a silent, porcelain sentinel had tracked my every move. Every time I glanced over my shoulder or my eyes darted to a new shadow, Chup-chup was there, a fixture of the opulent background, performing his silent duties as chaperone. This relentless surveillance proved true as we left. The moment our party ventured into the hallway, I felt the subtle shift in the air, the faintest pressure at my back. A cold suspicion dawned: had he been there the whole time, a constant, unbreathing witness not more than thirty centimetres from my back? Had he heard every venomous syllable of Karn Zul´s spite?
Our delegation walked down the marbled hallway in a bubble of general good humour, a stark contrast to the turmoil churning inside me.
“Splendid food, ah Jode? And what a magnificent host,” Lord Vincent boomed, his voice too loud, too jovial for the hushed corridors. The way he was talking, one would almost believe he was drunk, a feat in a country where alcohol was an alien concept. His eyes then found me, glinting with a familiarity that put me on edge. “Nanda, you will come up to the suite and have a night cap,” he said, the command playful on the surface, but with an edge of expectation.
In the suite, we fell into the worn grooves of our normal roles. Jode found his accustomed place on the plush sofa and immediately buried himself in his data pad. Ciel, ever the shadow, melted into an obscure armchair in a corner and began to unfold his sheaf of notes. Lord Vincent, with a gesture that brooked no refusal, invited me to sit opposite him over a game of rushém. The whole time, Saul and Chup-chup watched over us from their respective corners, Saul a brooding, human statue, and Chup-chup an unnervingly still piece of living art.
As we played, Lord Vincent’s behaviour felt off, a performance. The boisterous, opinionated Nate was gone, replaced by one who chatted amiably about nothing, his words empty and rehearsed, devoid of any real opinion. We played rushém, a game he was competent at but, by no means, a master. His strategy was clumsy, his moves predictable. After I had thrashed him three times in less than thirty minutes, a flicker of something, irritation, perhaps crossed his face before he masked it with a weary smile. "We have a busy day tomorrow," he declared, signalling an end to the evening. "We should all retire."
Then something truly strange and violating happened. We stood to say our goodbyes, and he leaned in. I expected the customary, friendly peck on the cheek common in farewells. But as we both leaned in, his movement changed. His hands shot up, not to my shoulders, but around my back, pulling me into a full, inescapable embrace. Before I could react, he suffocated me, pressing the whole of his mouth against mine in a disgusting, deep kiss. I froze for a second in sheer, revolted shock. I tried to pull away, my muscles tensing, but his strength was surprising. His lecherous hands, finding every contour of my dress, locked me tight against him, one sliding down to the small of my back, crushing me to his chest. I was trapped not just by his arms, but by the political consequences of fighting off a Lord and my boss.
At last, with a final, wet pressure, he released me. I could feel my whole face burn, a furious cocktail of shame and scalding anger. My throat tightened, words of outrage poised on my tongue, but he had already turned away as if nothing had happened. "Goodnight, Nanda," he said casually, his back to me as he walked towards his chamber.
I rushed from the suite, the opulent corridor blurring as hot, angry tears welled in my eyes. I felt dirty, used, my skin crawling where his hands had been. I wanted to be away from here, away from Zul´s evil words, away from Vincent’s lying, groping hands. I wanted to be away from a country where, according to their laws, what had just happened and more like rape, wasn't a crime, but a "legal right." With that horrific thought, a new, colder fear washed over me. I was totally, terrifyingly alone. What if Vincent decided to follow? What if his "rights" extended further? What is someone else? The long shadows cast by the wall sconces seemed to writhe and reach for me, menacing and alive.
Then I heard it, a soft, almost imperceptible sound of a presence behind me. Every instinct screamed. Years of martial arts training and the explosive speed honed on the dieball pitch took over. I spun, body low and ready to pounce, my hands coming up in a defensive stance.
And there he stood. Chup-chup. As if he had been a part of the corridor’s architecture all along.
A shuddering breath escaped me. “Chup-chup,” I gasped, my voice trembling. “Have you been with me the whole time?”
“Why, of course, Nanda Stone. You are Chup-chup´s charge.”
The implications were staggering. “Have you seen and heard everything that has been said and… done to me tonight?”
His porcelain face was unreadable, his voice a neutral monotone. “Chup-chup sees and hears nothing. Chup-chup is just a chaperone.”
We had reached the guards outside my suite. Without a word, Chup-chup stepped inside with me and pulled a thin, padded mattress, no thicker than a prayer mat, from a concealed compartment. He placed it squarely against the now-closed door.
A wave of profound, desperate relief nearly buckled my knees. “Are you… are you going to sleep next to my door all night?”
“Yes, Nanda Stone. I will be here to protect you.”
Call it culture, call it duty, call it whatever you will, in that moment, it was salvation. Chup-chup was going to sleep on the inside of my door, a living barricade. No one could enter without first removing him.
“Thank you,” I whispered, the words thick with emotion. “Thank you so much, Chup-chup. It’s an honour to have met you. Good night, and sleep well.”
He settled onto the thin mat, his unblinking eyes facing the door. As I turned to retreat into the safety of my room, his voice, still soft, carried one final, deliberate message.
“I do not like Karn Zul… Some words, I do hear. Good night, Nanda Stone.”
A tumult of emotions held me abashed and trembling in the stark silence of the bath area. Standing before the cold, unforgiving glass of the full-length reflector, I felt the ghost of Vincent’s hands on my skin and the stain of his kiss on my lips. I desperately needed the sanctity of the waterdrop, to let its streams scour me clean, to wash away the filth of the evening from both my body and my soul before I could even think of sleep.
My fingers fumbled, clumsy with a lingering shame, as I worked the intricate buttons of my dress. With every button undone, I cursed the Nates of this world, Nates like Zul and Vincent, who moved through life as if it were their private banquet, and people like me were merely dishes to be sampled and consumed. Finally loosened, the heavy fabric slid from my shoulders with a whisper and pooled on the polished floor at my feet.
As it fell, a small, folded square of paper, no larger than a thumbnail, fluttered from its hidden folds and landed silently on the pile of silk. My heart stuttered. I glanced around, a paranoid, swift check of the closed bathroom, knowing I was alone but feeling a thousand hidden eyes. Snatching it up, I clutched the note tight in my fist, my knuckles white. With my other hand, I twisted the dial for the waterdrop, and a hissing mist began to fill the glass cabin.
Still in my underwear, I stepped into the billowing steam, the hot spray a welcome shock. Sheltered within the roaring cascade, I finally dared to unfold the sodden note. The elegant, precise script of Lord Vincents handwriting was already beginning to blur at the edges.
Trust no one.
Only Saul and myself.
We are, you are,
in more danger than I had expected.
V.
The words were a bucket of ice water, cutting through the steam's warmth. I read them twice, three times, committing their stark warning to memory, feeling the fragile hope of safety I'd built with Chup-chup's presence shatter completely. Then, with deliberate care, I held the paper under the relentless stream until the pulp dissolved into nothing, the ink washing away in a grey trickle down the drain.
I dried myself mechanically, the soft towel feeling abrasive against my hypersensitive skin. Pulling on my nightclothes, I practiced a calm I did not feel. Stepping out of the bathroom, I offered a quiet, "Goodnight," to Chup-chup's silent form, then entered the bedroom, slipped between the cool sheets, and lay in the dark, my eyes wide open. To any observer, I was a Polli retiring after a long day. But inside, every nerve was live wire, humming with a single, terrifying truth: the walls had ears, the smiles were lies, and the night was full of knives.